How The Street Found Us

We all used to smoke, the kids don’t know that. It made us feel like cowboys and we listened to the Rolling Stones when they were cool. 

Back then we were drinking too much cheap brandy, burning weed in tight rolls and wearing too many colours, but life was short and you only ran once.

And no one wrote stories about sober old men, no, our heroes lived short flights through burning crimson skies and died in lead thunderstorms.

Our mamas would call our names but we’d get as much of the streetlights as we could before we had to eat.

And the laughter it carried our souls into the African setting sun through the dust and the smoke of every hard day. Back then we counted these moments like currency and paid for every second of our short lives.

   

The Cold Distant Hope

The poet on the balcony puts the freshly lit cigarette into his mouth and drags deeply. On days like this he begs for cancer.

He remembers a young man with hope on his lily, white-washed brain, he would be one of the free, those who take on the world and win. But now look at this, living in the flat where he was born, with a failed marriage and kids who don’t even call.

He knows better now. He’s in the greater percentage of unfortunates for whom life is just the misery between getting smacked in the arse by a doctor and dying surrounded by strangers you once called family.  Fuck it he could improve the situation right now by just climbing over this rail. 

He never does, like most he prefers to die slow, so he goes back to get his fill of shitty TV, food from plastic containers, and discounted booze. And the ass-hole on the screen makes a joke and the poet laughs cause that’s what’s expected and he laughs until he cries because the whole world is fucking empty.  

The Beast That Was

We didn’t let him in but he was amidst us before the whiskey lost its bright red glow.

The type of man that saw the inside of a leather room and wrote stories on his skin.

He order venom, the bartender obliged, and paid with silver coin.

We talked like strangers until the bottle got our tongues then the beasts came out.   

He was here to take his cut of the sweet hell we found in the distance.

Gold dust and honey that melted on the naked bodies of the iniquitous.

No one was about to hand it over not without their last breathes

And when the smoke cleared

Amongst the broken glass and sunlit bullet holed corpses

The stranger made away with what we cared for most. 

A Short Story About a Girl on a Train

In a train without destination, on a day such as any, I saw her. A calm centre of swirling rush hour madness; she clung to her man, illuminated by the buzzing florescent lights.

I caught a glimpse in her eyes of something truly remarkable. It had set sail across oceans and reached out to the heavens and it came to me; men had died for this, thousands would go their whole lives without even coming close.

The train rolled through the dark city that couldn’t give a fuck and never knew the thing to save it was in her eyes, because she was in Love. The type of love that broke down, opened you up and spread like rivers of colour.

And the hearts she touched would forever be changed on that day, because they shared her joy. A joy looked upon by the envy of angels.

Living on Sandy Soil

She left the home she abode, longer than her memory, And crossed the bridges burnt by others to get to the place she needed. There she found great hardships and difficulties to overcome. There she planted her home in sandy soil And carved a life from the tree that grew. It was there she found the peace and joy she once thought only others knew.

Of The Colourless Dreams We Shared

We found hell in a beautiful place.Where the sun shines through sparkling dust. 

It made him pull the teeth from his face, I understood; that’s where the need grows and the spider lives.

As long as there was gold to be poured into our brains, setting pleasure alight in every nerve ending we owned, a million mad soldiers could march up our spines.

In the crystal darkness of a one roomed flat we lost our way searching for the first time the juju gave us colourless daydreams.

We lay in that cold wet place of such hazy agony and I knew he wouldn’t make it. I put my head on his chest to listen for his heart to stop beating and howled for his lost soul.  

I have a message for you

We as a generation will be judged by future generations, its up to us what history will say.

There is a potential for greatness but if we don't fulfill that potential we will be know as the generation who played Pokemon for two weeks one summer.

Worse yet we are letting down our children and yes every child is our child as species.

You may be religious or Atheist, rich or poor, you may be Jedi; our differences make no difference in the face of one fundamental truth.

You may or may not believe in climate change or equality for all, but You must believe in the future.

You must believe that we as a generation have a responsibility to leave this World a better place than we found it.