He11eventh Of The Ninth
What evil those people brought to this day, With its two burning towers toppling away Year after year, steeped in fear And black as the abyss that sucks on us all. What sickness now breeds in all of our hearts When we see those two dark digits marked as dark And feel those hearts break and fall away. And the watch welt iron bonds melt and fade In the fires of hate.
And we all blame them or the other And dont even bother to think Of how we contributed To this, the final state. We all blame them or the other And we give in to apathy But its a mystery How we all feel the same When our dark bloodshot eyes Fix on those two dark digits That begin burning all over again. (October 2004)
The French Have a Word For It
The French have a word for it.
Words connecting Through language, minds fulfilling Patterns of meaning, shaping something Already ancient. Chemicals opening gateways to places Already somewhere close To me but where Ive never been. The French have a word for it I think. Parallel processing occurring, blurring together with Paralysis, and it all comes back to this.
Back to the start of it.
Something clicked, suddenly mixed In with all this There were black life suckings Drifting on the prevailing east wind, Something tripped and ever since that split It seems it all comes back to this.
Ironic twist We blame all this and decay as we sit And say we dont even care, but The black accumulates At the base of our eye sockets As we wait and watch the beginning of it The black start of it. (October 2004)
Me V City
I make me laugh sometimes, I always like a good time.
It's up to you, I don't mind. Me V Time Me V Circumstance equals distant silences.
Impatient for trains (its cold) ALL THE PEOPLE!! (swarms) Nobody notice us.
No protest, No opinion, No direction. Stare at the inside of my head and complicate.
Nothing to stare at.
Caged talkers released but afraid, overwhelmed by all the words that penetrate can't speak straight. The train is late. (May 2004)
Status Anxiety (a tanka)
Fiends in high places, Try climbing your own ladder, all smiles and sunsets.
Ecstasy to misery, dig a hole to sit in it.
Missing melanin electrical cancer cells infecting the brain
affecting orientation. Black suits all smiles and sleazy (May 2004)
Progression
They aren't the type to, They always fail to. They've poured away all earnt and what they saved they burnt.
Its hard waking up too, to early morning hangover fools. They yawn a gaping hole, and yearn for they're fading soul.
They don't even try to, They're already resigned too, repeating patterns and catchy rythmic basslines.
The head-cracking spreads though. Passed on and around through instruments of escape and what we save we scrape. (May 2004)
(One) or the Other
(I have to decide) (to stop this breaking.) (It's about) (the who and where) (and exactly what's) (happening.) (I can't stop this escaping) (the rift is expanding) (and in need of bridging) (but whose there to?)
The walls on the inside are cracked and leaking in and out. The evil is creeping past the weakening gaurd and the good is escaping. The holes are expanding and in need of repair but whose there to?
(A lot on my mind,) (clouded misty thinking) (long and hard.) (double meanings) (reverse speaking) (left hanging) (by a text, electronics) (us humans forget) (and don't read through.)
A distinct lack of presence, clouded distant staring through and past. One word answers, drunk fallen dancers, the pain numbed by the saturation the regrets repressed and not read through. (Mar 2004)
Apart From The Weather
What do they see?
Clouds and grey shadows converging under streetlights to smoke. Hooded grey shadows Hide in empty houses to smoke.
Shortening white sticks and a lack of credit and a black throat to show for it. Burning white sticks and a wandering of the streets, and people who cross the road to avoid it.
We are the worst thing that happens here. Apart from the weather.
(poetry workshop poem) (Feb 2004)
This Is The Title Of My Poem
This is the first stanza. It states the subject matter of the rest of the poem, which is, this poem. It also has a link to the second stanza.
(double space)
The second stanza develops the idea that the first stanza introduced in the first stanza. This poem may also alliterate and assonance is also present. Part of this poem pretends to be something it would much rather be, a phonological masterpiece with a regular metre.
(double space)
The final stanza often includes a moment of epiphany on the part of its speaker. This one doesn't have a speaker so there is no moment of epiphany! And then the poem ends.
(this poem owes thanks to Michael Snow's 1984 film 'This Is The Title Of This Film.') Feb 2004
9 P.M. (sunday morning)
Nine-o-clock shadows over the top of Sunday's hill, directly up the road. My white window sill used to bleach the light each morning. Now that wall is bricked up and my bodyclock is digital.
Not yet woken from that fuck-it-all state that occupied your mind, last night runs into this morning and that empty dwarfed-by-it-all feeling begins to run thin and its time to shrink back into the corners of sleep and dream.
