No Salvation Only Sometimes Comfort

No Salvation Only Sometimes Comfort 

We live in a sprawling museum of taxidermy and photo prints

Where everything is fake smile

And profile pic

And we don’t look good

Except when we’re posing for mementos of holiday bliss

Under waxwork fake tan

On an artificial beach

A glossy spectacle of

Signifier and surface

Where nothing is really gold anymore

Sure, we’ve got fools gold, gold plaiting, rose gold

But these aren’t celebrated for what they are

But as what they might be mistaken for

We live on the surface of the world and get buried in its pores

Beneath its plastic surgery addiction

Its concrete implants

Because everything is plastic now

Even money

Even gold

No more authentically a forest than a teak panel

No more bark of ugly face

Everything is whitewashed

And made-up

And faux-designer

And we all know we’re better than each other

So I stay inside my artificial ecosystem where

There’s a million channels to flick through

A million sites to visit

And still I suspect none of them will hold the answer I’m looking for.


 

THERE IS NO SALVATION FOR ANY OF US THE SLAVE PROCESSION CONTINUES ON FOREVER

THE WORLD IS ROUND FOR A REASON: SO YOU CAN RUN FOREVER AND INEVITABLY GET NOWHERE

 

AT LEAST IF WE CALL IT HELL WE’D HAVE SOLACE IN KNOWING THIS IS AS BAD AS IT GETS

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Full-Body Goosebumps

Listening to the dulcet voice of my generation cooing

At the crying child of our future doing an impression of nature

I wear a bespoke suit of full-body goosebumps.

My eyes would overflow their eroded banks if clean water weren’t an issue

But it’s 2018

And it is,

And my blood would spill outwards a free mosquito banquet

If someone else didn’t own that too.

Every day more horrendous acts in the name of reason and science

And only art to dress the wounds:

A little girl crying in her room googling how to make her skin thicker

How to build a mask out of dead cells and crazy glue

We’re all artists!

Especially when we least realise it

Because the best art is uncontrived and flows naturally in and out of the heart without conscious effort

We are all artists and that may be the only redeeming face we wear

The only thing worth leaving carved into this blue planet

With the strip mines and potholes

As if the earth were ivory pre-1989 and free to own, sell and scar

Businessmen are lauded as artists for excellence in their field

Tools of devastation are considered works of art

A murderer practises his sordid art

We name our kids after artists

And we name our art after disasters

Because everything horrendous still must have a name.

 

Rose Gold

Rose Gold 

rose gold is 75% gold

21% copper

and 4% silver

and I thought that was pretty good

but you just looked at me, deflated,

your hand rusting in mine,

with opal disappointment glinting in your eyes,

and said you wanted something purer

than the 18 karats I could muster

Holding Sunflowers by the Throat, or, What Do You Put on a Flower’s Grave?

Sunflowers poem

 

Sunflowers clipped and put inside

In beautiful, expensively bought vases

Where they die

Vases gilded with images of life

Daffodils, lilies and fireflies

Nice things that rejuvenate the room

We bought into our own lies like falling into the tomb

We read we can regrow life if we take it so that’s what we do

We grow in haste and are apathetic of our waste and throw away anything with a bruise

We uproot our lives on a whim and move, we’re drowning in freedom and hate to choose

It’s killing me to be human, in this world where we define ‘win’ as ‘someone has to lose’

Each tread’s tentative step avoiding minefields we must travel through

My collar getting looser and my soul’s aura, my whole mood, becoming blue

I am a sunflower in a lightless room

I am a curse held on the lips that don’t dare budge or move

I become violent to myself because it’s the best way to control the pain’s deluge

And stand on lilies of stability the water level threatens but can’t seem to move

I go to work and work away my youth for nothing special but the generic run of truths

A roof over my head, a mortgage I’ll prostitute any beauty I have working to serve

Until I’m an old dead flower with my roots pulled, shaken free of dirt and preserved

In a book somewhere, the years best worker and producer of value, the most well-trained serf

When I drown in oil and water and waste I’ll sink below the tide of junk

And live on the roads in the ocean’s floor where new species no one ever sees grows

I’ll give my body up as fertiliser and I’ll leave sunflowers to live their life alone

28/6/17