Medicine men

I bind the wounds but poetry bleeds out from me and I am dying slow, (slowly) (which makes it rhyme) But I never gave a rats ass if things rhymed or just fell flat, my life was this and though some say cat’s have nine lives I’ve had ninety three and to me that’s certainly…

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Ticking over

No one needs a PhD to write poetry, you just need a pen and sometime you can just use your mind as a notepad. But sometimes when poetry calls and I get in a tizz I just write on the walls, (Banksy you can thank me later)…

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The promise of better times

We create and then wreck by dissecting each word and each word intersects with the creation we wrecked and where does it end? at the end? I go with the parallel lines and with each to his own in these turbulent times. The light years that flood darkness, it all melds into one and whose…

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Strolls through Sherwood

When your mind is blank and you’re writing performance poetry even though you know it will tank, it’s a sticky bud poetry and it will not let go of me so I try so I cry but I will write if it kills me, the reaper wonders why I bother oh brother another critic ready…

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Involuntary detox

This morning although I tried to write it was quite impossible, I was pressed up tight against what I dare not say, the underground rush is a hell of a way to start any day anyway I could not get to my pen, ( being penned in is a falsehood ) so I wrote with…

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Bedtime in Bedlam

Writing poetry is like having a gun at your head bullets for breakfast blood on the bed and few can understand the words that you planned would change the world. it’s a suicide murder on the inside and it kills me on the outside, I write even though it might make me crazy…

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5 strings to a theory

Day becomes night and in the lamplight I write until my eyelids are drooping, but it’s a carefully managed addiction perfectly suited to a man who’s seen action and prefers now to take it a bit slow. The heart beats a bit faster every time that I master a rhyme it’s a pity that time…

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Posing for pictures

Judas scuppered the plan for a last supper reunion. some nights I don’t write I watch the sunset and some nights I don’t sleep I watch the moonbeams that dance dreamily, meaning me or something like that. I have a shoulder in fact I have two which are not as strong as yours but you…

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The pitch

I pick up a pen to write and then the night calls me, literacy falls by the wayside I go topside, all’s forgotten in the heat where dark corners meet and congregate, the paper waits for an explanation I type my resignation under the lights of an examination by the typing pool. She uses oxymoron’s…

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Kin

When the words that you write have been written are like a song that no one will sing and the day lingers on long into the night where relief can be bought for a dollar a fix and your dreams can be mixed in with what is it sticks in your mind? Never seen a…

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Iced

I don’t write for you I write quite selfishly for me, me me me he said, and I meant it. sometimes I chat chit just for a change. but I still write this for me if you disagree complain to your MP that won’t do any good either…

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Gargling with gargoyles

When I flip and skip a word or jumble lines that become the sum of what I do it doesn’t bother me it’s only my pretence at poetry and who cares anyway? Shakespeare? no dear he’s long gone along with Shelley, Keats and John Donne, I feel at times alone like the lines don’t want…

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Merlinandmagic

The trick will always be to close your eyes and see, to cover your ears to hear and to still the rushing of the days. I write to move along through the currents fast and strong, to put my feelings down on paper before they’re gone. Will they remember me? close your eyes and you…

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Baptism at the font

Calligraphy is an art that satisfies me, I view it as Zen in a pen,. but when I join up my writing it lets most of the night in and scares me away unlike the day which embraces me a bit like calligraphy…

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After the noon

That was easy wasn’t it? no stress less mess than usual. Some days like today or really any Tuesday can be fun finish work a walk in the autumn sun a trip to the park and as it gets dark amble on home to a hot cup of cocoa. I know as you do that’s…

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Splashed

It’s going to be, that’s what I see the question is just when? I raise my pen and spill some ink blots to blot out what I think…

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Turning pages

A story that ends so to start and begin well I’ve been in one of them ended to start again got on the bottom rung again begun again I’m starting to sound like old Michael Finnegan so I’ll begin again. in the terrible automatic of space spinning out spinning back and only to face that…

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