In The Scheme Of Things

gutless form of

grey flannel

and bowler hat

tapping briefcase

with finger

pencil callused

autocratic directions

of how the

shapeless should fit

tailors chalk on cloth

decisive lines

to trim or sew

mouths stitched so

neatly shut

limbs severed so that

the fall of material

should be so suitable

old money new money

contra entries

that become the washerwomans

laundry

in colonial towns

with brighter sun

and sweated brows

grey flannel choke

and soft eton tones

cruciform stretched

with benefits denied

g&t cold pink lemonade

taking canapes on landscaped lawn

take a bow doff your cap

grateful for what you

don’t receive

inbred subservience

of the golden age

long shadows

keeping us in the dark

mouth torn open

begins to shout

blood on lips

blood on tongue

strike a match

to cauterize

and light the beacon torch

flannel shadows

cannot keep us hidden

or denied

we have voices

as we are many

and you are few

 

copyyright Chris Lawrence

 

 

Where Have I Not Been

Hi everyone , sorry if the fluidity of this blog has been intermittent , i have depression anxiety and stress a trypitch of confusion words halt before they have been written etc i will not go on too long as i know i am not the only one and some of you folks have struggled in a similar way.

Focus is a funny word as is motivation neither i can give definition too at the moment , but i wanted to be honest with you all and keep you in the loop , poetry will resume after this brief intermission as will other writing of mine, the blank page will be a friend again but be assured i love you all and will be posting things that catch my distracted mind, so i go and look at words mix them up and hopefully ….. well you know , so long as i do not choke as they go down

Take Care
and all the best
Chris

long night after flesh (world poetry day)

fog
a thick rope about my neck
tethered me to harbor wall
goat to oceans sacrifice,
behind obscured
lights and windows of those
who do not feel this way,
having taken the bus
found myself here,
bagged empty bottle
at my feet,
if any cigarette’s remained
i would of lit one
tasted toasted tobacco
tongue on teeth
chin to chest,
dark swirl foam
nymphs invite embrace
no fear in my heart
not the the fear i had felt
before she touched
fingertips before stepping
out of the door
with him,
closed my eyes wished to fall
forward and accept that
deep fate,
yet i flew
leaving behind the wall
and those if they had looked
would of observed
me leaving

 

World Poetry Day 2014

cumbria caravan , eastern view

20130728_163412.jpg

Cumbria, holiday

Chris Lawrence Phoneography

4:30am

spelltime hour of silence

light defaces the sky

and sun confronts glass,

i am a discordant instrument

out of tune,

field and track make profiles

in the light,

rabbit flashes white tail

crows beckon with raw calls,

everyone is sleeping,

alone without cellphone coverage

or far reaching internet,

my problems an essential alphabet

to be categorized and processed

without many answers,

flushed with a sense of panic

brighter light folds about me,

besides dad gone since january

people move about my head

reaching for my attention

often stumbling,

sipping coffee

i asked them to be patient

my service was slow

attention would come

from the sleep abandoned

most awake now,

allowing the light to reach my retina

but there it stopped,

inside was still a bleak landscape

of whatever,

and i had not cleaned it up yet

 

poetry , poem

Solitude Music With Flowers

nudity dark and profound

thighs run with dregs of wine,

face and lips lift to light,

pour handful of tablets

into palm and fern fingers

from the cabinet,

her happening not vague or bland

she was on a road of melancholy thoughts

no guide or shelter,

emptied glass of bristle bent toothbrushes,

rinsed and drank,

clasped in different thoughts,

skin of breasts still dreaming

it was a blue shine happening,

she could not remember

if she locked handle on the door,

anger had stirred the piercing arrow

no horror in or upon her,

she now smiled,

he would be left with her frantic perfume

as returning to his job,

salesman dialing pointless nine to four,

ache and throbs descend,

she was not impulsive or feeble

the cafe had been a good place

where they had kissed in a moments flutter,

ease lifted torment

clarity cast it’s leaf litter,

in the sun she shall be now

assured of what went before,

be able to tell her friends

that shadow had gone,

her beauty could bite and gnaw

at the most innocent man

and score his heart with deepest feeling,

despite water and medicinal taste,

in her mouth salted peanuts,

close her eyes,

nourished by how jealousy mocks,

dresses and goes out,

covering those sky burnt eyes

In Solitude

that light blue evaporated,

moisture particles

dried to nothing,

leaden grey replaced

with a burden to

bow shoulders,

oppressive in a way

that coherent thought

is lost,

cast glances to the

mountains ,

no illuminant offerings,

bench on lake shore

offers expansive views

that mean nothing,

as vile twists of

darker serpent has moved

in my heart,

thickening the beat

to a slow thrum

http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.co.uk/