Ramona

You know how it works by now! Here’s some more shitty poetry I wrote whilst taking a few moments break from dull, vaguely immoral SEO; at the minute it doesn’t really matter that what I write is good, so long as I can keep writing. After all, I cannot consider SEO as real writing but, instead, the bastardising of pre-existing information – a parasitic form of advertising.


I attribute such meaning to the rain,
which slips between my finger and coils
around my knuckles.

Wash away these bloodiest of stains,
Oh, Dyeus! Who remains to call out your de nom,
to sullen skies like these?

Who stands to waste their breath on your personas,
On Zeus and Tyr and such victorious dead?
These waters lash at blackened asphalt,
like whips against scarred black skin!

I listen to these impact and say your name, Ramona,
for simple purposes of love and grief and rhyme;
I dream of you, and we fight a crippled Nordic Lord,
and we swing at the empty air in place of his limbs!

A glass ceiling shatters in my distraction,
And I consider that which I could have been;
anything but who I am.
A stencil, a stamp and a silhouette,
guilty of a personal zeitgeist!

2014-12-16 01.04.26
You know you’re having a mind-numbingly uncreative day when taking a picture of a pair of jeans laying on the floor is the very best that you can come up with.

And I lose myself, again, in monotonous action,
and monotony and reflections in a computer screen,
empty of meaning; as if there was any other!
With my flesh I pay my debts,
and I give myself away in view of wet streetlights.

And I lose myself, again, in daydreams
and falling, running, screaming nightmares!
You, Ramona, dancing ‘neath my eyelids,
and making desperate leaps from good intentions.

As the road to Hell is nothing but a stream,
with occasional paving like sinking ships
of consciousness and the illusion
of human rights; to buy or sell.

I listen to the storm as your footsteps,
and touch the window pane,
as though it were the flesh of your thighs.

And I’ve paid my debts,
with meat and breath and time!
And you lie there, closed against the dulling highs,

Of that, which you claim to be love.

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