Poetry Blogs (fame)
If your art is good, as it feels in your bones
You will become known
Long after your ashes are sprinkled
And all of your senses are gone
Particularly if you cut off your lobe
Or choose for yourself to end it all
Note scraps reveal queer love affairs
Poems show in the rubble of fallen walls
Fans will become obsessed
Frame you in the brightest light...
Friday 26th October 2018 10:35 pm
I'm ok. Overworked and underpaid.
But what's it to them, they have it all made.
I'm tired and pained but if it wasn't for the gain,
I wouldn't be out slammin out here jammin like it's fame.
If I knew what it was all about
In the end would they pay out?
If i saw through all the lies and the cheats,
If they didn't cover our eyes, mouth, and nose with the sheets,
And we saw what the money...
Tuesday 3rd July 2018 1:28 am
The flow I enjoy to come and go,
As I please with or against the breeze,
Like water flowing without the resistance,
Of opportunities for autographs or selfies
It is the privilege of the obscure majority,
To live without resistance to our liquidity,
To not owe every gratitude to new found difficulties,
I don't want fame, let me stay a minority.
Friday 19th May 2017 9:01 pm
She drags tired heels
across a tainted floor,
poise slightly bowed
and her back is sore.
She holds on her face
a cold marble stare,
a hard life engraved
upon cheeks once so fair.
Her faulting movements,
once graceful; divine,
her aching limbs now
with guile, defy
her final performance
on this dark empty stage,
of a much better age...
Sunday 28th June 2015 9:36 am
You made yourself famous
And then what did you do?
You grabbed a lead hammer with both hands
Smote the thing with all your might
Saw the pillar crumble to dust, then
Shrunk from the strobe searchlight
Danced with the lowlifes
That flanked the waste ponds
Then revelled in all your failures
Trailing ragged, bleeding
Across the frozen hinterland...
Sunday 7th September 2014 9:15 pm
The breath had left her, not long ago.
Her face, pressed into the pillow
Drained black tears onto white linen.
Her fight had been lost; the long battle had ravaged her
And her iconic war paint scrawled ironic defeat in tracks
Down her pale skin onto paler sheets.
A motionless husk; as she lays there;
Her raven hair, unravelled from familiarity,
Fall's delicately on her back,
Friday 15th February 2013 2:27 pm