Friday 23 November 2012

BTB


Bed Time Blockbuster

  Dominic Brooks

“I can’t do this”
“What do you mean?”
“Any of this”
“I don’t understand”
“You can’t”
“So why are you telling me?”
“Because I haven’t even told you , because I know this is imagination”
“What are you talking about, your scaring me”
“I’m Sorry”
“Are you?”
“I’m not sure”
“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”
“I would never”
“And whys that?”
“I’m scared”
“You always are”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s not hard to see”
“And what happens if I cry?”
“Nothing”
“But why?”
“You know why”
“But everyone does”
“Everyone is not you”
“It includes me”
“It doesn’t define you”
“Should I want to?”
“Should you what?”
“Feel afraid?”
“Can you stop it?”
“Can’t you?”
“No”
“If I stop- if I can stop it, will you support me?”
“I would support you to the ends of the earth and back again”
“Do you love me?”
“Up to the moon and back down again”
“Good night mum”
“Good night sweat heart, I love you”
“I love you to, whens dad home?”
“I’ll send him up when he’s back, OK”
“OK”
And she blows me a goodnight kiss.


                                                                                              

Wednesday 21 November 2012

"No"

Its weird because i dont know how to talk to
 you, when inside my head words are all i seem to 
know.

A smokey silence, 
and the sound, or lack of, bells. 
i hear those sirens though. 

Where one sleeps at night
you only dream of two. 
the lack of it here fills this room. 

Even god wants not dreams, 
and inclined to agree 
i shall hang my head in shame. 

Happiness:
Something that life is for 
Life:
Something defined by your happiness 
You: 
Simply Forget. 

Bright eyes on each of the four, 
i sit cross legged on the floor. 
"This is my life man" 
and this is my wife. 

Sunken through sleep, 
the light burns through the sheet. 
Waking up to an unexpected arrival. 

It's nigh-on winter now, 
whilst I knock back three
last time for me, for the last time. 

A horse is dead, 
an alligator fed, 
Smell christmas this morning
and rejoice...


...we are innately happy now.


Friday 7 September 2012

Is That Just My Ego Talking? Or Is That My Friends?

My ego is in charge,
But never in control,
Of those two other forces,
That call my head home.
Ones quite introverted
The other is simple just not.
And the me in-between
Remains, not forgot.
But Ignored by these two counter parts
Who pay the third no heed.
One interpretation of this will listen
And the other two won't.
because I'm just not a weed...

Dove Love

One day a dove flew down to sit with blue birds upon a tree.
It sat in the middle of them all shining brilliantly.
The dove then followed the blue birds every were they might go,
the blue birds did not mind the extra company.
the blue birds began to circle where they flew,
same trees, same wires never anything new.
Same gates and houses.
And the dove followed along,
it knew no better, never sang its own song.
Until one day it saw another dove
atop a roof it had never seen
And so took wing to where the other dove sat, sat and was his queen
Sitting contently for some time the doves sat in silence,
apart from the rest.
Finally the other dove burst into motion a flew away suddenly.
Abandoned by the one who had been such inspiration
the dove blankly sat
for some time until the realisation occurred....
that much like herself the other dove had also discovered something new.

Thump Thump

Thump thump,
Tingling arms and thriving wrists.
At night, the ringing begins.
Thump thump,
A squeaking noise is heard
And the knot ties a little tighter tonight.
Thump thump,
Suddenly curled up In a ball.
Another sleepless dream.
Thump thump,
The seconds are now hours.
Nothing changes the fact there is no break in down stairs.
Thump thump
The darkness rises
veins cry out in agony.
Until it slips, an dark turns into light.
Thump thump,
Thump, thump
Thump. Thump.

Charlie

Charlie and the Irish man came to my house
arriving and asking for music,
So we sat and played for some time.
Until Charlie left

Phenylalanine

Walk on past the old street,
Beyond the stone courtyard,
The road eroding quietly
Becomes my daily path.

Couches, floors an sleeping mats
Make my bed tonight,
A different place a different light,
For my eyes to close to,
Complete me with the serenade,
Voices from the box,
Lights flash from front,
and then from back,
Until my head is off

Phones begin to speak to me,
from within the machine.
Who's at what end of what line,
which line do you defend.
With time I'll try and send again,
but noises stop the feed.
The message stops when winds on top.
Which line do you defend.

