Terraced copies of houses, we are one among many.
Keep hush, forewarned, though there’s no reason to be loud.
We won’t disturb those who sleep while we don’t get any.
We shall all find our own way to that castle on a cloud.
The wind whistles silvery lullabies soft and sweet,
But the cold which it brings is not one to ignore.
It resounds through our bodies, causes fluttering feet,
Makes us stand closer than we might have before.
Huddled over, hands cupped to form a defence,
A sputter of light throws a glow on your face.
I save this vision to remember in the days hence,
As I share in the radiance, by your good grace.
A perfectly commonplace moment from an outside view
Is made remarkable for having shared it with you.
Hips.
man, what a stellar ending, I love this!
If I can do it pacing,
I’ll do it pacing.
A habit kept from cabin fever,
though not necessarily negative.
You can learn a lot just going mad.
I shaved my head to start over.
But I wasn’t born bald, and
I don’t need to forget.
-J.C. Grennan
An Old Friend, That I Don’t Remember.
part cute, part disturbing, part sweet, part sad. Full nifty piece of work.
A Kind-of Long Poem about Not Knowing if I Talk Too Much
I’m sorry if I send you
A million and one texts
Asking where you are how you are
And when I’ll see you next,
And I’m sorry if I start
A million pointless conversations
If I talk way too much bullshit
Reference too many quotations
If you’re constantly fed up
Of this ceaseless inundation
If I’m trying all your nerves
If I’m testing all your patience
If I talk so much that
It may as well be my vocation
If you’re wishing to God
I wasn’t quite so loquacious.
See I honestly don’t mind
If you forget to reply
But I enjoy it when we talk
So I might as well try,
But I don’t want you to hate me
And I’m trying to toe the line
So I analyse and scrutinize
What’s too much and what is fine
And I’m wondering when I aught to
Take your silence as a sign
That you’re really not that into it
And I’m wasting all your time
…Or if you’re actually just busy
And the problem isn’t mine
I mean I shouldn’t feel guilty
Talking’s not a crime.
Maybe you even like it
Maybe it brings a smile
To know I’m thinking of you
Every once in a while,
But I also don’t want to seem
Like I’m way too eager
To be your friend or your lover
Or your something-not-quite-neither
So maybe I should tone it down
So that you don’t feel beleaguered
My mam said silence was sacred
…But I never quite believed her
And I miss you, so let’s talk
Even if I physically can’t be there
Hell, if silence is so sacred
Then I guess that I’m a heathen.
‘Cause I don’t want to keep quiet
An be left wondering “what if”
Y’know, I learned “first thought best thought”
From that one film with Dan Radcliffe,
And why should I play it cool
Why should I pretend
That I don’t love it when we talk,
Don’t love being your friend?
Why am I even debating?
Why is it driving me round the bend?
Whether to start a conversation
Whether or not to extend
An invitation to hang out-
To no particular end.
Jesus Christ, I’m sick of having
This same argument again!
Okay, okay, enough of this-
Fuck it, I’ll hit send.
Light Pollution (not so starry night)
I seek a true blackness,
One which the sky here never truly achieves,
This apocalyptic expanse of charcoal-burnt umber
Cannot provide me a reprieve,
I seek a true blackness,
One which the sky here cannot contain,
The real darkness here is all use up
In the streets, the alleys, the winding lanes.
I seek a true blackness,
One which you can almost touch,
Feel it as it swallows your hands,
Feel the terrified, exhilarated rush.
I seek a true blackness,
A sky that can provide an immaculate canvas
For great galactic paintbrushes
To
illustrate
illuminate
our innate
madness
But the sky here holds no true blackness,
That’s the price of life in a city,
There’s a certain charm, a beauty to this world,
But behind it, an unyielding artificiality.
He Need Not Show His Face Again.
The Person who wrote this is my only follower, so their work will only be seen here by them, but that does not matter as I am very proud of my friend and their writing skills and the effort they have put into this.
The Hero is blowing smoke rings and I’m playing sad songs at a party, (more of a flying visit). There are only a few people but the room is small. I’m talking to someone and he’s not very interesting. He disappears a lot to be alone. He’s bad with others and he’s bad with himself too. He’s giving me the speech I was forewarned about. He tells anyone who’ll listen. He tells me he hates us, and he loves us, but he loves himself most of all, and he hates God but he wishes He was here. Not to be told what he’s doing wrong or what he’s doing right, but to confirm that he can decide for himself. He says it with his eyes, and hands, and cock. I don’t know what he said with his mouth.
Belgrave Dave is sitting in a corner not talking to anyone; he’s spent…
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