Poetry Blog by Twilbury Wist

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Jason Bayliss on Shooting Angels (Sat, 31 Aug 2019 09:39 am)

Anthony on lost and forgotten souls (Sun, 14 Jul 2019 09:17 pm)

Martin Elder on lost and forgotten souls (Sun, 14 Jul 2019 04:14 pm)

Anthony on Absent (Sat, 13 Jul 2019 11:47 pm)

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Jason Bayliss on Absent (Sun, 7 Jul 2019 11:55 pm)

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Lisa C Bassignani on what you do (Sat, 8 Jun 2019 01:08 pm)

Don Matthews on what you do (Fri, 7 Jun 2019 10:21 am)

Wide open spaces

Why does this 



And revolve 

Around minutes 

Dripping and squeezing 

And ticking and tockimg 

And oozing 

The very life 

And soul 

Of the party 

Which seems 

To offer so much 

And show 

So little 

I mean 

Take Sunday night 

For example 

I long for that 

Machine of your 


With peddles and paddles




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the fallen

Listen to 

Your prophets 

However they may 


Listen to the 


Which blow inside the tower

That is 

Your mind 

Listen to the rain 

The wind 

The snow 

The mountains 

And the trees 

And if you can’t 


At least 

Stop talking 

For a moment 

The sea is the sea

The sky is the sky 

And somewhere 

You can float



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Shooting Angels

Shooting Angels


Most of us

We try

To scratch out

A living

With our broken bics

Blood and ink

Dripping meanly 

In a vague attempt 

To trace the idea 

Of a future

From somewhere 

Deep inside

And paint it 

Against the world

With its cruel way 

Of crumbling dreams 

Just before 

We reach them

Or wake up 

Or both


And we struggle so


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The Mirage

We all live

Within a dream

Of ourselves 


Our inner mirror 


Very differently 

To its weaker counterpart

The one 

Made of glass

Our inner wardrobe 

Very different to the one

We we wear for real

Our inner voice 

Almost unrecognisable 

To that poor 


We hear when 

It plays 

Back to us

On whatever 

Modern technology 


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and we burn

Some kind of madman

Over the mountain 

Shakes his maracas 

Beats his drum 


And sniggers 

For he knows the 


Knows the delights 

And the dangers 

And the tightrope

Cares not an instant

Or if he does 

Wouldn’t show it 

So he crashes and thrashes

And breaks those below him 

Beneath him 

Around him 

Smashes their canoe

Causes wa...

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And I bleed

There is no 


There are no 


You walk

And watch them 


You talk

And you see their 



Hear their lips


But understand 

Not a word they


Though the sounds 

Are familiar 

The sincerity 

Is heart felt as 

Long as you 

Don’t care


To feel the


I don’t know

What I’m 


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lost and forgotten souls

We are all lost and forgotten
We all crumble and break in 
Even and yet
Disproportionate ways
We mainly 
Set out to 
Tread wisely 
With shaky steps 
And we all want a
Bit of privacy 
As long as it’s hidden 
By noise 
Until it’s so 
Noisy and 
It’s time to complain 
Short steps 
With long legs 
Are rarely 
And we’re all 
Shouting at the mirror
Expecting it ...

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So a man walks into a bar. But there is no bar. He orders a drink from an absent bar man and stares at the tiles where a toilet used to be. He thinks, 'I drink. I piss. I am.'

And he stares at his empty glass and at the porcelain. There is nowhere to go and nothing to see so he closes his eyes.

He thinks, that maybe prayer would be a thing he could do now. But he has no religion or faith or ...

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nothing to cry about

There is nothing to 

Cry about 


He’s gone 

He’s done 

And spent 

And all the old pictures 

And all the old words 

Which stampede through my mind 

Like a rambling herd 

Are mud and dust 

And spent 

And yes

We caught you 

On our phones

So you live and breathe

In monochrome 


And maybe it was suggested 

That’s easier 

Than a black ...

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what you do

Although it is not
Up to you
Which thoughts
Appear in your head
You are in
Of what you do
With them
How you shape them
And how you allow
Them to shape
Is in your hands 
For we are all malleable
And although
This makes us 
It is only the 
Plasticine people
Who melt
In the glare
Of the
Dying sun

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Not made for lifting

I have to get ready 

to put a man 

in a box and 

maybe we were made 

for boxes

and maybe 

we weren’t 

And maybe 

my shoulders 

were made for lifting 

and maybe they weren’t 

But either way

There’s a hole 

in the ground 


A god in the gutter 

And somebody 


Was looking 

At stars 





It wasn’t 


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stuff and nonsense

Some people
Tend to do
A lot 
Of loud 
I don't know
If it's the clomp
Of their shoes
The pomp of their
self importance
Or the constant
Hurry and rush
Of getting 
I hear them
Stamp stamp stamp
Stamp stamp stamp
All day long
And I wonder
What it says
The state of
The insides of 
Their heads
And their pent up

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