Confushan

Know thyself
Go placidly and with grace.
Follow footsteps of those
Chosen to be admired with great self assurance and determination.
Do not fall to the pressure of those few who would mis lead you.
Take upon your self only the task of self respect and the rest will surly come with ease.
Develop ones self a personal level of maturity and thoroughly linger there until fully assured of your own readiness to step into the circle beyond.
The maker only knows how many circles must be crossed.
Upon the final crossing ,the monsters beneath sleep will be relieved, purged from the physical.
Prana lies an open pool, black where blackness once was.
Know thyself, for thyself
And not readily buy advice from those who would talk a tell tale temptation

Honest to God

I could say any number of extra ordinary things,
Like my heart yearns for her.
But in truth I am in pain for the memory,
the weight of "what if" forcing down behind each hammer blow.
I don't expect you to relate,
But I want you to understand
That these feelings are not a reflection on my compassion or adoration.
They are twinned double with regret And immeasurable cowardice.
No my heart does not yearn,
It weeps

The Fine Line Of The Knife's Edge

      What if behind every action,
        behind every decision,
          behind anything you ever chose between,
            There was a reason?
              A reason you haven't noticed yet.
               Your clueless beside the fact that you think it's been yours the whole time.
                 And now, every so often you think about it, you think about it for more than a moment.
                   And it all makes sense.
                    You keep secrets even from yourself.
                      Truths your head keeps far away from your tongue... Lest they fall out and betray you.
                        Living in the fear of truth,
                         We live our lives in The Effort of keeping balance.
                          A balance that exists only because of the things we don't allow our selves to say.
                           Belief is a matter of which side you stand on.
                            The left or the right.
                             Same sides, two different coins.
                              Two ideas, one resolution.
One resolution, truth.

131.3462 FRE

Did I ever ask you what you think about most?
I can't have, because I can't think of the answer.
And 20 years in seems like a fine time to start,
Once the decisions been made and were miles apart.

But all is not lost,
no
all is not lost.

I've come across this sentiment, of a memory.

But all is not lost,
no
all is not lost

I've got this remnant of a memory to hold onto,
and how you sang that song.

Oh our breathing was the same back then,
now its so far out
So I'll drive away,
And slam my fist into the wheel,
As I cannot stop the rain .
But I was glad for it, you see, because it made it all just ...better.

And even though we ended up apart,
it seems the memory is much better,
It's much better this way.
because if we were ever together,
we ran the risk of ending up apart
so that little part of you in me,
Would have used up all it's spark

... and then died out.

Scooble dooble poodle pop

Scooble dooble poodle pop
Poodle scooble dooble dop

To bubbling saucepans etc

Little Dr.

Seconds drip. Minutes sigh.
The months rush past, the years fly by.
That Ticking, that Tocking
will send you down knocking,
running and crawling and flying back home.
Eyes  blurring, speech  slurring
your mind can bend, while swirling and whirling
all to the beat of your chain metronome.
A river in work enjoys the bonds that rust,
Find a flow while you labor
you too can dream of dust.

Wednesday 5 September 2012

TGOFMS

It's always the hair I see.
Flashing the colour it was,
The style that I remember.
Or the gold of elephants and turtles.
Para phrased in a memory,
A fifth of an experience.
Shadowing completely what came before or after.
Three moments are all that can be counted.
The gift of the moon song sings on.

DnA

Dying on a plane can't be that bad.
As you'd see the clouds pave your way.
Blanketing across the land, White rolls over turning a steady pink orange as you drift toward the horizon.
No dying in a plane crash can't be to bad.
Because you get to fall through the clouds before you hit the ground.

That Scarab Question

Mary saw an advert for far more supple feet.
Beside the fact that Hobbits were disgraced,
she still decided to buy it.
Years later and Mary is running from the scarabs.
Her shoes have fallen of.
Through years of un-use her soft feet could not keep out the rocks.
So one got stuck in,
She stumbles and falls.
Engulfed by bugs she sees the error of her ways.
But its not much consolation

I Will Try

I will try is deceptive
I will try, implies a tendency to resign.
I will try might mean anything.
I will try is a lie that both the dealer will feel and the ears will hear.
I will try is whiteness in the absence of colour.
I will try becomes vibration through solids.
I will try, defines the line that I have drawn consciously
I will try is a gold bar to a rich man.

I will do.
Is you will do.
Implications of trying aside.

Me Kitchen

Swipe wipe,
line grime slime
Sweep feet line
Dust rust polish
Taps and matches
Sinks cans
Seats, feet
Dusk feet
Line slime sink drink
Mop top
Granite, spray, day
Time,
Grime slime
Feet, week
Seek, clean.
Clean, dream
Sing, swing
Feet dance,
Clean dream
Sweep feet
Line? Fine.
I clean a mean kitchen...

