substance unseen

 

it’s the unseen evidence that matters the most
like the fear in the heart at the thought of a ghost
the edge of the blade is truly a fear
but the thrust on the handle is far better to be near

self inflicted praise

self inflicted praise

the gushing power of vanity
exceeds the vacuum of deeds
and words cascade
over the lip of an empty bucket

pitter patter

oh, the pitter patter

of shitter shatter

as we all pontificate

on what does not matter

real makeup

 

the scars of life are real makeup

superficial beautification

and cosmetic surgery

is no more effective than polishing a corpse

 

turned furrows of pained failure

bring deep beauty to the surface

cracked, exposed earth

ushers in a kiss

…the breath of life

 

a broken heart

beats more tenderly

and though it limps it knows full well

that remaining untouched and inside

brings no reward

 

for real life to begin

death must first knock

but if the door remains shut

who can speak of fellowship?

 

to paint the bows and never set sail

is like locking the rudder

in a becalmed sea

for to be painted

requires the boat to leave the water

 

rather to have loved and lost

than to live with abandoned desires

rather to walk with a limp

than to run swiftly in half forgotten dreams

I am me

I am me, that’s who I am
I can be no other man
and if I die before I live….
well,… that’s showbiz!!

sunday had no sun

today Sunday had no sun
we didn’t do much but the day was fun
the clouds clouded and the rain reigned
and shady puddles trickled down the drain

tomorrow is a day of sorrow
for those who have little life to live
but for some of us with stuff to do
there’s always plenty still to give

returning rain

 

the wind plays a new tune

the moon whistles back

pitter patter moisture drops

trace pathways down my back

 

the tides time is turning

the levels ebb and flow

the season’s filled with seasoning

around again we go

more thwart

I took the time to sit and think
of what it is I next could drink
and as I sat and thought some more
I spilt my drink upon the floor

Lloyd Martin 3.1.13

we can’t trust beauty anymore

we can’t trust beauty anymore
we’ve been lied to
and we’ve liked it
we’ve loved it
and it’s become beautiful
we couldn’t see its ugliness anymore
and we hated ugliness
so we turned our back on beauty
and now we lie
even when we speak the truth

 

24.12.2012

towards the choir of silience

converse

conversation

to talk informally with another

or others

to listen and hear

to exchange views and opinions

agreement and disagreement

movement

towards and away from

to advance and to reverse

a dance of harmony and dissonance

conversion

to turn around

to repent

or endorse

towards the choir of silence