Recovery

More then bruised, more then battered
She left this one with scratched lens
All he could see in himself was her reactions
The sigh as she looked him up and down
But these made him forget the fundamentals
That in life the quality of the self has little bearing
On the eyes people use to gaze at you
It’s how you wear the threads life deals you

It’s a Saturday eve at the gathering place
The gale obeys his order and bursts the door open
Each step, each passing glare creeping below sunken brows
A flare signalizing his presence
Cementing his right to occupy this space
With the artists, the models, the glamours, the glyphs
But did he really do anything to elevate himself here?
Or did his body decree it? And we all choose to listen

The slime starts to melt and the clay starts to petrify
He’s collected every fragment of what he’s lost
The looks and chatter start to matter again
When you discard the means to their appearance
He’s a titan, he’s become his own goddess
And if the world is blind to that grace
He’s taken the clerics responsibility
To make his appearances an event once more

While they chase the marble clad faceless idols
You remove the mask and wear the cracks like jewellery
No façade, your a damaged vessel
But you move through Midgard as any force would
You’re not an example of defeat, but of adversity
If you stand here any one of us could

Anything you see me as is a part of the trick
But I’ll take a lie as a means to inspire
Like all Nephilim I exist in betwixt and between
I’ll shine brighter and justify my placement in your stories

—————————————————————-

This poem was written to be preformed by a trio as followed:
Female
Female
Male

Lnc0

If You Like Man

It’s your funeral man!
I’m not saying their aren’t perks
As you hook your talons
On the collar of my shirt
As I begin the insurmountable task
Of unlocking the my front door
While a squadron of gin and tonic
Puts it’s paws over my eyes

But you have to know right?
After the light show of glares
Like a scene from The Birds
As you gather another Rum and Cola
Those aren’t looks there for fun
Or to imply some childish jealousy
Like the landing lights of a runaway plane
They’re warning sirens

And count me among them
The demons are still there
He has a name and a face now, sure
And they even give you the means to subdue him
But he’s far from gone you know
And all it’ll take is to cross him once
And he’ll be glad to come out and play
I’m destined to break your heart, you have to know

But like I say, it’s your funeral man

Lnc0

You Have To Want To Help, Therein Lies The Problem; You Don’t

I bid them adieu
I say sayonara, au revoir
As everyone who kept close
Starts to board for smoother seas
They’ve grown so tired of my shit
They don’t have to say
Especially in the current climate
Where I take a look away as a stab in the back

It’s always a bad prophecy
Like a siern’s perish song
Any resemblance of affection
Always destined to change
Under the blood moon’s ray
Into venomous slurs and bile

I see your attention fading
A sure-fire sign
I know it’s gonna sting
So why prolong it?
I always bombard you with tragedy
Your loved ones put a price on my head
Objectively I make your life worse
So why not rip the band-aid early?
So you can avoid any guilt
I’ll just get it over with and tell you to fuck off

There’s no prayer that can save me now
I’m too deep into it now
Drop the flash grenade
And head for the hills
Cos once your marked
It’s impossible to wash it away
And it can only end in tears
Unless you really can save me
Keep an ear out for my cries
Douse the fire in my soul
But I know you’re all the same
If it’s not an obligation to domestic misery
It’s the flipside: a full-time infatuation sceptical
A much better use of your time
Then to be used on a lost soul like me
So don’t get my hopes up, stay away from me

Lnc0

An Excuse Not To Try

As I take another sip of the local suds
While you sit me down at the back
And confess to me your packing some extra baggage
A Diagnosable mindset with a name you can’t pronounce
As you look at me with doom and gloom in your eyes

I can’t comprehend how I’m going to live the rest of my life
With this shadow looming over me at every corner
It won’t get better, it won’t go away, it can’t be cured
You can’t threaten to leave it’s milk out of the fridge till it moves out
My life is ruined with this monkey stuck to my back