The pounding pendulum of last night's heavy bassline now fades to a tinny cracking that marks each second and tallys your waking moments with its scratching persistance that echoes behind the whole nights signififance.
Somehow listening to these sacred tunes without being fuelled causes a kind of resenting bile to rise into your mouth and kill your smile, and you have to let the echoes in your brain play themselves out and turn into subconcious, solitary subtleties that may eventually become reality and sleep.
Sunday's gone. This morning it was getting dark and I've got to get up in a few hours for work. Best sleep. (December 2003)
The Flames of Fate
'Driving under autumn's arches,' is what he used to call it, when we sped softly that day down the curving Phoenix Way, through the fiery arches of trees planted years ago.
'I used to slow,' he said 'and lean out from my zone, and breath in the musty smell of autumn's decomposing harvest, and I used to dwell at laybys to rest and watch day by day the colours change and the bright flames fade away.
Until I and the family moved to the city, got a promotion, a new slick sports car, and a flat with a view of the cold unchanging skyline best viewed from afar. I need not go that way anymore just open lots of doors. Flat, train, office, flat.'
He was in the Herald the other day, father of two passed away, driving down that fiery way just one last time for old times sake, it can only have been fate the way that he forgot to wait as he pulled straight out without checking both ways. His eyes were telling lies and the flash of the red Ford Focus he didn't notice until he'd left us.
The trees all sleep now, just wavering skeletal ghosts moaning above the road. (December 2003)
Death's Bait / The Human Desire For Intoxication
Death knows your weak spots, Death knows your evil thoughts that blacken even the purest hearts. Tempts toxins by offering the gift of uninhibiting the gift of temporary innocence that shifts the way we see things and makes us stop believing.
With one hand Death teaches us the way to alter our conciousness and tells us to concentrate on how our present state of life is living, (not preparing for future). And with the other hand Death works hard with his brand of dark deadly chemicals that baffle academicals and multiply at exponential rates and eat away at our vital parts breaching the networks in search of the heart where Death is already waiting so that Death can start Death's deadly work. (October 2003)
Settle down
I'll say it again in my own words, another new angle on a tired theme, nothing promising just rephrasing nothing to say that's ever going to change this, that hasn't already been said before this.
So settle down and stop fussing we've already had this discussion, don't worry your little head with matters that've already been dealt with.
Just be one of those titles, you've plenty to choose from, continue on this cycle because no matter what you say to try and change things, it's already been said before, then again and again. (October 2003)
The Human-Bee
I plant this potato so that it'll grow and I can eat, but as I sow on new soil a plant which tempts us and our desires (to cook in deep fat friers) will begin to grow in earth it never would have known if men like me one hundred years ago hadn't planted row upon row. (October 2003)
(More poems from Joe)
Brand
No longer looking at faces, but at the branded names, by which the youth are dominated. Wearing these icons with pride unknowing of the truth, of how they have been lied to, and of how they have been cheated out of their freshly earned credit. Wearing these images across their chests to go with the image they want to send into this world full already with too many plastic opposites, each trying to better the rest.
And the segregation begins and the colours and the fashions, divide into fragments, emergent at first, under lights of orange halogen standing to attention along the corners and cross roads outside your home. But when boredom begins to come and the groups of colours begin to clash and the violence spreads like a virus reaching along the arteries of the family trees that all of you know.
The divide caused initially by important men in black suits disscussing and quarrelling about the desire for a new image. (October 2003)
My Life (About You)
and I'll write all about you, 'bout all the times I lied about you, and fall asleep, have dreams about you and sense your touch deep, sweet feelings run through my soul as it searches through unknowns and reach's alternatives, today, with subtle differences in tone.
And wake and wish I'd settled on a different choice and listened to that other voice, risked it, and start making personal the subject and keep waking up every morning thinking, what must I be missing? Then sinking insecurely inside of myself for a battle between myself, between balancing the choices and hearing that soul's voice once again explaining to myself as clear as the words you read, but the solution still seems a little bit risky. (October 2003)
Escaping Escape
Stop staring at me all blank and absent like that, as if you've lost all hope of getting back to a state where you can cope with the fact it's nice for a while, escaping from your tears, but running for years will only make those fears grow stronger in your mind.
I need to get a job, I need to get a woman I need to smoke much less I need to put some weight on. I need to stop escaping and begin facing the right way again. I need to go out more I need to drink more and be more typical (not so radical) I need to catch the sun more.