Tomato Soup with Pepper

What if the universe keeps twisting on itself?
Like tomato soup with pepper in it,
Giving of the illusion of expansion from within.

And When Was This?

Theres only so many things you can say in a room
Nine of us round the bed and proud all with eyes as wide as saucers
Blurring away means I can't concentrate on what I want

Marl Lane

Am I?
I!
A child of mediocrity
And sound upbringing,
Doomed to a life of normality?
It would appear so,
the more I see of our heroes today.
All those who are admired,
Take admiration as atonement for their childhood.
Or is this one if those absurd points of view.
Because one has no memory stock with which to write of experience from, does not mean it would be fruitless to try.
Although saying this appears redundant when you review your own portfolio.
Why are the happy more often than not famous?
Why do we want fame?
Or is it just so? I cannot imagine so.
The price of fame seems to be retrospective pain, whilst innocent, more often than not leading to proactive choices of moral disrepute.
Should we be searching for sadness that leads to eventual peace?
Perhaps we should be more content, knowing that everything that they have that we do not,
and should be thankful for it.

That Kit Kat Place

Implied by the stretch of time,
Figures of eight push through the centre.
Only to end up back at their beginnings.
Vicious cycles, circles included
Peruse through and attempt to collect the golden winnings.
A lie through the looking glass could surely be the truth,
You'll be needing that suit of Armour if your living underneath a glass roof
Built up, but "purely psychosomatic".
To keep rebels in their place, click click it's automatic
With an Interplanetary consensus,
Within the stretch of time, it lies dormant for century's lying just out of sight.
Luring sailors away, sunrising sirens scream/sing their song.
One lung breath and your will will be long gone.
"it's just so pretty!"
But don't go into the light,
it's the ever seeing eye
With the gift of third sight.
With rivals the ocular with stethoscopes touched to ground
The proud father will weep while his ears hear that sound,
String pluck 123, 4 5 6  7,
Eadgbe F you need those grades so take the test,
but you can only make a mess of things,
And theres nothing you can do to stop it past countdown,
Tee minus rocket stop start times the sound
Times however many decibels,
Gears Grinding Down.
And while giving birth just feels incredible
It's the noise that you'll most likely hear.
Like that silence that's been coming on
Your ears have been waiting to hear for 6 whole years.
Leaves you free to see that while the other senses rest,
With your mouth locked shut your ears can freely invest,
In the free things in life that people seem to forget.
Board games and walking,
Those things we like best.

The Cat Police

Pick apart the seconds
Dissect select legends and myths
of some form of mathematical equilibrium
Friends follow yellow squabbles
To raw, Euripides fall tactics
In Athens writing on athletic licks
And, kick the hollow head back!
Swallowed by the vacuum pressure container
that lesser men created out of candles blown out but belated
Ands it's of paramount mountain importance,
peculiar portals lead on down the rabbit hole!
Now which pill do you take, take the blue you take the red,
each ones a mistake. Mistaken!
Lost and alone, a land long lost, long lost and alone.
Buried under 10 thousand ocean liners,
reverse diamonds all we've got left is coal,
which Santa clause now can shift from his slay,
he stops making toys the second parents look the other way and,
We all gotta start somewhere to please
like my friend Louise, I scan past and see her pass the easel with ease.
Flick of paint here and a flick of ink there.
Woman after woman like Joslyn with stars in their hair!
And it's not fair to cry wolf when there's a leopard on your porch,
Morphine justice and porcelain cabinets fall all along the black Brick wall
washing up across and along the southern south shore.
Abhorred consequence that smack of the inevitable score,
while Timone puts up with Pumba even though he's a bore,
Ahh and your a sight for sore eyes,
sky high and filled to the top with some indefinite lies,
hiding your skin and leaving it there.
tied together tied up in 16 knots living in a land. A land that time seems to have forgot.
Not very central and not much in the way of land marks.
Unlike any other town though,
We've got cat police.

Flight Number ******32

Now. If you lie down in an airport terminal,
You're gonna get some weird looks.
People will stare at you,
Peeking over the brim of their books.
Pretty girls pass every so often,
And as the next one flies by the last ones forgotten.
Then again the airport is not exactly a place for romance,
Despite the popular belief.
The clues in the title, it has to be somewhere.
They're traveling elsewhere!
...Thats why.
Thats my reason to hesitate,
Not some fissure where Carnegie once was.
"Gate number eight, last calls for..."
Best not be late whilst caught in thought of finding a mate.
Flights delayed!
Well thats just ....!

Free Trait Psychology

They say life is a game, right?
So you should act though it is then i suppose.
Take the one best thing about another player,
then add them together and slowly become that.
Theres no shame to it
Its just an adaption technique.

