Category: Poetry Posts

Each design movement builds from its

predecessor

or reacts against it,

Baroque became the embellished

version of Renaissance –

It kept its fundaments of symmetry,

logic and order but the focus

was on the design elements, these

elements evoked emotion,

                                              energy,

                                                              excitement,

Rococo saw what Baroque did,

swapped its deeper tones to lighter, ethereal

curves and stones

but kept Baroque’s logic,

Art Nouveau became the new

Rococo, materials were twisted

into more loco curves,

its emphasis placed on nature

and craftsmanship,

Art Deco held on to Art

Nouveau’s craftsmanship but

loosen curves’ grip

and dipped into geometric

luxe lines,

But Deco became distressed in

its depression,

which turned into the Great depression,

Its flash faded away,

became Modernism –

Modernism only cared about

practicality and being minimal –

its ethos was survival.

It quickly birthed Post- modernism,

This era tried to be expressive

and decorative, but couldn’t

quite break free of its parents’

struggling hold.

It constantly criticised

Modernism’s rigid doctrines,

but realised all its values

were a reaction against

Modernism, it didn’t have its

own identity. In its anguish,

Post- modernism gave birth

to Contemporary

which brings me back to you.

Sweet Contemporary…

You don’t have one design

that’s prevalent,

You’re a mix of all the above,

But you don’t have a clue about

your history –

You don’t know why you

think the way you do,

why you feel the way you do,

why you act accordingly –

You don’t know the

thoughts,

habits,

trauma

transferred

from

one generation to eventually you

Contemporary,

By understanding the paths that

lead to these trauma replications,

you can start to disrupt this cycle.

Let’s start –

oppression imposed on Deco

lead to

depression in Modernism,

which lead to

aggression in Post-modernism.

So, how does that trauma show up in you,

Contemporary?

What are you attracted to?

What do you run away from?

Are you vulnerable to revictimisation?

What emotions do you to use to

avoid feeling overwhelmed?

Does it help?

Do you miss key danger cues?

Is your focus on the relief rather

the trauma?

I advocate understanding its patterns,

how it manifests and the form it takes –

From there, you can

start the healing process and

disrupt the cycle for

Post-contemporary,

so this little design isn’t

defined or buried

by the family’s history.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We use our mouths and utter

You fucked up

We fucked

I’m gonna fuck him up

For fuck’s sake

Fuck her

But they all mean the same thing

Because once you’re in that state of fuck

Your mind isn’t functioning in this realm

Of normality

As you’ve been transported to a

Construct that your mind can’t

Comprehend;

Can’t ascertain

A place where decorum bows down

To emotions; that the mere thought

Of translating these emotions

To an acceptable form is

Laughable and inconceivable

Where extremities bare all

Feelings penetrate the surface

It draws you deeper

As it rotates around you

Grabbing its hands around

Your waist

Your arms

Your throat

 

And the only thing you can do is

To fuck the fuck

you call me crazy

you don’t know crazy

if crazy isn’t pouring cyanide

on your open cuts

if its calloused claw isn’t gripping 

your collar

if steel shavings aren’t squeezing 

your spine 

if crazy isn’t skinning you like a cheetah

ripping your carcass open;

freeing your intestines

 

so, call me crazy again 

and 

see what will happen 

 

‘crazy’ poem reading video – CLICK ME 

Neurologists are infatuated with the dark matter in the

Brain, philosophise the concept of sparse firing

Love to speculate some neurons are in fact silent

perpetually drift into an inactive state

neurons defiling their main function turns them on

the glossy lustre is enough for them

They claim to love the science, love the whole brain

But seem to always find themselves

debating and thinking only about the dark matter

they dream about dreaming about dark matter

til they become the dark matter

Then they realise they didn’t want to be dark matter

in the first place

 

Violet

I’ve been thinking about this lately 

And how it differs to purple

Both are placed between

Red and blue 

The painter mixes some blue

The colour has no say 

It automatically becomes violet

Instead of purple

It takes on blues’ persona

Because it has to 

A shrinking violet

Mixed with the brash shocks of blue 

Sapphire smoke smothers 

Violet;

Violently 

Sweet Violet,

Saturated in sickness and shame

Begs for a colour change 

But knows it’s all in vain 

It’s up to the painter 

And can I be honest?

It was always my choice 

Hidden within the earth’s grit was an egg;

A perfect ovoid, powder grey with specks of brown

As it cracked, a newfound spring emerged

A tiny caterpillar sleepily opened her eyes

Pouring rain sang down to the primulas 

the colours of the wind painted the cosmos.

This caterpillar was in awe

She wobbled,

She crawled

She crept on these primulas and started her work

She ate these leaves and moved on to the cosmos

This caterpillar grew quickly;

The more the caterpillar ate, the stronger she became;

The wiser she became

The caterpillar burrowed and climbed into trees

Navigated through complex terrain;

She was untouchable to all predators

The caterpillar sighed and looked at the tumultuous sky

‘It’s time to go back home and rest’

So, the caterpillar travelled south to her origin

and abruptly stopped when she saw her fellow caterpillars.

She hugged these caterpillars tightly

She weaved into her silken chrysalis with determination

She was trapped;

Trapped in the walls she built herself

The others wailed and sobbed

They were simply inconsolable.

The caterpillar waited patiently inside her cocoon and smiled.

Once she had disintegrated

Enzymes were released in the chrysalis.

These enzymes dissolved all her tissues into a thick soup;

except her imaginal discs.

These discs used the soup to fuel rapid cell division

She formed wings

She formed legs

She formed antennae

Blood began to pump into her wings

It was time.

She emerged from the cocoon like a pulsating dream

floating on the breeze

She danced as her crumpled wings straightened;

Wings brightly coloured, crimson like a fiery sunset;

Yellow like golden silk; blue like electric current

With white polka dots and coal edges

She floated on the primulas and cosmos

She drank their sweet nectar;

Her proboscis stretched deeply like a delicate straw

Then, the butterfly flew to my grave.

She placed soft kisses on my tombstone

And wiped my tomb with her gaily wings

She rose higher in the sky.

She flew to heaven,

Curling into the sweetest of swirls;

a hypnotic rhythm in every flutter,

my soul was in that butterfly.