I need to ask for more of all the things I've always loved, and all the questions I'm putting of asking need to be answered. I need to bleed more and pass off some shit to someone who can feel what I mean more.
I need to escape this escape. (October 2003)
Stop-Start
Can't think Won't drink Don't go out Never shout Can't afford that world Can't uncurl
Won't stop hiding Won't stop lying Gotta start talking Gotta stop thinking
Start showing Start growing Start eating Stop whining.
Start working Start planning Start saving Stop promising
Stop lending Stop trusting. (October 2003)
Tried and Tested Thoughts
What is happening? The bars are closing in The ties are binding down The wheels dig deep ruts in the ground. The Tramlines and Traintracks mapped out in front, never changing, never once.
Can futile fits of passionate rebellion ever break? The rigid, tried and tested, planned out, fast set methods of thinking that control every aspect of what we are living.
It's not hidden cameras behind your bathroom mirrors. There's no one listening to your phonecalls either. It's the beautiful people with their beautiful smiles inviting you to try and be just like them, and of course you listen, who wouldn't?
And you follow those footstep and jump through those hoops and start thinking those thoughts those tired and tested thoughts and sink into the grinding. (October 2003)
The Life and Death of a Pop Song
The first verse reeks of sugary sentimentality and the tune has been heard a million times before. Monotony stretching on and on and words that have no meaning at all.
I'm sorry, but as far as I can see The rest of the song, no matter how long will fail to be what it set out to be 'something new for the young generations, textbook answers to textbook question.
And after the final note has been re-played and the crowds naïve cheers slowly fade, all thinking 'I'm gonna be on TV As another pop masterpeice moves along the chain into the bargain bin the final resting place of another popscene.
Thinking: this is not a lyric you cannot hear music be more realistic stop living life in boxes (October 2003)
Un-labelled
Do you see what I see? Through the labelled surface of everything around us into the depths of its history
and all the stories that have touched it have been a part of it and gave it a meaning.
If walls could talk, see they'd tell about the things they'd seen until there was noone around to tell and the walls would crumble leaving a ruined shell.
If you look through this shell, see, the skin, the coat, the mask and into the heart, the past, and notice how it all seems connected somehow to mean something bigger, something altogether truer some universal rule. It's as though each object is tainted with prophecy hinting towards the end of a legacy. (October 2003)
Little Man
Heading for the grey zone waiting for the dull zone beyond next summer's prospects lies idleness to the bone and if in this day, though we often do okay, we fail to grasp the larger more focussed picture and reach out a hundred years into the future with our words or our ideas, changing something rethinking something
-then what are we all but part of a percentage?
that, inevitably in years will become unimportant and all that will remain will be the stone cold lifeless figure, insignificant typed onto a page lying lost and forgotten in a grey cabinet of iron filed away for future reference somewhere in a warehouse.
Once there are no people left who can say they knew who you were and your tombstone has been eroded away by the cruel all powerful force of natures battering rain all that will be to show of you little man will be the slightly greener grass, nourished by what once lived, talked and thought.
And this tiny corner, of many tiny corners is now struggling to grow, but no one knows and no one cares
and the earth spins.
Rat Cage
The streetlights don't illuminate as ominously as before, The dark shadows they cast revealing nothing more than an unseen problem, lying motionless and undisturbed.
The gold tinted light doesn't smother as wholly as before, This footpath is too familiar to let this artificial atmosphere take its romantic hold.
The nights don't seem as dark as they did before and the danger isn't strong enough and the hormones don't control enough it's only this street it's not an adventure it's being worn at by the feet of daily routine it's not an unknown world or some new machine it's an isolated bubble where they keep everything clean and everything else unseen and brainwash the children so that they'll never leave but follow the footsteps of daily routine.
Mourndom
When the weather is this good, how can you sit and stare at that little black square? When the weather turns grey, How can you complain? And when the rain begins to pour and you mourn again for autumn's fading light, How can you say that it ever was or ever will be any different from the time you mourned with boredom during summer's hazy nights?
Don't you ever want to take flight? or even just drive to somewhere past that place where the land meets the sky. Will you ever turn yourself right? forget the little things that in turn lead to stress lie back and close your eyes and remember what it feels like to be less
paranoid.
Party Free
Sun sets, temperature drops and the orange speckles of civilisation gather in the gathering dark, and the dirt track leads forward. Deep beats pulse faintly through the ground, through the timeless particles, and the fresh young living flesh of our bodies. The dirt track lead forward and the ghostly silver moonlight refines the edges of all the leaves on all the trees, the beats become stronger, clearer, and ahead it seems a mist is rising, bluegrey clouds of softly floating silver floating slowly towards the atmosphere.
