Watermelon smiles and trigger happy chickens.
Melting pot meltdowns.
Watermelon smiles and trigger happy chickens.
Melting pot meltdowns.
They stare down from the bridge like a speed trap
Ill-fated like candles on a heat map
Two face that six deep till their eaves drop
Speak war ‘til they detox
The air they’re breeding? I need that
Photo finishes lose their gloss, so forward thinking I read back.
Embracing these ventilations with open windows
We can christen or crescendo until the wind has lost our taste
If giving is charity, does a casket rest the case?
Is time well spent when interest cools?
Does time erase? Does time even have tools?
Are unheard sentiments simply sediment.
If pretty flowers must die, are they worth your remembrance?
Will you choose to bury them?
If principles are the rule, is perception the real measurement?
Our bouquet pendulums have greater range than a peregrine
What’s your addendum?
Is it the copy of your recipe or the flavour of your beef?
Every decision we make writes our story
Is yours a magazine?
Is it live and let die or do we force some to breathe?
It seems some can’t believe that pretty flowers… must die
Every Saturday morning when Des Lynam’s moustache was doing it’s final stretches during the weather just before Grandstand we found ourselves…
In sniffing distance of the Kings Head
Blunt’s shoes? you’d never wear them unless you smoked, were barely out of the cot or closing in on retirement.
Where cash machines are places of worship and the church on the corner is a convenience store outliving us all.
As chips a shade of oompah loompah that fish pouting glamour pusses would bathe in are trophy dinners.
If traversing that red and grey bricked hill to purchase 105 of the 5-a-day was deemed a winner.
I’d grow up fruitless, a damned sinner
See once raiding freezer heaven was finished….we’d head there……
To the land of the A-Team branded Cornflakes, peaches and rice.
Where stealth entry to this economically viable leviathan was vital.
Where purchases were disguised in Safeway’s and Tesco bags to avoid being seen as cheap.
There’s nothing special about this rabidly chavvy anti Monaco
16 years tasting traffic jams instead of tavern pies, doing bicep curls with bags of cabbages.
Drowning in trolley fountains and blue rinse eruptions at the temple of torrential tedium
This wretched hamlet conspired to feed me the beauty of Anneka Rice.
She was round the corner but hey, for every pleasure, there is a sacrifice.
The tidal rain of mirrors falls without hailing
A crowd surfing eulogy is read at rip tide speed
12 gun salute followed by six minutes and five seconds of silence
Our love is now driftwood on fleeting memories
These are my waves goodbye
Food mountains carved from grey matter.
Street parties powered by lamp posts
I climbed the ladder because I ate the most
From chattering classes I learned a bit.
Our weary aire was rare.
I combed the heirs of her sojourn
Cleaned my clock to know the time
Threw stones at glass houses so my seeds can breathe the sun
I have just begun, because
Eating from tableaus is unhealthy
More than an earthen vessel filled with spirits
I am the bar
To resurrect or drown need chips on the table
I check my hand and look to the dealer
I am now
I am what was, which became what is
The hypotenuse to a multitude of hypotheses
With confidence, my image is my identity
Solar panelled for my length of days
No more relying on karma
I’m calmer collecting time
My chapters are bound, I have arrived
It is my duty to exude purity and passion
A legacy that lasts long
Without it how else am I going to pass on a legacy that lasts long
I am more than a song
I am a catalogue worth more than platinum to be replayed
The seeds I am sewing will need no stitches
Watered by heavenly riches
I am what was promised
I live in promise
I live with promise
I live for the promises
My main meals are honesty and confidence
What is your fruit?
Is knowledge part of your 5 a day?
What is your addiction?
If love is like making music
How does your rendition sound
Are you a prism or a prisoner?
How do you shine, now?
The clock has ticked and we’re now two weeks into 2013. Some people make resolutions, promises
to all and sundry as to what they are going to do differently. As is commonly said, most of that goes
out of the window the moment that life starts to take shape. Would we be better off not making
promises or exclamations? What does new year / fresh start mean to you?
My one and only promise to myself is that I will water and nuture the seeds I had planted last year.
Sometimes we know what we’d like to happen in advance, sometimes we leave it and hope for the best.
If anything, it is most important to be comfortable with the season of life that you are in
It is not about the sweeping changes that you can immediately create or accumulate. It is about how you’re
going to keep going even when you are happy with your curent state of affairs. As a baby when its born,
adapts to its new environment and communicates in the only way it knows how. We must “give birth” to
newness be prepared to adapt/ nurture that through the seasons.
If we truly believe in fresh starts regardless of the time of year then it is for us to lay to rest the stigma
of our bad experiences. Unshackle ourselves from fear and doubt. Ultimately bury the chapter of pain and
never dig up its grave. Accept that season of nothingness as a season of rest. Cling to those things that
make us smile naturally. You don’t need to wake up singing the soundtrack from “Thesound of music”.
Bring yourself to a place of being thankful that somebody, somewhere, was looking out for your suffering to stop.
Accept the light that’s trying to shine in your life.That first minute always seems blinding until you see
something beautiful in the light. Let that first beautiful thing you see, be you!
We need Common Sense to bring common sense to our common sense and let common tenths our personality multiply the honest tenets of our realities.
See emancipating rather than eviscerating ourselves of our fragility puts the sense in sensibility enabling us to take responsibility for our own competence and confidence level.
It’s never better the devil when seeking inner angels, revelling in ranges of rages endangering our brains because we alone couldn’t silence the alarm bells of our own insecurity.
Death is the only surety but we refuse to die the death of accountability so while others cry and keep rising we drink Riesling and listen to Ron Isley’s tales of love as we lust after the person we want to be but never initiate that intimacy.
We pretend we comprehend the routes of ascension, latch on to others who mention direction and get an ego erection till they screw our senses with our own driver and leave us with the pretension that we really are somebody when really…we have a body and sell our souls for attention and don’t even get paid for the intercourse.
It’d a rape of the inner courts except we are the ones who make it consensual, conning our senses till we’re numb, dumb or senseless. Rules of thumb exist so you never get fingered.
Sensations linger like nettles that sting you yet if you can’t acknowledge your weeds then don’t except another to tend your garden. Only a fake rose or a dead one gets pinned to a garment so what are you?