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03/09/2017 Edit: Added 2 more 05/09/2017 Edit: Added 2 more 08/09/2017 Edit: Added 3 more* two inspired by working in the basement 1 - Car park attendant As I dream among the crude-smoke silence And stumble in a broken reverie Others jest and jibe my presence or pay no mind at all Walking as a dusk-time dream, forgotten and unreal Nobody speaks of me, knows me well, and yet many judge what they see "There walks the broken dream sleeper, a non-existent man. Do not look into his abyss, for want he may wake to thine eyes" Allow me my humble peace, outside your piteous scorn Do not wake me from my reverie, as woken I am torn 2 - A summer’s day in a car park I am a man of the sand Desolate and resolved. To my back is the sun In front of me lies the dune As step by step, I forsake the sun Even to my dying knees So be it. I am a man of the sand The world shifts beneath my feet I travel in search of chaos And restore order to the desert Even to my dying knees So is my resolve Never take pity of me Though piteous I be I am a man of the sand I herald unto thee 3 - Feudal lord of the concrete kingdom A wealth of depression litters the emotionless floor Set upon it your tears and I shall sweep them away. I am the feudal Lord of misery and my cut you pay in kind Both that which you have toiled and that which you have earned Spend them upon my floors and feed my daily bread The blood of your camels, the dust of your shredded scalp I shall sweep them away And should you come, fraught with misery and bereft of hope To walk along my steel buttress shouting your curses at the world I shall sweep your wept corpse, what remains of your toil And I shall profit from your misery. 4 - Picking litter in the wind In the absence of words, a joker approaches the court He sayeth; A flick, a twitch and a grasp my sweet, Wrap me up in your charms" Quaffing ever closer "A spin, a whirl and the length will unfurl. You'll see, hee hee, hee hee." But as the ladies fluttered red faint And the Lords did voice nay complaint The joker went back to his merry muse A fondle, a tickle into the bag he used 5 - Seventeen shifts in a row The last of my malaise, the ending of my days One more day till days end Ending of days, welcoming of nights Over, over and out Over, what does it mean to be over? And out When out is spent with no waking No time to be owt else Than dusty shoes in down-trodden heat I'm beat beat beat 6 - The application of pragmatic implements for the purposes of combating entropy and disorder within a given space for an indeterminate amount of time. The cyborg assembles itself with prosthesis The audience falls quiet aware of the show The mind dims and the itinerary rolls IF Resolve > Hopelessness THEN Target Triangulate Capture Onwards ELSE Stress Sorrow Suicide Sleep 7 - The eulogy of a pigeon thrown in a bin Limping on our malady laden limbs Heads bowed and bobbing Each searching for a way to survive We're not so distant pigeon and I Unwanted and ubiquitous labourers Feeding from the scraps others leave Do we have dignity feeding our kin When we take what we earn outta the bin I ask myself often as I ponder by How are we different The pigeon and I 8 - The unrepented sins of those too lazy to use bins The cleaner whispered in God's ear a subtle vengeful curse For when the rupture cometh and reckonings be weighed That God remember the meek cleaner and the trouble of his days To cast them down, the lot of them, slovenly arrogant fools Cast them down to hell to dwell and suffer for their sins Those slovenly wretches who cannot use the bins The fools who drop their apples, rotten to the core The dregs of society's aftermath, their needles on the floor And upon the villainous oath, who perjured his own name To take a car park spot from someone who is lame Lament him a world of sorrows so that he may never forget That though the cleaner is silent, the cleaner is God's pet For who inherits the earth when death comes to all Only the goodly cleaner who hath not sinned at all 9 The sky is the limit on the grey waves Where verdant rich sunlight nourishes And time goes coasting by the bays With sand sweeping in the wind Civilisation's regimental iron trees Casting shadows of immensity On Atlas' shoulders a loving cold breeze Condenses stone towards the heavens Stretch out the manor and prison below Resounding bells add beats to the wind And through its flows time ne'er slows As it did when emptying a bin 10Twinkle little broken light Ring forgotten bell Both are my companions When on the stair well No other life ventures (Except the odd moth) To where I lay golden thread And tread, upon the earth 11Of what little I know to impart Of litter picking and art I can at least hold high The telos of art and I As one with a brush And a canvas of stone Tis the scale of our work That stands us alone And though a great chapel In ten years is done The work of my labour Shall never succumb The pollocks of colour On the grey floor Is the one sign of life I am to abhor Not because it stains Nor that it wastes But simply on grey It's out of place 12* Jubilant underworld, jewelled by man-made suns When the world once had sky but now has none I the reverent poet inspired by what? What? The bins, the garbage van, spoiled milk? A true craftsman cannot blame his tools So I must recycle the waste into grace Poetic and true Oh wasted ruster, white and sublime How I owe to you a saving of my time And to you wasted dairy hewn across the floor What an unfamiliar sight you once did implore And that of my last toil, the weigh-laden bin I have nothing to add except you smell bad 13* Today is one of those times
where words don't do justice in rhymes To the stench that pertains from the food it contains On the bays from seventeen to nine If ever I needed a reason to smoke ironically it's so I don't choke Because the cloud of toxins that comes from the bins Is enough to make my nose broke I say you wouldn't believe The gravity of smell and fatigue It weighs you down as you're around Without a moments reprieve But from one man to another I can say without fear of an other Between you and I There's a good reason why I sit on a break and don't bother
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AuthorI write what comes to mind when I think about writing something that is on my mind. Archives
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