I know,
I know you’re gone,
Lost to us all,
I feel the sting each day,
A piece of us amputated,
I know there is no afterlife,
No great beyond,
Neither the whispers of fiends,
Nor the heresy of angels,
Can persuade me otherwise,
You’re not there unseen,
You’re just gone,
I know,
Don’t ask me how,
I just know.
Despite my heartbeats,
I’m a grave,
A cracked and weathered headstone,
Devoid of lifes worth,
Embraced only by moss,
There are bones of an existence here,
Swimming in the cold dirt,
My failures and inadequacies,
Chances squandered,
Mistakes myriad,
I yet rest in this boneyard,
Remembered by few,
Visited by fewer,
No flowers left,
No twilight toasts raised,
So I am what remains,
A pitiful monument,
To a wasted life,
Resting in pieces,
In lorn repose.
Oh life,
It’s all become so rote,
So rehearsed,
Emerge from sleep,
Brush my teeth,
Die a little inside,
Let out a sigh,
Repeat,
Ad nauseum,
I’ve memorised the steps to this dance,
This droll litany,
A treadmill of night and day,
To which my mind keeps me shackled,
With its matinées and skyscrapers,
Infections and revenants,
It’s all become so rote,
So rehearsed,
Oh life.
Finding myself less than human,
I sequestered myself,
A demon,
An unwanted Rakshasa,
It was a bedlam cell,
A smelter for contempt,
Divorced of a world disinterested,
A world of ulterior motives,
Of malefic masks,
Of tempests and nettles,
A world of hollow art,
And the pantomimes of despots,
You ignorant Devas,
You thought me gone,
Sealed away,
Buried,
Gorging on scraps of flesh,
And bleeding ink,
Yet demons don’t slumber forever,
I’m climbing from this pit,
Split nails and scorpion tails,
I’m coming back,
Quill in hand,
To wield poetry as Maya.
I’m a public servant you know,
But a man must serve himself too,
I’m first among equals,
Emphasis on first,
Let me tell you of my life,
A look behind the curtain,
Governance ain’t no charity,
It’s not for the faint of heart,
Nor the kindly of temperament,
Society is a well-oiled machine,
And I’m the lubricant on the cogs,
Greasy as my palms,
It’s not about sending a message,
It’s about the money,
A silken hand in every pocket,
For was I not elected by all?
How were the masses to know,
That I had my fingers crossed?
I’m devoted to contracts and brown envelopes,
Offshore accounts and peerages,
Ther leather briefcases speak to me,
They entreat me to do things,
In tongues of legal tender,
It’s an alluring language,
I’m a public servant,
That’s a sure thing,
But a man must serve himself too,
Oh and if you’re a CEO or billionaire,
Welcome to my lobby,
I’m all ears and open palms.
I see you,
Flawed masonry,
Quibbling over pebbles,
Pushing life’s boulders uphill,
A sorry little Sisyphus,
Eroded and marred,
But I truly see you,
Unlike those with sand in their eyes,
There is yet seismic activity within you,
You are a tectonic force,
Wiping the smirks from cliff faces,
Making molehills of mountains,
There are alpine ranges in your path,
It’s true,
We all have our peaks to climb,
But keep true to yourself,
Be the tumult beneath the Earth,
And you’ll sweep them aside like so much dust.
Do you see what I see?
Upon our local tides,
Like the odour of seaweed,
A flotilla of elites,
A horde of second home owners,
Bleach-blonde and windswept,
Boat shoes and red chinos,
Onboard their carbon fibre trophies,
Spinnakers like noble house crests,
Do you see what I see?
For the summer they buy the waves,
A fashion show on the blue,
A lavish display for the plebeians,
A laugh in the face of living costs,
And when they deign to make port,
To mix with the chattel,
They just look down their noses,
Whilst sipping their IPAs.
You must know,
So you shake the ball,
Hoping for some foresight,
Some validation,
But that little porthole offers little,
Only half-truths and vagueries,
There is noise within,
It emanates from the internals of the orb,
Malignant laughter,
Padlocks and chains,
Sloshing with answers unsaid,
Mockery in every movement,
It knows all,
Everything kept in those inky waters,
But it’ll never elaborate,
It enjoys the secrecy,
Many say the ball is a plaything,
But it easily toys with us.
It is the mourning period of the last night,
The early hours of the morn,
When foxes cry and frost descends,
I’m cloaked in the velvet breeze,
Lapping softly against my cheek,
This witching hour,
This twilight,
It is a meditative time,
When the sky burns its many candles,
Even as lethargy rears its head,
It is pleasant,
But it’s the calm before the storm,
Something appears on the horizon,
That eerie blue glow,
It is as beautiful as it is foreboding,
For I know what follows,
That which burns the eyes,
And wearies the soul.
Were we meant to be this way?
Chrome and lipstick golems,
Matrices of issues and fallacies,
Or are we full of glitches?
Bugs in every interaction,
Error reports aplenty,
We twitch and palpitate,
Walking like static,
Our bodies morphing and shifting,
Streaks of colour arcing off our forms,
As if on an old television,
As if made of pixels,
Were we meant to be so technological?
Without the means of recoding ourselves,
Error icons and sheared cables,
Blue screens and melted solder,
I think some programs are superfluous,
So call the task manager.
WorldofHarley 