But just Imagine if Mr. Organised succumbed to the same mindset
Threw that job application for Dreamworks into the shredder
And handed in his resignation from the local film college
Because he knew he had to live with himself forever
He’d stay awake at night, toss and turning as if he was in a grave
Because he knew somewhere in West Yorkshire
Some plebeian decided to order their The Who CD collection
By year of release but made a calculated error
They put “The Ultimate Collection” before “The Very Best Of The Who”
So what’s the point in dreaming or making something of yourself
Because he’ll always have that image of that crime scene of a shelf

Imagine if Mr. Acne succumbed to the same mindset
Smashed that CD-r with his demo tape on it
And broke the band up before their début charity gig
Cracked the fret of his guitar in two
And slowly unlearned all the songs he’s written
Because he knew he had to live with himself forever
He’d lock himself up and stare vacantly at the walls
Because he knows after everytime he smeared that cream on his face
The new prescription medicine that guarantees clear skin
It’ll just grow back during that brief period
Of running out of cream and going to the pharmacy
A grave 10 minutes of walking down to the local Boots
Not to mention them whole entire SECONDS
Of applying the stuff two the 4 spots that remain after a shower
So what’s the point in dreaming or making something of yourself
Because he’ll always have to check his face every now and then

Imagine if Mrs. Quavers succumbed to the same mindset
Burned up the 300 pages of her novel
Stopped going to her book club every month
Threw out all her favourite books into the ravine
Fed all her magazines to the dog
Got rid of every thing in the house that has words in it
Smoked everything in the house that has a story to it
Because she knew she had to live with herself forever
She’d stay home from work and pace through the halls
Because she knows no matter how she spends her time
Every 4 hours she’ll crave for another packet
She’ll have to endure the pain of filling out the stock report
While tasting the disappointing husk of saliva
Everytime she walks into the cafe at lunch break
With another packet instead of a Freddo bar
She’s never felt so ashamed in her life
And she’ll have to trudge back home in the rain
Because now she’s 40p short of getting a single home
So what’s the point in dreaming or making something of yourself
Because she’ll always be thinking of the next packet before lunch

You can throw extreme’s at me all you like
Slather them all in the sauce of your sarcy tone
But it doesn’t change the hand I’m stuck with
Your Skitzofinniky, I’m Boretistic, and Mrs. Johnson has a Peg Leg
Those extra percussions are no doubt an annoyance
And the way our labels are like Abra-Kadabra
They can turn you into a three legged puppy in peoples eyes
If life can stub a toe, our’s can break their legs

But when has that ever been an excuse not to try?

As Preformed By Domestic

– Lnc0

It’s Hard To Watch People Squirm

Slumped with your pelvis pointing to the heavens
On a forgotten park bench underneath an oaks slouch
Caressed by the fog on a humid spring afternoon
I spot a familiar wince to trigger the mist in your eyes

There isn’t a grimoire in the land that could scratch the surface
Of the inner workings of the roulette wheel in your head
The one that decides how your going to see the world today
The one that despite all the drugs, steals control from your hands

Oh but I know that dice roll all to well
I was born with the same game of chance in my cortex
All I ever wanted was to let you know someone understands
I just wanted you walk the streets with a smile again

It was never an intention to be a pylon in your path
I just hoped maybe It’d steer you away from any more aches
But you just plough through me at top gear, as if I wasn’t there
Just to make your way to the next pothole to fall down

Oh how it ties my gut into a Shroud knot
When I see you shriek in pain from your pedestal
It’s an impulse to feel a twinge of guilt
Maybe I could’ve taken the bullet you aimed at your head?

What do I have to do to get your attention?
What do I have to do to not receive the palm of your hand?
I can’t be your distributor of impulses on the side
Is that all I could be for you to listen to me?

I never ment to make you cry
To make you lose your mind under the street lights
I just wanted to see these things though
I didn’t want leave you alone without knowing I tried

*Written For National Poetry Month – 16/30*