The sun shifts it’s glow,
it’s shine a moody amber,
casting shadows under the awning.
The air grows cold and clear
while we exclaim novel raison d’êtres,
new perspectives,
planning passionately dreams of a life possible,
our minds filled with ill informed hope.
Through the narrow streets of the gentrified east.
I roam the roads of Shoreditch, its cleanse in final revolution.
Her eyes well
reflecting self sorrows;
cascading refrains of a difficult present.,
of advantage taken
innocence defiled.
A world of persecution- postulated
all face her direction.
Her figure trembling without defense.
Suffering projectiles
from spite filled assaults.
We all turn
we all attack.
Her cardinal refrain.
…Yet I admire the birds flying whimsically,
their spirit free from the start
As I
stay
weighted down,
by my
cast iron
heart.
One day you’ll love me when my name is known,
but for now you’ll see my soul emptied in my phone.
Asleep on the tube or awake at night in bed,
my thoughts pour fleeing from my chest to my head.
My heart purges thick oil from my core -it’s a start,
I pine for irreality and for the darkness’ depart.
I sign away joyous secrets and lamentful decisions,
avoiding your judgment to make an incision.
To your eyes open I’m paused -pregnant in wait,
for you to render me love’s stark fate.
With my name atop poems you’ll see and you’ll know,
to love me cause I’m playing on the radio.
I’ve signed faux-names to truths in futile admission,
for one day you’ll know me and release me from my prison.
A fair perspective eludes
a feverous desire
now devolved to a black ember,
a crumb from its former whole.
Distrust corrupted our air,
the fire uneased, wheezing and resigning
unable to persevere.
Lethargy and double thought
rendering the flame impotent
emptied of passionate blaze.
Without heat to broaden,
nor a cold to collapse.
My words are shouted at midnight,
love and anger laboured
on unseen paper.
I die
my face unknown to light’s eye.
For whom do I aspire
to see my words?
to rescue eyes and ink cast earthward?
to validate muted loves?
to love
me?
Si je parle français ?
La vie à Lyon,
au Croix Rousse même.
Ici Je dessin le coeur des figures
qui me passent,
une plume à main
un piccolo à l’autre.
Ou viver no Brazil
Tomando um café e escreve em Portugues.
Minha língua dançando samba,
como bossas tropicais lavar sobre mim.
Minha alma de ouro do sol equatorial.
I sit here in passage
an architect of sand castles,
creations washed away
as I construct another.
J.C. FitzDerick 