Category: Poetry

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Sound of a Silver Time Machine

Your silver face shimmers in my eyes,
The touch of your cold metal buttons is electric,
You’re uncovered, a needle is revealed, and my senses heighten,
My fingers dance across narrow spines, as I make my selection,
I first remove the sleeve, then the coal black circle,
Gently set down, the ritual is almost complete,
Of all the needle tracks, I choose the first one,
With one movement of your arm, the world spins,
A sweet sound fills the air and nourishes my mind,
I see green lights, orange lights, and golden-lit gauges,
As the black circle spins, I’m filled with powerful memories,
You are a portal, my time machine, my hi-fi,
You are my beloved silver Akai.

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The Sound of White Noise

I work diligently to keep my mind clear and calm,

I create things with various art forms, I have many different hobbies,

However, these are rarely successful long-term distractions,

Frame of mind is everything, and I can feel my mind drifting,

Drifting from where I would like it to be,

Sometimes, inside of my head feels like I’m locked in a loud crowded room,

Inside I’m trying my best to focus, to communicate, or to escape,

Some days it feels impossible to create anything, because of the noise,

Other days it is easier, the volume is down, and my mind is inexplicably pliable,

They say, after every storm comes peace,  

Therefore, after so much sound, there should be silence,

After most creative endeavours, comes such emptiness,

I pour myself into whatever I create, and I’m unsparing in the amount,

Time to hit the mute button for a while and let the white noise fade out.

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Tonight is a clenched fist

I could literally rip the skin and flesh from my face right now,
I am not in my own mind, I am not even in my own postcode,
My self-hate is so powerful, so invincible,
The effort to hold it back is beyond comprehension,
I hate myself with so much vigor and venom tonight,
No rhyme, no reason, just self-disgust and anger,
I make no sense, I am bad company, I am not to be around,
I scratch as the fan passes, I clench until its return,
I want to be the kind me, but I am unable to connect,
I am rocking, thinking, hating, trying to exist.
Tonight I AM the monster of rumour.

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A Life in Thorns

A time comes when you know that you are barbed,
Self-protective and in need of personal shelter,
Right now, is one of those times,
I have virtual thorns on my skin and in my brain,
Time to stay away from my dear ones,
Time to stay away from NOT dear ones,
Time to be charged, and remain alone,
Recognizing and communicating mood with my closest,
That my nuclear level is at maximum,
It’s vital to all around,
Find the right music now,
Find the right mix to sooth now,
Find a way to dull the thorns now,
Find a way to ‘control’ now,
The poison has removed the pain of a life in thorns,
Until now, and until tomorrow.

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When the music played

After a bad day today, I sat reminiscing about simpler times, about my youth,
When music was king, and most of what I did revolved around it,
I’d slide a record from its sleeve, put it on the turntable and sit back,
Nothing felt rushed, dreams felt ripe and reachable, and the music played,
Occasional trips to a record store, when they were plentiful and local,
Gazing at album covers, putting up posters, and reading lyrics, while the music played,
Bands influenced the way I dressed, the way I thought, music was everywhere,
My pride and joy, a silver Akai sound system, it was everything, it made my music play,
It was my best trade ever, a carton of beer, for the soundtrack to my teen years,
It’s something that I’ve tried to recapture later in life, but the joy isn’t quite the same,
New bands don’t offer the same appeal as they once did, when did I become so cynical,
However, like a time machine, my turntable takes me back to when the music played,
To when the air of life itself felt charged with electricity, music, and endless possibilities.

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The Countdown

I have an internal feeling, like a counting clock ticking away,
Creeping nearer, time is the predator, and I am its prey,
If there’s a good thing coming, it will be the first that I’ve seen,
Because misfortune and sorrow now live where I’ve been,
I feel out of control which I just cannot stand,
I feel my heart in my throat, and brain on remand,
Anxiety for my future remains powerfully crippling,
It toys with my brain poking, prodding and tickling,
Who is this hunter that stalks me these days,
As I grow greyer, fatter, sadder and more dismayed,
I once felt stronger, in command of my thoughts,
But anxiety has filled my mental account full of naughts,
A life full of death and mental illness, has my mind leaving me,
A watered-down version of the man I should be,
No self-esteem, and so much worry and woe,
That when I look in a mirror, I see a face I don’t know.
What happened to me, and where did I go,
That counting clock reminds me, we reap what we sow.

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Forest Trophy

In a forest glade, several bodies lay,

Half buried by a killer,

He comes back each week,

To take a peek,

At the trophies he has made.

They lay there dead, in a mushroom bed,

Arranged in his secret place,

Where only killer and forest know,

About his trophy bones,

And the madness in his head.

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Darkness of a Summer Storm

Thunder rolls through late-night air,
The power is cut, a home is left in darkness,
It simmers in the residual heat of the day,
A weary sleeper tosses and turns,
Lightning flashes through an open window,
Rain pours down, as the wind shakes the trees,
Tonight will not be restful,
Dogs bark madly, they echo in the distance,
As thunder cracks and churns above,
Sweat beads on the forehead, restlessness,
Sudden silence, as the rain and wind cease,
The lightning and thunder disperse instantly,
All dogs are hushed, but the heat remains,
Within the restless sleeper, the nightmares endure.