bars or stars?

Spotlights cage

Autumn girl, gift of the fall,
copper haired and peppered,
stood naked in the gaze of his bulb rimmed mirror.
pale and pleated her pinches of flesh,
limply hanging on his ivory framework.

Sick of silk and the powdery palms,
the cumulonimbus that rise with applause,
and the burning streams of light that rain down upon her.

Canary calls and creakings,
the hollows of trapped breath,
joy drowned out by symbols,
OD’d on sweet sounds.

She’s had her fix,
the princess of the pendulum,
now daddies crowds are going to pay,
he’s sprung her once too often,
torpedoed to the sky,
in his overblown bubble of canvas.

She oils her skin, running in tears,
and slips on her sparkles and ribbons.
broadcast her alias, into the light,
she stares down at her father and smiles,
not even the stars can catch her this time.

Second 899

Ignored by the roadside diners you pass,
catching you naked through frosted glass,
she’s hailing shadows, the widow of stars,
with her trespassing fog lamp fingers of class.

Trickled down backwards message of child,
rapidly scrawled as you flattened her toes,
the temperature plummets, the degrees you dialed,
they’re reaching you now, over empty rows.

Exhausted your fame, still lead to believe,
your high on the fumes you once received,
kid yourself, with your infant ways,
now drowned in the soup of the latest maze...

8oyband X

Unphased by the scars of stars that pass,
their masts and wires built to last,
swollen the cheeks and smiles on screen,
black teeth broken, words scrubbed clean.

Tracks that cripple your natural bends,
scribe tapered verse to whip the lens,
a stolen pose for the public’s devour,
still-life moving the Polaroid hour.

Bled out of your mind, hyped into their sight,
force-fed by suits to showcase your flight,
destinationless journey chartered by screams,
ascent just a catapult, sponsored by dreams.

X-rayed trash, a joke to behold,
exposing consumers desperate for gold,
stitched to blue collar, the gods of fame,
writers of rules to their own abstract game.

Innocence jacket, hooded by lace,
housing the self with disposable face,
rotational allies, a sign, kiss and seal,
a Russian roulette with a copper lined wheel.

Pinnacle of starlight, scouring the pit,
for inspirational sawdust, to feed back to it,
weaned on itself, naive to the quick,
beaten the real by it’s own jewelled stick.

The beautiful bullet

A twenty second spear of command codes,
wrapped in smiles of perfection,
the third person, an ideal self,
an acknowledged ambassador,
to escort the standard, of marching dreams.

Unchaifed and adorned by the paper people,
he has no back to stab or bite,
just a universally endorsed,
freeze-worthy face,
strap lined to the screen.

A pack shot of the eleventh commandment,
exhumes a vacancy on the shelf of everything,
the Achilles' heel of the kitchen,
a hole that without plugging,
will rust armour from the inside.

Such holes keep appearing,
they crawl in through the tube,
camouflaged in white noise,
and take refuge on the ledges of materialism.

The largest of all,
the muslin voids that constantly cry for fulfilment,
repeatedly drip fed the smallest of plugs,
are the holes the ideal self punches,
directly into the psyche,
in a Trojan horse of sights, sounds and stolen emotion.

Fragments of light that sculpt behaviour,
rendering ensnared by branded banners,
those that pray at the armchairs altar,
eternally patching up their punctured lives,
from the double positives of charging gods.

A flutter by night

So what do you know, a slip of the pen,
and the straight folds of serif, fly at your hem,
a page in the press, that cries for response,
folded and turning, it races the pulse.

Too quick to fill in, a keen call and clip,
columns of gossip, from greased tongues will slip,
fulfilment a fragment, of what’s kept in store,
dispatch spawns a demon, that screams out for more.

Tear in the papers, guardian and star,
where the ink seeps in gutters, and the new’s stuck on tar,
running in tiers, the words that were wept,
back between covers, reality was swept.

