Sometimes we need to burn in our own way.
Some of us so hot, we’re dry ice expunging at the slightest hint of light.
Sometimes we’re being the kindest not by holding your hands,
But letting them go.
Don’t assume that by our reclusiveness we’re being anything but selfless.
Check out @LonerLoaner’s Tweet: https://twitter.com/LonerLoaner/status/768591487915335680?s=09
I tweet….. Sometimes… When I figure out how to do it or what it means.
Knew my weakness,
Is in being sleepless
But that’s ok, I liked being manipulated by her.
What if we had those conversations
even if only in our imaginations
between each other that might unite our nations?
of societies trivialisations
touching probing, questioning, discussing agreeing, disagreeing but opening up the discoursation
to awakening from hibernation
to unhinge our inclinations
to egotism and trepidation
to one another
of the other.
We talk over, through and past one another, it’s time to talk TO each other.
How can poets repent?
When they carry the sin of every man and woman that lived before them and that will follow?
Maybe they don’t want to repent because repentance means giving up past vices
the vices that become their muses
the muses that fill their hearts with so much blood it tsunami’s into their mind
their mind can’t contain it
breaking ocean beds
smothering shores and pouring out into the pages of the city
swirling through drains
bubbling up through fountains
sweltering shop walls
drowning city halls
revitalising city parks
softening the foundations of sky scrapers
floating away old wooden shacks that have outlived their time
washing away the drunkenness of taverns
sobering the park bench inhabitants
cleansing the lanes from human waste.
Maybe they can’t repent because repentance means they can’t leave pen dents any more.
If they can’t dent a page
with love or rage
with lavender or sage
with wisdom of their age
with paying homage
to their forefathers gauge
how can they take the stage
of loves rib cage
give and engage
with the human masquerade?
Maybe they will be forced to repent
in which case
they’ll be the future generations embrace
the fire souls solace
the writer, rapper or activists brace
the stencils for children to trace
the soldiers about face of about face
the disbelievers worship place
the lovers lace
The freedom fighters giving chase
the farmers growth space
the peoples abandonment of haste.
Whichever way you look at it, a poet can’t repent, there’s things to be said which only the love off their tongue can expel and exorcise the demons out of us all with.
Priests, holy men and war mongers will all but surrender under the poets megaphone.
Be it as they may, torture them kill them or cut out their tongues, they cannot and will not repent.
To repent is to turn their back on everything past and future, severing the voice boxes of the children to come.
So off to martyrdom they go inviting death so that words may live.
Repentance after all is for the wicked!
I’ve written about why I write in the past. This is how I write.
He loved by devoting himself to his art.
His art was only realised at night.
In the throes of anti-matter dust,
In the throes of loves arrow thrust,
In his minds madness trust,
In his blood thirsty nocturnal lust.
It all came to him half awake, half asleep,
Like Dali his mentor painting surrealist sweeps,
He’s the lyrical dreamer with spoon in hand,
Waiting for a wink of Loves command.
Off to work in the dusk he strains,
Eye bags, Eye Sores, Iris pounding, retina pain,
Awaiting his lot, for words to claim,
In the auction of poets where the asleep are slain.
How many layers, veils, coats of distraction do we have?
It makes no comprehensible sense that we cry pangs of longing with distractions engulfing us.