The Factory

Placing our thoughts in order and putting them into practice is the hardest challenge of all.

Month: November, 2015

Rubber Bears

Poem number 10: the final poem from Blueprints to Blunderland, and prehaps my most obscure poem to date.

Thank you to everyone of you for taking the time to read my work and follow my page. I hope you continue to do so in the future.

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Rubber bears braid hairs of wire steel wool,
lost cotton and synthetic fibres;
shredded bran, dry no milk,
to mid-August onwards.

Reap and sow, rubber bears work
the flow, climbing high on top
of a sunflower’s crown.

Row boats set sail across oceans of clouds,
finger tips skim cooling air through seeds that have flown the coup,
smiling as they say goodbye,
riding bikes looking forward all the way.

Keep counting as calendar days orbit onwards,
diluting Summer, forever climbing a sunflower’s crown.

Raiders of the Lost Cause

Poem 9.

Music triggers memories
Lost between countless hangovers;
keys under dirty laundry.
It’s raiders of the lost cause.
Pick yourself up; spin cycle,
Memories rebalanced,
2001 restored.

Humanity’s Theatre

Poem 8.

The factory wakes,
humanity reinvents animal-kind,
it twists, contorting
Mother Nature’s
impractical theatre.

Trashy, unskilled,
puppets without strings
cost lives,
dough sours,
the dance dies.

My Life II

Poem 7.

My life was a catfight between ideals.
I tried to stitch my own clothes
with machines made by giants.

I got big, moved out,
worked 6 till 2,
2 till 10, 10 till 6.

Blood leaked into oil,
oil settled on blood,
where skin ended and metal began
was untold.

I am a man;
but on Friday nights
the man hides from me.

Reading Eyes Blur

Poem number 6.

Reading through blurs –
my eyes don’t work.

Ankles shattered from
running uneven surfaces.

And the witness…

If a witness witnesses
no wrong doings,
what are they witnessing?

If a person enters that part
of murder city at night,
are they a moth to a flame?

I touch a flame with
bare fingers,
I’m no moth,
just stupid.

It turns out my eyes are fine,
the writing is the issue,

I put down the paper.

Pop Art Junky

Poem number five, titled Pop Art Junky, from the new mini collection.

Too poor to be a drunk,
Too fat to be a junky,
Life is suspicious of
Emotion-filled souls.

Capitalism reclaims pop art;
Art pops new life.

Ducks in green hats
Ride rainbow scooters,
Fools duel with words
deemed useless.

Hapless nuisance –
sadness brings no peace.

My Life

Poem number 4.

13 years old; I’m a punk.
17 – get a mohawk,
2 days later dye it pink.
Spend the next 15 years
researching politics looking
for alternatives.
The books I read were written
100 years ago,
and I’m still thinking of change,
Something to bring down
Capitalism.
28 years old: I look at my
iPad, iPod, iPhone, MacBook Pro – oh!
I am Capitalism.

Strawberry Fields

Poem number 3 from Blueprints to Blunderland, titled Strawberry Fields. Poem number 4 will be coming on Sunday.

You carry around an invisible twin,
as your mind scatters
like a daffodil on the wind.
Talking to locked toilet cubicles
at abandoned train stations –
another panic sets in.

Arm in arm through
strawberry fields,

Summer’s fire burns
for months,

never does moon or star
stir or make a presence.

Silence is broken by the
scolding shrieks; cries
of rape, eventually
proven untrue; another
reputation bubbling like
burning skin,
the scent still hanging
well into October’s dying breath.

Blueprints

Poem number 2 from, Blueprints to Blunderland, titled Blueprints.

Blueprints can’t hide
passages unknown
to us.

We retreat; a crucifix under
buttoned shirt, a limpet
tucked under skin folds.

Only when the night-time
draws its sword, hammering
against a shield of moonlight

Do we embark to cool
a day’s worth of sweat.

Yet, remaining wary of
all dangers cloaked,
waiting for us to slip.

Blunderland

As promised, the first poem, titled Blunderland, from my new mini collection, Blueprints to Blunderland. 

Big mouths jinx ambition.
Climb aboard tour buses
towards success.

(This is not a measure of success)

The greatness of the
scene around you
becomes your foxhole.

Your name’s not Alice,
this is Blunderland.

It absorbs into every piece
of your inner lining.

The way isn’t down –
walk through,

Your life guides all.
Use the blueprints
and find the way.