In This World (Which Spins Out Of Control)

In This World (Which Spins Out Of Control) In This World (Which Spins Out Of Control)

Status: Finished

Genre: Poetry

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Poetry

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Summary

This is a poem from my up coming book No White Picket Fence.

Tags

Summary

This is a poem from my up coming book No White Picket Fence.

Content

Submitted: February 16, 2012

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Content

Submitted: February 16, 2012

A A A

A A A


In this world,
which spins
out of control,
turning
the first night
into
the last day.
Streets
full of puke and spit
from those
who intoxicate
themselves
in an effort
to avoid their truths,
their fears,
their children.
A dirty
cuddly toy
laying
at the side of the road,
is scarred
with a tyre print.
It used to enjoy
the love
of a child
but the child
grew up
and replaced it
with a
gun.
The Man,
drinking port
and vintage wine
in his Masonic lodge,
stands back
and watches
the degeneration
of society,
stands back
and watches ships
sail on the blood,
which flows
from the wounds
of
the smaller man.
Pop stars
and false prophets
performing
under the guise
of culture,
recede to the banks
to count
the coins
left by those
who seek icons
and a metaphorical
light
at the end
of a hypothetical
tunnel.
Cancer,
working its way
through the evolutionary chain,
cutting down
the strong
and denying
the weak.
This viral weapon
knows no boundaries,
no one is safe.
Killers and perverts
preying on the beautiful
who play
in God’s garden,
lurking
in the shadows,
just waiting
to make a name
for
themselves.
Poets,
chewing on pens
and screwing up paper.
They are alone
among many
and desperate
to produce something
just
that little bit different.
Every chord,
every note,
every line
and every joke,
strummed,
plucked,
spoken and told.
Nothing is new,
nothing can grow,
for we have reached
our
full potential
and blown it.
Mothers,
daughters,
sisters and aunts,
all longing
for that
childhood
fantasy,
to be loved.
To be carried away
by a Prince
on a white horse.
But inevitably,
sitting alone
night after night
crying
into
a chocolate bar.
Fish,
staying clear of the shore,
they’ve no intention
of growing legs,
for they
resent evolution.
And me,
frequenting back streets
and crack alleys
under the shadow
of darkness,
in an effort
to avoid you,
in an effort
to avoid myself.
In this world,
which spins
out of control,
turning
the first night
into
the last day.


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