Spare Parts

A part of me is lost
Fragments of phalanx rise to the top
In a river of words
Blood splattered lettering
Smudged onto cartridge paper
Thick set and rolled
Ammunition for the brain

Firing rhymes
from the top of my head
Adjectives overflowing
Caressing cinnamon ledgers
Dusty tomes of epic tales
Offset with coffee stains
And sprinkled with sweat

Parts of me are misplaced
Welded to sheets of carbon copy
Skin speckled vellum
Thoughts chiseled into slate
Cold and haunting – unwanted
Exhausted ideas settle within grooves
Burnished in birchwood

Though the fountain is never stemmed
Poems pour forth,involuntarily
Inevitably, without fear
Raw and ready to be moulded
Fusing with my mind
Until possessed and weary
I submit to their will

Parts of me are missing
Yet I claim my soul, my own

One Minute challenge – Accepted!

So I was going to slink off away from the keyboard but I saw a gauntlet being thrown to the floor by Blair King

And well it would have been rude not to pick it up…

So here it is, my exact timed minute poem, straight to the page. I can’t type very fast πŸ˜€


A minute
That’s all I have
60 fleeting seconds of you
Is that ever really enough?

Can a minute really hold it all
in the palm of my hand
and ready to show you
Where I begin

Cycle of Contempt

The glossy pink, drips between the slow decay
Glistening in the light, translucent to the eye
A warmth, humming just beneath the surface
All the while creeping, gradually cracking
Rising to the surface in a multitude of disdain
It’s cascade of vitriol spewing from the mouth
of innocent fissures
Clambering, grasping, gulping for air
as the cool oblivion drones on.
A barren slate on which to start anew
To scratch the hollows of tedium
Furrow the violence
And bury the coruscation
Once more.

Sweet consummation

You melt, on my tongue
The slight murmur as you curl
into my moistness
You sizzle and sigh as I taste you
Closing my mouth tight
around your form

You pop

Against the back of my throat
An eruption of energy
that softens to a low hum

Sweet… intoxicating
Your juice sliding over my taste buds
As I lap up the remnants from my palm
The gentle trace of you
Clinging to my lips
Swept up by a quick lick
All trace of you

Leaving just the tell tale packet of foil

There is an art to enjoying popping candy…

XXX Text

I love it when you text me, as I masturbate
Obeying a slow build up of tension
Your words attempt to exacerbate
Interspersed with bursts of vibration
I love those eloquent virtual smacks
The requests you demand are sublime
The pulsating steps towards climax
The erratic responses in time.
I savour your cheeky suggestions
Smile, when I see you emote
Lap up your rhetorical questions
Indulge in the joy you promote
But to you these words are just frivolous
So my pleasure from you, stays oblivious.

Work in progress

You sit

Surrounded by books

In a chair stained with coffee

Eyelids heavy with the weight of expectation

The floor around you, scattered with scrunched up paper

Signs of a fevered mind, the scribbles of ingenuity, exasperation

Three mugs perched on your desk holding the remnants of last night’s fuel

Yet your words are exhausted, there is but one solitary sentence

Jeering at you from the scraps of an old torn envelope

Your fingertips trace the ink’s indentation

Then you smile, contentedly

You sleep.

Art of creation

The lines move on paper,

shuffling themselves into solid form.

He follows the marks with a pencil,

embossing the surface of a crisp white canvas,

keen to trap the marks before they disappear.

He is asked, often

How toΒ create such beauty?

How does a mind wake, and create?

Yet he is left,

without words.

He cannot describe the sensation

The energy from his mind that travels

down through his fingertips

onto the page.

He can only follow the current,

Sparks of imagination flowing

and burning an image into existence.

From creation to genius

Genius to creation.