Monday 23 July 2012

Karde

The difference is you'd sit on the floor and Not a chair.
When it's loud, your silence carries 
Fills the room. 
It's everywhere
Six seconds past and it must feel weird
Things falling into place
While your falling out your hair
As the knuckles turn White 
And the chorus singing loud 
Clouds from above 
Moving all the while, you sitting there
With your mind racing by, one picture after the next 
And then A flickering distracts you those six seconds on 
Deep Velvet curtains and apples flying 
Don't you feel inverted? 
Your only aware because it's pressing all around you. 
Not only that you wont recognise your best friend. 
Your aware. Oh your aware.
And bouncing seems to be all you can do untill the led hits you.
Starting from the legs up, not waves, no not waves.
Not as gentle as that. 
She bites you, snaps 
Bang, there's that popping sounds again.
You can feel it pumping inside you.
There it's gone again, 
This zone requires no method of transport for thought
Now theyve grown wins, and can fight for themselves 
However it doesn't seem to be a matter of thought,
The battle is fought through the medium of strange.
Glued back in place once the page has worn off. 
So soft the air becomes...
the faces far less fast
Hands moving far more casual
Today won't be the last.

Tuesday 10 July 2012

Arzier

Skies grey listening to the sound of California. X amount of metres above sea level, On the bank of a mile wide lake. Sausages chase sparrows with no hope of catching them. Two hares battle in bronze while the air clears it self from smoke. As the sounds of the west coast fade, the clouds above open dripping then pouring. Filling the imminent silence.

Sunday 8 July 2012

Spencer

I've decided that I want a bear, A furry one, with lots of hair. Almost definitely brown, because I don't want black.  I've decided I want a bear, One that can help me sleep, A bear without the claws or the rage, and without the pointy teeth.  I really want a bear, Just so I can go to bed. We could all use a bear, To help clear our heads 

Tuesday 19 June 2012

Fairytale Town

I want to live in fairy tale town And open me a book shop. Might not make much money mind. But I don't mind, that's not what I'm looking for. A cobbled street, and a years old tea pot. Two Victorian glass windows, To either side of a great oaken door. With the words "antiquities" emblazed above. One church spire and a sweet shop below,  next door to a fish and chips vendor.  The smells of which fill the merry streets of fairy tale town. Where people always need old books. Stocked behind venetian blinds  Collecting dust because they're never cleaned.  Row after row of books.  Small, big. Battered and broke.  I would never throw one away.  Remised to even sell them, each one is a treasure.  They tell their own stories.  It would be modest, of course, this little shop of mine. Or ours.  A tiny front room, a labyrinth of shelves.  A till, for when the book sell themselves. And a back room that is just right for two.  Two chairs, a fire and book panelled walls. One table sat central, chess board atop. Years have worn the squares to fade.  Two cups, one pot. Fairy tale town, a game well played.

Sunday 3 June 2012

Untitled 3

Perhaps I simply prefer the simplistic style of it all,
having never been one to enjoy over complication,
concerned cos complexity constantly confuses me.
Wing, drift, dive, drive then thrive.
It's obviously the natural order of it all.
Swimming seems strangely... significant in my memories.
The word would be "lucid" but only she would know, vivid is reserved for our unimaginably infinite imagination.
Fractured faces fall, forming fractions of the four-hundred focused on before hand.
Immortality.




Untitled 2

At least three Elephants, two Dogs and a lonely Dragon.
At Home I hold the foot of at least one.
Clara sings her sickly sweet songs helping the rain cling to their fur.
Plethora of reading material, words you cannot care for.
Candelabra in mockery of a champagne flute, one silent instrument.
Vegetation alongside the slender forms of multi-coloured women span the house hold.
Caged letter box and the popery, a little book of scribbles and scrawls, some kind of genius but just as unsure.
Atlas never held this much weight, orion hangs in the sky forced as any to remain.
Clouds try their best to obscure the night light flooding in
Flooding the land as they rain down upon it.
Glass houses never break, this one is built of bricks
and sand
and wood
and things.