And when you enter this strange slightly jarred world, this bubble at the edge of nowhere, at the edge of everything else, your blood will rush your eyes will open and this will never leave you.
ILL
Everything, Everything, Everything will be alright soon. It will all go back to normal and the struggle will end.
Why won't it happen? why can't it happen now?
The hours pass by hot, sticky, dry and the weakness of it all is unrelenting.
So drink another glass of water take a few more pills because it can't go on forever go on forever.
I'M ON FIRE and the cold is unbearable and the hours pass by, pass by.
Altogether more scared of my own mind, all the frustration, unnecessary, breaks Hot Sticky Dry.
It's Late
It falls heavy, drowns out the voices. Stayed out late talking about it.
'Inside you escape me as I screw your head and break all the windows and leave you.'
Cry as it all implodes and I once again have done it and you once again have not, 'cause you'll get nothing from it.'
Eat, drink, sleep, when you decide you want it, but for now keep believing you know what you're doing and all this is part of a poem. August 2003
The Bloodsuckers
They only call you, when they need you. But their smiles and their slyness and their tricky tricks of the mind convince you to bring them it every time.
Planning to scheme you out of your dreams and stick around so they can leech off you for as long as they need:
and they suck and they rip and they suck and they rip until every last drip has slipped down their throat
and they won't let you go until they know, let you grow until you show, that you have nothing left it's all up in smoke. August 2003
The Voices
I get so paranoid, I have to get so paranoid to get through this, get so paranoid to cover my back kick dust on my tracks, and burn all my friends.
I get so paranoid I need to quit so paranoid, I need to let those people back in, instead of always locking up and shutting up and pushing them away.
You get so paranoid, You're weak, so paranoid. Listen to my voice. You have no choice. August 2003
Driving Force
The sun rises and sets and the light brings them out day after day, each has their own way but most, at least, can say where they are going, barr those like me who go on without knowing why we even bother. Most are driven further by something, they pick a goal, are told where to go and grip hold firmly onto that first rung and begin climbing early the sooner they start the sooner they are done.
Maybe the burning hunger for success rages for longer in the minds of those around me, but for some reason, this driving force is yet to kick in, life's yet to quicken. August 2003
Bleed Out
If i ever stood a chance i would know by now. If it was up to me i'd of done something by now. If they wanted me they would have said
so
wherever you go i'll go because i don't know myself or where i want to be so I follow the leader, the masses, lose my senses.
It's true as i walk past the rows of broken windows my cracked reflection staring back at me people don't exactly reach out.
Dayze
Heavy bitter days thumping, beating walking in a haze protecting, our skin.
With the cold wind comes slurred thoughts, and the clear cut corners are softened and dimmed.
But we keep up the pace and don't let the lights blind us 'cause we're OK.
A Blaze
Sitting here, alone in silence except for the faint electrical whisper emanating from the digital radio alarm to my right.
Creating my own metaphorical life, pouring out this fuel from my imagination in order to record my figurative situation, layering the language to cause associations, tiny flickers of the brain that form a web of information
stored away. Waiting to be sparked into a blaze I am the spark you are the flame.
My 2 Lasers
As the fixed point at the centre of my field of vision aligns itself with yours. As the imaginary lines cross somewhere in the absent space that occupies the gap between us. As the few seconds pass when all that pure energy that fills up inside of me is focussed on this unassailable target of my two lasers of love. As the air around me changes sending a shiver through my soul and for one brief glimmer my mind is connected with yours, and we share one thing that no one else can share with us, in this second we see this thing and for this second nothing else, the image of the other that at least for now is first in line.
Deadline
It's as though I'm suspended. Caught in a snapshot from some simple security camera, or perhaps there is some random tourist coincidentally clicking their index for the hundredth time today.
A flash of blue freezes me here and the heavy freight train ahead looms over, but the fatal inevitability trapped in this moment won't even register to the single mother picking microwavable three-minute meals in the supermarket down the street.
That second, that moment when the two entities collide, when the distance i am from the train and the time i have remaining both equal nothing and all my clocks will have ticked over for the last time.
This instance is rushing ever closer but there is nothing i can do hanging trapped and waiting for the crack.
poems and stories
©2003-4
Kids on the Net and Joe
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Last revised:
09-Jul-2011
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