POEM FOR PRYNNE

 

Tangled web of night

you forced me over star bright

menthol spears steered towards the mind gate

mimic the reflex image moored in more than motions aspect

rusting against an old iron fence leading into an empty field of meaning so small in increments like meagre savings

accumulating slowly in a wren’s heart brittle after morning’s frost

don't ask what does it mean, but how do I feel now ?

after all this life has happen without my will

thrown as we are

clowns all dancing on the edge of the sink

spend a lifetime carving out a cave of words

sitting in the chance equations of the library

sketching a world fit to live for

 dancing into outer space

a Bhodisattva riding the rails 

eye’s watering at the spectacle

of all it has been all it will be forever

what the words unlock is immobilising thought in favour of a vehement perplexity

you knew this and let it flower into thoughts braced by the sound of air

moving in and out of the lungs

breathing at last.

 

 

STEAMING

Another day to break the glass stand poems against the horror of forever poor but we should be grateful they say the ones that know the truth ? of inherited wealth but that’s unkind is it not reframe refreeze repackage reimagine the world every day to paint a better picture youth is steaming energy without revolutionary direction once again like the riots its ok they’re only teenagers but if they really knew what power they had that is what scares the higher ups shit could actually change smash down the walls lights go out as Paul Weller sang all those years ago when we were in the grip of another tyranny that does not seem so bad now so force the voice out and skim through a host of yet more ridiculous jobs that we will never get another slippery algorithm runs through our fingers drawing them up like a bunch of unspooled time running away unreal city over and over again keep going don’t look back explore the inner most but retain a hard shell and sell sell sell to come back home again and bask in sweet ennui wrapped around like a blanket against the tv’s glow and the grip of a small hot hand that does not yet know the cruelty of the world.