Saturday 2 June 2012

Untitled 1

Ever had a song reverberate through your skull. Till tears drop down one two three on the floor at your feet Whilst you talk to someone you thought you knew To only realise that it's someone you've never met before  At the time closed eyes, blindly leading an orchestra of pre determined music.  The sound conducting you far more than you do it.  In reverse you'd think it'd be worse but ears can't help finding beauty in the back water noise. Empathising with the writer, you assume you feel how they felt. Or at least some semblance of their frame of mind, Or do you think you could not be further from them? The code created is not always well received. So until the crack when snap out the trance,  You believe yourself to be someone else, who you assume you've known for time.  When the song is over,  You feel the trance crack. Eyes snapping open, that person is gone. You can see only in the words written before you.  Only through the mist of three tears

Friday 1 June 2012

Toby and Sam

Peculiar lucid dog dreams, an exhaustive hallucination congeals from 45 milligrams.
Trotting round in circles, what would otherwise be seen as normal, now is to be watched for.
Both on the left hand side and drag, always to the left, steering clear of the traffic that hurls it self past at a pace.
One,
      by,
          One.
After a while, lying down remaining still. A breaths distance away. Living carpets of more than ample worth.
Mirrors double rooms in size, whoever watches from the other side must be bored.
Clocks and mirrors, mirrors and clocks, along side an unlit fire place.
Tick,
       and,
             Tock.

Saturday 26 May 2012

Sunset on the Wirral

The sky turns a slow orange  as birds drift with the Mersey out to sea.  A couple talk and watch the photographs. Smoke plays round the wind  escaping on the breeze. The sound of which echoes behind through the streets. With the landscape a mile away so drastically different, trees and churches across the water.  The air is still for a moment and the insects come alive.  Crawling up my hairs as the liner crawls along the water.  Three spots of cloud mar the otherwise unblemished sky.  Cobbles and stone against the water.  Near ten and the streets still overflow  the sky seems to have drawn them out,  sun artist painting the streets with people and painted as a skyline sky.  Even silhouettes fade as the sun recedes. The sky turns fast, blue Then black.  The moon dead ahead, After watching the sky turn a slow orange.

Monday 14 May 2012

Elnick.

The smell of those trees reminds me of a childhood 
shared with the green and yellows of summer, 
through to the auburn halloween nights of fall. 
My walk falls pace by pace much faster than the last, 
rushing home, already forgetting those smells. 
Picture perfect i see smash cut images from my childhood, 
and of course i wish my self back there.
It seems so long ago, more than a decade since actually.
Now all i can think of is a reintroduction.
I need to walk that school corridor where i was dragged by my ear in hilarity,
and i must walk across those same fields and hills i did as a child. 
Hovering above my nostalgia i found a memory, one of which i am all to doubtful of its validity.
Great Trees lined either side, 
towering above and around me,
 toppling down to meet the ground and me. 
One long road stretches beyond us, my parents are leading me, I cannot see its end 

Saturday 14 April 2012

Keeping on Top


And here’s me, thinking it’s crazy to think.
I’m just through with thinking.
It’s that constant buzz of that voice in your head.                                                                                      That does me in, when I’m in bed.
It’s not just something that keeps me awake,
I think things through when instead I should just, Do.
Do all the things I’m thinking of.
If I stopped, thinking for just a second,
I could quite easily find peace.

Over thinking is my arch enemy,
Defeat, I lay in his hands.
And in my hands I hold one weapon.
My Vice.
My Vice lets me sleep at night,
and the Habits seem to ease me over.
Now I’m not sure, exactly, what it stems from.
Some deep seeded (REPPRESSED) inadequacy,
or an over indulgence with Slannesh?

Defeat. I lay in your hands,
and in my hands I have one weapon.
A weapon I won’t allow myself to use.





Friday 13 April 2012

Perfection ov

Theories are just ideas, Floating thoughts with the added benifit of application. And in theory, the application of an idea Should be successful. But it rarely is.

Wednesday 4 April 2012

Superstitious

On the Third day
All the crows will fly away.
Magpies, I salute you.
You always seem to stay.

Tuesday 3 April 2012

- - - - - - - -

One long road stretched ahead.
Parents on both my sides,
one autumn leaf made bed.

Golden Brown mottling,
We, three, walk in memory.
that memory is rotting.

Sweet songs and Conquers,
gardens, and fairy-tales.
My favorite child mind,
patchwork of "in" Masonry.

It Still... Even now.

Suitably vivid dreams,
Lividity at the situation.
Rats in the literature.
Sinned almost as much.
Post from a Prisoner.
Donned a Liar,
In the guise of manipulation.
Reason fails the transfer.
Trails the denotive.
Her, she connotes.
Through discourse,
I unwind her.


Friday 30 March 2012

Homage


Home can be anywhere i guess,
North, East, South or West
I’ve seen a few places these past few months
None of them fit like my old set of shoes…

Home is where the heart is,
Or at least that’s what we’re all told.
All these clichés and sayings,
are turning grey and getting old

Time will take me back there.
So long as I follow my head,
signs will lead me home again
and lead me back to bed.