Darker Shade Of Pale

too many pieces to escape the darkness,
clean swept,

black ink mirror

see the light reflected in the pool, more numbers and colours than you dare to name, all the things you can’t hold in your hand, they slip right through,
they slip right through,
oil slick,

through the world,
so fast you can barely see them, and the moment that you do is the moment they are lost for ever.

black rain,
past the pale white skin of a torn fruit, grey dirt filled streaks, beautiful rain
the skin, the metal, my tears,
the rivers of grit,
this is me standing here in the rain,

water falling over my face,

the place I hide, as I look up at the heavy purple skies,
melting me whole with their shards of of glass.

can’t you feel it pressing down?

the years that have been, and the years yet to come, the sadness and the pain that lingers,

a waiting shadow, biding it’s time til the moment when it all comes crashing down,

the moments we live for,

as the rain keeps on falling.

A Camera Picture Of The Coast

Mixed mediums,
broken fragments,
fragmented hybrids of an established art form,
tiny blind and hairless creatures, unable to touch or think or breathe, struggling to move among the sea of thier fellow impoverished artists
Mindless drunk one night, no longer caring, no longer wanting to care, can’t take any more pain, they bring into the world these half beasts of beauty and nightmare, an assault on all the senses

a story to be written in song,
a song to be seen never heard,
a painting for the sense of touch alone,
a novel read in rhythm – the intricate melody of repeating phrases

Another song on the Ipod, words and noise to bring you out of the dried dead heat of the commuting bus, hot as hell, windows tight shut as though the fresh air could kill the honest hard working folk this time of the morning

Another story just been read, sounds in neon, beats in grey, swirling together, mating, moving on the sea and breaking out in motion
A desperate fumble behind the train station, Thursday morning, one a.m., with ears still pulsing with the noise from the speakers, not wanting to let go of this moment, for the knowledge that it can never last

The public won’t stop drinking, they sway in time to the spoken words, mixed, hands open and stary eyed, swinging from the barriers, screaming out the poets name, their own voices mingling with his as they surge forward, crushing, willing to die just to feel the touch of his hand

The children sit quietly in bus stops, hearing their own lives through the throbbing basslines, crying out at the raw power, the feeling it stirs up inside them like a restless rush of air shifting leaves, its noise, its endless ceaseless poetry becomes a wall between them and the rest of the world

a song that no one can hear,
the colours and textures and marks on our faces,
instruments and changes of voice,
structure as melody,
grammer the background noise, a static,
the plot becomes lyrics, optional