Dead – Beat – Poet
As the clouds disperse away,
Among the avenues that give way.
The flowers of sentiments they grow,
On the side of Stockwood Road.
I’ve never been much of a poet.
A self-proclaimed writer of men,
And I’ve never been much of a pacifist,
Waged a war on everyone.
Dishevelled, disbroken and disarmed
I’m nothing now your spirits passed on.
So, I ask is this hopeless a word of a broken poet
As this writing be my therapy.
Yet, my body struggles to put pen together with paper
Collapsing into a thought a dangerous retort.
As another day dawns its parade,
I lie slumped over the table I sat at the night before.
Ironically, I’m Dead AlreadyOutside
Outside, the peace lies
Among the sweeping maudlin fields
Pretty girls pretend to be petty as the pill numbed the pain
So much for medication
Too little time, ironically
I’m dead already.
If the heat catches upon my ageing face,
Pale turns to golden like the food you swallowed down
And I feel
That
That I cannot keep up with the pace
Among the trees of this startling autumn dawn
And the stagnate in growth of this years fears
Too little matters
Ironically, I’m dead already.
The air and the sky a lead looking grey,
Daunting
Stalking the town, I left not long ago,
Maybe someone loves me, maybe then again not
Maybe if I only knew at the time
Your feelings
My fears
Ironically though
Ironically, I’m dead already.
A Town With No Importance
Detached house debate the decline in beauty,
As the railway closed the public house remained.
Scribbles of a man, Victorian say eagle over child
As St Marks became redundant, one September day.
A canal, which took my father’s friend, still dank and still
It revealed him the morning of the next day.
My heritage haunts this area heavy, like the pit wheel approaching
As the sun brightens the saddened clouds that match the faces.
Mother avenue hands a solitary home as a pleasant view
And the boarded windows of number 52 since the war
As the scarred red bricks mark the grave of baby Sarah May
The old mine haunts the road way away from here,
Heathen in the last decades of the lost century.
No torched faces wake at dawn and work till dust
Memories of a childhood as familiarity disperses with time
To the next generation, heres a toast to our last hour
Age
The cold day masks the disappointment
In what was once a celebration
Who knows, where the light of youth disappeared
As the year ticks on to another corroding the clock away.
No romance only the maybes that despair brings
A dull northern boy, that’s crumbling from view
Feeling like a godfather to the people who I associate
Maybe its time to leave it to the next generation
And retire from the premise of public view.
A Childhood Angel
Since childhood
And the dark that night brings
A lady watched over black in Victorian shawl
Her presence once a fear is now comforting
In a world as bleak as the shadows frown
That murmur along the fault lines of ours and there’s
Twenty or so years
Have passed and the past became clear
Than the year I witnessed originally the interest in religion
Will I still hold the protection she once gave?
The black lady a name I gave as simple as childhood
Return please
Once more could you just guide me through
Entertain the sadness that crosses the barrow mind
By my side until I replace and the day you can rest.
A Sad Song
My sadness seems permanent
Skin whitened with the daylight sleep
Smiles seem delayed and elapse with me
Instead of hope sadness stays at mine
Some old fool sings along with me
A shanty written in about 1902
Hope traces the path beyond him
Yet my feet stay in the shadow curving a blow
Like some mystic smile from the one who walked
For the dark has gone, but its remained.
A piece of my heart cares not for what I want
Its thoughtful my futures stare is blank
Like my grandmothers grip it slowly felt weak
I guess there is always hell, for my soul to rest.
PolariExperience makes you feel a waste
An illness, a scar on your families’ history
Met him when the streets became dark
Porcelain looks and a smile of a smirk
Had you ever done this
Done this
This way.
Inspirationally besieged our minds alike
Love never an option just hot and bothered
As we drifted together, kissed one another
Our clothes faded, since its been that way
Shoving me down and acting on perverse
I’d cry, I said sheepishly while taking him in hand
I’d die, relax he said spoken the words from his face
Down like a petal leaf, and take it like a man.
MundaneHigh on speed, well I chose it naturally
Seems like a harmony left something inside me
The suburban sex god still lives on
Stagnant serpents stayed from his door
While alluding the rain of the street outside
Our fears, our fears, leave tears, leave tears
Substance handed within makes us twist slow
A statement bereft of idol worship and idolism
So we fable stories in our minds
The come down from the year before
Gun down massacre the first day of December, well chose sadly.
If, Wasn’t A Question You Asked
If, wasn’t a question you asked
With brutal honesty chained as a brain of thought
With the brutal clouds hanging heavy
As a pair of lovers kiss from prying eyes
Sunshine as immaculate as your whitened eyes
And a smile as vibrant and moving as a crescent moon
I could kiss you for a thousand lengths of time
Perhaps, this reminds us of a time we’d forgot
A time that seemed close but far from us.
If wasn’t a question you spoke
From those faded red yet untainted lips
A journey, a pattern a sentence in which you spelt sadness
As you left, like a solitary figure in a kitchen sink drama
On a platform no smoke shows without a flame
No flame burns except perhaps this one
Except perhaps, maybe this one.
Sense of Stillness In Time
As my life erodes to a sharp decline
The feelings that once helped are gone
Something poised it pounced, it destroyed
Everything that was at least once stable
Hoping each twenty four hours last,
As the next twenty four could be my last
Disowned, empty and pearliness to control
Its there for others now to decide my fate
So in the sunlight at twelve twenty one
I sense a second a stillness in time
Motionally empty, emotionally stressed
My body decaying, despondent shallow and ill
A sad loss on the evening train home, dedicance allowed at the excitement it brings – Matt Hurst 2006
