Poetry

Her Life defined by the size
 of potatoes in a supermarket trolley.
She opens her battered purse
out of shape from the coppers of life,
viewed with despair from eyes
 embedded in the bags of time.
 
Self-esteem abandoned in discoloured trainers.
Her contaminated cheap cider mind
still clings to the fog of that special day,
when she gave herself to him.
 
The doll that came to life
In dreams that found a prince.
Sweet anticipation was the nectar of being
and forever had found immortality
in the quest for life.
 
But this flower was envied by the weeds
jealousy was rife amongst the onlookers.
 The detritus who once shared her life
now whisper their poison into her veins.
 
Jealousy is a lonely place for them
and hate cannot spell love.
For love is a need beyond the individual
and evil must walk alone.
 
She was s a bride of the damned
Immersed in a punk rock dream.
But dreams turned into nightmares
and she was spit on
by the culture which became her jail.
 
Anarchy came from the womb
obedience came from poverty
and know your place came from the hand she loved.
Silence was now her existence.
 
Daddy never told her
fairy tales have no god.
Her prince became a frog
a drone who hated is lot
and she became the witch that trapped him.
 
Made him the victim of Grimm's tales
Which cast him down the yellow brick road
of unbrushed teeth and brown.
 
Whose fists shattered the crystal ball
of happy ever after,
 to be baptized in the liquid sea of Stella
and pools of emerald vomit.
 
To bite this apple needs no witches poison.
Addiction is anonymous as a wave on the ocean
knowing that death will come when it reaches land,
knowing that this is the fate of all refugees
who abandons their lifejacket to oblivion.
 
We are all jumpers cleaning the windows of tomorrow
hoping to avoid the ledge of life.
 Though in our hearts there is a desire
 to step off into uncertainty
for we all crave that moment ,
when we are truly free.
 
Some will leave this life in anger
others will give their life to peace,
these are the survivors.
But the victims
The Jeremy Kyle’s entourage
will strip their soul one petal at a time
In the act of do not remember me.
 
We are all born into fairy tales
the dice of chaos decides the memory.
And for those who take the time,
take the time to see the artist at work,
will recognise the beings that walks past us every day.
 
The stranger who buys the small potatoes
With a purse full of coppers.
Spending what is left of their existence
In the supermarket that we call life.