Dawn

So many friends lost for “friends” gained.

Was it worth it for those passing hedonistic moments?

Those peals of unrepentant head-back tongue-flapping spit-smacking laughter,

That saturated overspill of ecstasy at the impulsive idiocy of another drenched mind

So unforgettably preserved in a ten second disappearing clip carefully carelessly captioned

Misspelled

Lost to the ether before your mind remembers to unremember,

Plunging deep into a dark vice where the beat pounds so unrelentlessly

Jaw aching, stomach turning, eyes itching and squinting and blinking and burning

Unaware of time or date or where you are or who you were, 

Or how you lost yourself.

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Flight

Croatia was the holiday of a lifetime,

For the passengers and the crew, homeowners and

Firemen fought the flames that lingered on,

Fed by puddling

Jet fuel.

Paramedics shrouded fragmented flesh in yellow,

Formed a yellow sea.

Investigations descended,

Fighting their way through media microphones,

Roar of questions punctuated by the beat of helicopter blades

And broken hearts.

Picked over the plane’s carcass like ants,

Carefully dissecting scorched remnants, torn metal.

Desperately searching for answers.

For the voices of dead men.

Shift’s End

At 5am the wheels aren’t turning,

Cogs are slowly creaking underneath.

Mannequins masquerade as lurkers,

As bin men smoke smoke smoke smoke in the streets.

While homeless rouse from a rowdy hell unslept,

Worn bar workers stagger home, drunk on not drunk,

On sticky, swollen, shoeless feet.

Scarf tucked tight against the cold, naked legs freeze.

Pockets jangle marching tunes for the last push home,

Or offer up a visit to the taxi queue,

As a lonely glow on the horizon proffers food

With a side order of drunks.

Traffic lights changed on unruptured cycles

Unbothered by no-one there to stop and see.

The town hall clock chimes the final round til light,

While keys are turned and beds are reunited.

And everywhere tucked up in houses,

People rise with the sun they’re paid to meet.

 

Prayer to Youth

Caught up in the violent storm; monsoon, typhoon.

Battered, bruised,

But that tailwind’s pushing you.

Onwards, Upwards,

So damn far to fall, the ground holds out an arm

Catch you, hold you, love you.

Caress patterns into your knees, mark you for life.

Soul-lifting sun extinguished in a downpour.

Fuck him. Fuck them.

Live.

.

Experience counts for everything.

Party hard and forget it all in the morning.

Do it all, Try it all.

And bask in this moment.

The next one kills you.

After Crashing

9AM the morning after,

Didn’t go to bed ’til 3.

Panda eyes, bird’s nest for hair,

Head as fucked up as can be.

Canvas for a map of faded linen,

Tattooed by soft caress upon a cheek.

That pungent love sweet scent.

A tequila that cannot feel for you

The way you wish it could.

Surrender to its bitter-sweet embrace,

Your unrequited love.

The Artist’s Lament

An endless stretch of grey. 

Deep, dark, dirt. 

Sucking mud. Clutches at a man’s boots,

And won’t let go. Tries to save him, to stop the endless forward push, 

To the inevitable ruddy report before all goes black. 

In the grey wasteland silence hangs, a silver thread grasping at the dark,

At the quiet cold, while the whistles and the bombs

Dominate the day. 

The uniforms on both sides a wash of grey.

What was brown faded.

Coated in harsh, cloying mud, dries pale. Cracks, 

Like their officers’ reserve. 

Running, running, running, running, 

Running until they fall.

Through pitted earth, over tangled limbs; ally, enemy, human.

Rolling tide of red, red the earth neglects to swallow, 

Bloated by the bloody blood-feast, 

Can not defeat the greyness of it all.

The hopeless, pitiless, soulless shades,

Of cold, cold grey.