Re-opened by strangers, that gather the waste,
if knowledge were poison, how good it would taste,
the words that were swallowed,
by the damp reddened rings,
bleed outwards to form,
black butterfly wings.




Spotlights cage Autumn girl, gift of the fall, copper haired and peppered, stood naked in the gaze of his bulb rimmed mirror. pale and pleated her pinches of flesh, limply hanging on his ivory framework. Sick of silk and the powdery palms, the cumulonimbus that rise with applause, and the burning streams of light that rain down upon her. Canary calls and creakings, the hollows of trapped breath, joy drowned out by symbols, OD’d on sweet sounds. She’s had her fix, the princess of the pendulum, now daddies crowds are going to pay, he’s sprung her once too often, torpedoed to the sky, in his overblown bubble of canvas. She oils her skin, running in tears, and slips on her sparkles and ribbons. broadcast her alias, into the light, she stares down at her father and smiles, not even the stars can catch her this time. Second 899 Ignored by the roadside diners you pass, catching you naked through frosted glass, she’s hailing shadows, the widow of stars, with her trespassing fog lamp fingers of class. Trickled down backwards message of child, rapidly scrawled as you flattened her toes, the temperature plummets, the degrees you dialed, they’re reaching you now, over empty rows. Exhausted your fame, still lead to believe, your high on the fumes you once received, kid yourself, with your infant ways, now drowned in the soup of the latest maze... 8oyband X Unphased by the scars of stars that pass, their masts and wires built to last, swollen the cheeks and smiles on screen, black teeth broken, words scrubbed clean. Tracks that cripple your natural bends, scribe tapered verse to whip the lens, a stolen pose for the public’s devour, still-life moving the Polaroid hour. Bled out of your mind, hyped into their sight, force-fed by suits to showcase your flight, destinationless journey chartered by screams, ascent just a catapult, sponsored by dreams. X-rayed trash, a joke to behold, exposing consumers desperate for gold, stitched to blue collar, the gods of fame, writers of rules to their own abstract game. Innocence jacket, hooded by lace, housing the self with disposable face, rotational allies, a sign, kiss and seal, a Russian roulette with a copper lined wheel. Pinnacle of starlight, scouring the pit, for inspirational sawdust, to feed back to it, weaned on itself, naive to the quick, beaten the real by it’s own jewelled stick. The beautiful bullet A twenty second spear of command codes, wrapped in smiles of perfection, the third person, an ideal self, an acknowledged ambassador, to escort the standard, of marching dreams. Unchaifed and adorned by the paper people, he has no back to stab or bite, just a universally endorsed, freeze-worthy face, strap lined to the screen. A pack shot of the eleventh commandment, exhumes a vacancy on the shelf of everything, the Achilles' heel of the kitchen, a hole that without plugging, will rust armour from the inside. Such holes keep appearing, they crawl in through the tube, camouflaged in white noise, and take refuge on the ledges of materialism. The largest of all, the muslin voids that constantly cry for fulfilment, repeatedly drip fed the smallest of plugs, are the holes the ideal self punches, directly into the psyche, in a Trojan horse of sights, sounds and stolen emotion. Fragments of light that sculpt behaviour, rendering ensnared by branded banners, those that pray at the armchairs altar, eternally patching up their punctured lives, from the double positives of charging gods. A flutter by night So what do you know, a slip of the pen, and the straight folds of serif, fly at your hem, a page in the press, that cries for response, folded and turning, it races the pulse. Too quick to fill in, a keen call and clip, columns of gossip, from greased tongues will slip, fulfilment a fragment, of what’s kept in store, dispatch spawns a demon, that screams out for more. Tear in the papers, guardian and star, where the ink seeps in gutters, and the new’s stuck on tar, running in tiers, the words that were wept, back between covers, reality was swept. Re-opened by strangers, that gather the waste, if knowledge were poison, how good it would taste, the words that were swallowed, by the damp reddened rings, bleed outwards to form, black butterfly wings.


reglaze the maze