Something Clichéd About Summer.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more sticky and more desperate.

Violent winds shake the acrid smell of hay,

And summer's o'er-stayed by the second date.

My eyes have to squint to behold your face,

And its not the shine divine of your span;

Nor a simple stare to liven the chase,

I'm just scared of the glare from your fake-tan.

Summer must pass swifter than all seasons,

Or parch each tree to a sterile splinter.

In you swing with no escape, no reason,

With more death than spring, more pain than winter.

So long as you cling, clam, suffocate me,

So long the drought extends because of thee.

Fauxtograph.

All precious tones don't have to glitter,

But those pixels mix a pretty picture.

Close my eyes and count to twenty-three,

Dark deafens screams of an artist empty.

Escape from this fools gold fantasy,

Faithful, disappointing, drowning belief.

Twenty-one, Twenty-two, Twenty-hurry.

Bleak Nerves.

A brush with death, so the devil's lies sold.

Close? Too far? The demon's in the distance.

As my blood abandons this sinking ship,

Over razor rocks stood like broken teeth,

This vessels soul owner ceases to be me-

The sails are snapped and skeleton shorn,

In the end the Wood belongs to the sea.

Hot air shakes me at the death of the storm,

And a bitter taste remains, laced with pain.

Freedom's flown, leaving me and me alone,

A slave to fortune, to you, to the sea.

Setting out sanguine and ending the same,

Each journey's made with intrepidation.

This mortal toil is path independent,

Whatever your route, same destination.

An inch is a mile when life is apart,

Each heartbeat drops at destiny's mercy.

Everyday's another dance with decay,

And each scrape is just another embrace.

So 'A brush with death?' flap my limey gums.

'I'm dead in the end, was dead all along.'

Dem-acrostic.

First they came for the culture,

Unelected, blue feathered vultures,

Condeming us to dock and dole,

Keen on the regime of reversing roles.

Third person Tory genocide,

Hypocritic oath - How rich?! - They decide:

"It's tough times for everybody

(Save the caviar please Jeeves, more classic hegemony)"

Castrating the few avenues,

Of complaint, we're left with no truth to choose,

Now where do I get radicalised?

Down beneath the 'Big Society' sign?

Exceptions reverse the rules, or try,

Mowed down by tanks towing the party line.

Now disaffection's the plague, the flood,

Above all, beside all, there will be blood.

Third person Tory genocide,

Ignored by the ignorant, patronised.

Only power exists to prolong itself, to protect those few.

Now the poor have come for you.

Hyperdermic.

Sex injects like local anaesthetic.
Moans and screams become my new aesthetic.
Intimate? More mutal masturbation.
Co-operotic asphyxiation.

After every binge are the same remains:
Empty vessels, bad taste, dead cells and stains.
All thought is burnt in the flames of desire.
Indulgent guilt the ashes of the fire.

Like orgasmic organic opiates,
Addiction-cum-withdrawl post-infiltrate.
The deception was the touch of lips.
My lap weren't empty 'til filled with your hips.

The only cold turkey is probably me,
To retire restraint even just for a week.
Not hard to 'have not' what you never had.
To win to know you'll lose is fucking mad.

Now, my cravings sing for sterility.
The absence of interaction for me.
Inmate? There's a vacancy in my place.
And I prune all expression from my face.

(Now all that remains is anger and hate...)