Life’s a Gas (This is Inert)

It’s noble
Like Argon, Life’s a Gas and we’re inert
Together
A creative Hindenburg, I asked you to combust
To Inflame me
Overstimulated with your hydrogenous,
androgynous smile
The one I would come revile
I exploded
Disfigured and unsightly
Naked as I was

Your disquieting muse
Walking and Smoking
Stagnant Filaments and fuses have smoked
Lights out and you’re disquieted
I failed to adhere to the rules, rules, rules

As T-Rex said “it doesn’t matter at all. Life’s a Gas”

Mushroom Clouds

Image by Jonathan Ducruix

The Quiet New Born

“His name was Alexei”

They mourned

 

Under a silent sigh and a cobalt streaked sky

(no stimuli)

The lights of every city run away

(no laughs)

On the last train out

(no cries)

The inconsequence  of 100 Billion Lies

 

Under a treacly black dome

Tracks should rattle 

Where a vacuum inhabits

 

The space and time 

Where fleeting fits 

of joy


Loved and boomed

Lived and bloomed

 

Now button-pressers prattle 

Hush: Ignore the reasons.

It blooms.

LONELY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STATION

“I would rather participate in Life than write a 100 stories” Thomas Mann

Lonely in the middle of the station

Sitting, waiting, watching, observing, yearning

Intensely private and privately intense 

Attempt to ignore a flicking flux of state 

As I get up and make my way to Platform 8

 

My static and solitary peregrinations

Cyclical deliberations

 

Looking and longing for destination that doesn’t exist 

And never will

 

Three-fold a thousand souls

Wildly eclectic 

Serenity in the hectic

 

Hungry for truth 

Yet an appetite for ignorance

Rumbles and persists.


[Untitled Hedonism Poem]

Dreamt up loosely last night. An unremarkable poem with most capital of “U”s. Hopefully, it’ll evoke a feeling or mean something to you. Or not. Irrespective, enjoy and a belated Happy New Year (though I’m sure you’re tired of well wishers etc. For another time…)

 

Failures and Foes

Arrogance cascades 

Eternal Woe; “Shut up. Attempt to get laid?”

3am vomits upon your door 

The shimmering rotten core; adored!

 

Who’s grotesque? You are?

I am; They call me eternally slow

Gaze naively on as you vacuum lines of blow

“Beauty in things exists in the mind which contemplates them.” 

I see nothing.

Winner’s Blues (An Olympics-themed poem)

Following my post surrounding a certain Olympics-themed poetry competition I created the poem you see before you. I think it exudes a certain, trademark melancholy stamp  of mine (Or not at all?) hence the unlikely uses of “lament” and “chantry” as well as the title itself etc. Enough rambling, please enjoy…

Additionally, the legacy of 1948 refers to London’s hosting of the Olympics (for those who didn’t know, I didn’t) which arrives full circle again next year.

Finally, it should be noted that I’ve already submitted this poem. Any would-be copiers, I admire your audacity, but you can’t use or modify this (Everything else operates under creative-commons though). It’s terrible anyway. Thanks.

Nick.

Winner’s Blues (Legacy of ’48)

The antithesis of sedentary

Commentators lament me

100 metres; Watch me flee

Down the track

Embrace the hackneyed: Don’t look back.

 

 

 

It’s a celebration of life, albeit with strife

The first place prize: What is happiness,

Without the struggle, without the pursuit?

Making off joyously with the loot is merely

Indolence and Indulgence.

 

 

 

Crowd’s cheer is Rhapsodic

Yet all I hear is a Requiem

As 40,000 leer

In the Chantry of the Stadium.

Rise and swell, rise and swell; Sport a Chantey.

Broken the record, now retirement.

 

 

The final sweat furrows upon the crest of your brow

You ask yourself: Does my hubris permit me to pull

One final bow?

 

 

 

That was London 1948

Now a late Octogenarian

Who’s met his fate

Seated at the back

Looking back

 

 

Worldwide endorsements

This one will feel resentment

Scaling new heights

Is it sportsmanlike?

 

Deprived of losing, Winning does not enrich the soul

The duality of your roles.