Next

Placid, waxen skin, shrivelling and yellow.
Sunken eyes that do not see,
Pale and glazed as ice on a pond.
Or the icing on a burnt cake.
Lips that cannot smile;
Dry, cracking and wrinkled,
From distant days spent laughing.
Hollow bones holding out.
Those sleepless nights spent sleeping.
Gnarled fingers clenched in pain,
Like cracking open walnut with walnut.

The mast is raised.
Sails are flying.
A faint breeze grows
And it’s time to go

I will soar once more; my shackles broken.
I breathe easy; so young, so strong.
The sun warms me through, hair shining, eyes glinting.
A new bud blossoming, a seed shooting through.
I am spring.
In death so alive.

LENBEN

Life Goes On

They couldn't see through the fog
above them neither could their star,
waiting by the phone sat the boy
next to him was the man
standing by the door
looking for a glimpse of light

with the dawn comes day light
which temporarily disperses fog
as the letters come through the door
the dark has gone, but not their star
silent tears blossom from the man
he finds comfort from his boy

who smiles, but the boy
can see a faint light
and helps the man
to blow away the acid fog
so together they can see their star
and stop waiting for the opening of the door

the world is locked out, they barred the door
plunged into darkness a helpless boy
slicing his heart, where is his star?
rotting away, out with the light
choking his smile was the smothering fog
The boy needed the man

for shoulder to cry on, but the man
continued to mourn by the door
He couldn't see for the fog
as it blocked out his boy
crushing out his light
The death of an old star

gleaming ahead is a new star
for a young man
who has found a light
His past a closed door
he is no longer a boy
his spirits lift, as does the fog

The star will always throb above their door
watching as the boy becomes a man
With the illuminating light from within, there is no more fog.

LENBEN

untitled

It ebbs at the edge of my memory
on the tip of my tongue,
lurking just out of sight

It's my carrot


My wires coil ever tighter
because my screw is not loose
and I haven't lost lost my marbles

(just everything else)

LENBEN

Soul

Cradling my soul in my hands I move forward with trepidation, petrified I might trip and send it skidding across the unrelenting floor. In my hands something precious. A part rarely seen out of body. Soul in hands, heart in mouth I move forward, wishing I could embrace the fear that shudders through my being.

My soul an underdeveloped child wrapped in the warm embrace of my shaky fingers’ steepled roof. A scant protection from the elements but all I can do in this panicked state.

JC

What am I going to do with you?

What am I going to do with you?
Fill up the kettle and make us a brew,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Sit down beside you and wait for your cue,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Listen to you carefully as I know you are few,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Stand up above you and wonder the view,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Touch your skin gently and wipe off the dew,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Study your skin tone and worry the hue,
that’s what I am going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Listen to your day with Support Worker Sue,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Lift up your cow mask and laugh at your moo,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Encourage you promptly to go to the loo,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Pinch my nose tightly and say ‘smelly poo’,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Feel my frustration and call you a Jew,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Feed you to lions for a good chew,
that’s what I’m going to do with you

What am I going to do with you?
Slice you in half so you become two,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Slice you up neatly and cook you,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Put your pieces in some beef and ale stew,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Melt you down quickly and box up the goo,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Mix it all up and start you anew,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

M☻g

June 2010

Soul Numbers

I like writing poetry with words
and numbers.
1,
10,
100,
1,000
10,000
100,000
1,000,000

A mountain of numbers each one symbolic in my mind
Ever increasing numbers of my dreams.
One
Ten
One hundred
One thousand
Ten thousand
One hundred thousand
One million.

The same mountain
parallel in words.
But different in my soul
and different in my dreams.

Words in numbers can’t fill my soul
Like digits of numbers fills my dreams.


M☻g

109

109
One hundred and nine
That would have been lovely.

1009
One thousand and nine
Definitely do-able.

10,009
Ten thousand and nine
Scary but a climbable mountain.

109,000
One hundred thousand
With Nine thousand
Odd figures not included
(at this stage).

100k
Just meaningless figures
On a page of
An unknown life
By an unknown man
Who lives with me?

100k
One hundred thousand pounds
Struck heavily, pulverized
Into months and years
of debt that
I don’t know
I never knew
But should have.

100,000
One hundred thousand
Building daily by interest
Accrued by institutions
Who neither know nor care
About me.

23,400
Seconds sitting in crowded waiting
Rooms hopeful for advice
And praying for salvation.
Avoiding others eyes
Wondering.

100,000
times
Are they as bad as us?
Are they fucked too?
Are they as old,
As tired, as desperate,
And probably homeless
As me.

Mog

Blocked

There’s a space in my head that’s aching to be heard
an echoing want that fills my nostrils
with the bitter flavour of ineptitude.

A freezing silence follows when my mind fears to tread,
in a space so personal that my throat constricts my body heaves
and waves of inertia brake off my bow.

I am an open sore oozing my stagnant creativity
over the world, a grotesque monument to my own cowardice.
I slink into the shadows of a mundane existence

hoping like hell the small part that feels like home
will not desert me because of its under-use
and my abhorrence of well earned attention.


This is just a little something right out of my head. Not great I know but it says something about how I feel right now. Any comments would be good.


JC

Poo in my Pants

I have poo in my pants.
It's that brown persistent
skiddy that comes
from ineffective bottom
wiping.

Why does it always
happen when I wear
white underwear?
Or is it just not
noticeable on my black
ones.

Guess the only answer
is the sniff test.

Three Cherries