Pick a broom, sweep leaf garden maker
Rake a smile in time for mischief, mischief taker
Happy in the aisle, a breast busting belief system
Children bursting parasite wisdom
Normally abhorrent sapping beasts a glory of creation
A stammering emotional plethora of masked madness
Must grow up and be part of an organised boxed community
Flown away to misery, slammed on a sledge to cracked heart divinity
Feed to the mammals all furry and hungry
Cardboard chewing in the mouth; tears shed and screaming
Tread on shells of eggs to avoid conflict
The war is in the heart
December 21st Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright 2014
Dark in the Park
Pumping heart, slowed with every emotion; flattened and gasping for air space.
Room to slip a tear duct washer; a bleeding lonely resistance.
To open closed cupboards, full of dust and time.
More exposing than a rock of rage
A carved monolith of ideas, chiselled into a broken spirit
Frail as a butterflies antennae; blasted inside a vacuum.
A stream of desperate scavengers peck at the chicken breast
Tearing the last gasp of meagre meaning from street bound balloon salesman
Sweep on the greenish-grey waves crashing on the rusty bars of a spent retainer
Gasp for ear space as splashes merge skywards
Bricks crumble under the weight of petrified corpses
Corrupted conditioning dictates falling growing, flying, blowing misery
Powerless excess sapping the genius from the groins of ordinary beings.
Organised law schemes beat well-meaning intent,
Eyes gorged in soap opera conditioning,
That recycle torment with antagonistic daily struggling slagging matches.
Setting fire to bonds of political justice
Not known, just outcast
Besieged and stranded
Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright 2014