Anna's Poem

We work but we cannot work for love.
Love does not pay, but costs,
and the cost, when cashed up,
Is always a cost too much.

We count it in cigarettes
In hours and in papercuts.
It's market rate is sacrifice,
Each birth a priceless worth.

Unwritten

we work, we war, we laugh.
these are the points of our cross.
we fight to live,
to make something from fuck all.
but noone gives a shit.

we twist our tongues
and ruin our bones
– we shred our hearts to secure love,
the warmth of a home.

our dreams? our ambition?
they’re nothing but a plight of awakeness;
the drama of food, of shelter
and turning each impoverishment into riches.

we are nothing, but we are chosen.
we are the nameless flock of the earth,
the movers, the commanders of a bloody ocean.
we are human, but we are not dying.
each cigarette is epic,
each cup of wine, an accomplishment.

we are heroes,
though each feat of prowess
goes unwritten.

New

A disturbance of the Devil’s sleep.
A shock of spirit in its flicker.
A new panic for the New Year.
Breathe and catch art’s pulse,
Her slick stride into the wings
Of the sun.
Beauty’s candle is always shifting colour
Its cinders last through night’s seasons.
Breathe in the this rush of warmth,
This heroic voice, this healing touch
- white fingers
Stroking the feathers of your heart.

Life Stops For Art

Wielding the moment like a pistol,
Gently, you guide life’s lines into
Clearness. Urging
Sunlight and brick into focus.

Kneeling, or drapping yourself
Impossible like a Rodin model,
Your crooked bones
And your damaged muscles
Suddenly become
Flammable and supple.

You make life take flight
With each prophesy
Captured.

Your Eyes

Your eyes are like two spells
Meticulous. Alchemic.
Your eyes are like two voices
Two psychic sirens
Pin-needle sharp, acoustic
Leaving a trail of razor notes.
Your eyes are like
Two haggard poets
Two violent puppets, exhausted.

Poem for Eliska

All this flashing mashed up noise
The chaos of awkward egos
Is kidnapped and photographed
In fairy-tale distillations
Of a girl’s refractions.

Boys become honey bees
And women paranoiac witches
Each with their flamboyant
Arrogance and stage music
And each dances to the clock’s whip.

the forward motion of ramblin jack

Blind blush blood coloured meticulous. Tepid intrepid, wet cobbled cock hipped and dreaming on the patio – im terrified of the midnight lady-monsters, half naked violence, big tits and bright fangs, eyes that violate the baby-poet in us all.
Take care, take hesitation for what its worth. Don’t knock hesitation, it’s time with someone I love. In any case nurse your perfections, never apologise for your perfections. We all must rise up to fall and it is in the falling that beauty can be seen – like early summer mornings, talking Woody Allen and “one more cup of coffee” on London Road, under a deluge of pastel skies.
But fuck it I’m not trying to tell you how to love. Only that you should love. Love is the fat kid of the emotions. All the kiddies envy him, for his self-indulgence. How dare you be so loving?
We discovered that all great art is a precocious nostalgia, an impatient tragedy – romance. What more can love amount to? Love is a triumph. It is the victory of religion over clockwork scientology – the superstitions of modernity, reducing what has twelve dimensions, to one, two or none. Real beauty rebel beauty, real truth will light up your heart like a forest blaze. Like a satanic paradise.