Wobble Wobble

My life's a spinning top
Pretty in the
Blended colours and
Kind of neat to hear
Me whirl on the table.

But I need to move faster,
Every second passing I
Need to become more impossible
Or else I'll fall
And you'll move

To play with something else.

Storm Clouds

There's a storm brewing
Somewhere between the pavement
And my feet as I drag them.
The friction burns
Wears down and
Strips away everything
To the bones
Marrow and through.

There's nothing left
In this sea of inadequacy
And I am but a pale
Lie of a man
A form without function
Collared refuse to be
Shovelled over shoulder
With all the white trash.

I am the empty bottle
That houses lightning.
I am nothing of substance
But violence
That disperses only
Through the simplest of routes
To rest in the ground.

Let the thunder come after
Echo through the skies
Knocking the birds from their heaven
Let it flatten every forest
Knock you from your feet,
Shatter every window
Deafen every ear.

Leaving only silence in its wake
And a ringing that cuts
Like razors caught deep
In your meat.

Cigar Ash

My eyes are bloodshot
As morning peaks through
The blinds again.
I sit listening to the music
Of dead men and pretentious women
And I realize that
The only death that excites me
Is the one you offer
As you step backwards
And beckon.

So beckon
Draw me in past the old tastes of
Liquour and plaque caked to yellow.
Past five days of stubble
And bruisy bags under the eyes.
Past the rotten mundanities
Of only living.