Saturday, 2 December 2017

Tattered King on a Brick Road, a poem by Adam Common, poet

Well worn, the bricks aren't solid colour,
Their standard terracotta insides show,
Hinting at many dark, obsessive hours
Spent painting yellow the miles long road.

Who laid out your chaotic cobblestones,
Your impossible looking layout,
Bending thoughts away from a need to rest,
Casting the surrounding beauty in doubt.

After all, there is nothing but this road,
This winding way through hills and growling woods,
Whose path must not be left; Can not be left,
'Til an end that must be reached for ill or good.

In the distance, I see the tower
And all that lies between us on the way.
I see the man; the tattered, bandaged man,
With his paper crown and skin stained grey.

I see the puddles of rusty rain,
Set to stain these worn white shoes ruby red.
I see him crouched, brush in hand, stroking the bricks
'Til he would deem every yellowed stone repaired.

Wednesday, 29 November 2017

1. Wilder Kids & 2. Quieter Kids, a poem by Adam Common, poet

1. You’d lift your skirt to your knees
To make the climbing easier.
Your hands were rough,
And your face all smudged up;

Grass in your stupid hair,
And in my stupid hair.

We were wilder kids, dumb ‘n dopey,
Smarter than the smart, because
Just because. And we could run,
And fight, fly, and fail, and fall.

And man, didn’t you show me
How to fall the hardest.

***

2. The crash and wallop turned ache,
The longer kind of unhappy days.
Your skin was cool
And your face all washed out.

Tired, you slept days away,
I waited days away

And we were quieter kids, sad and sorry,
Drifting ignorant, because
Just because. What did we know?
What hope could hope provide?

And man didn’t you show me
How hopeless I could be?

Saturday, 25 November 2017

Down by the river, a poem by Adam Common, poet

On a flat-broke day in Spring,
I skipped sideways down the hillock
To search through the busted back of
A burnt-out stolen Volkswagen,
Once dumped unceremoniously
Down by the river, next to the tree.
I found a wet, old raz-mag,
And a bag with the bones of a dog in it,
Which made me quite upset,
I sold both to some other kids,
And bought myself a "Caramac,"
Which I'd never tried before
And tasted so sickly and vile
That when the company went away,
I celebrated with a Dairy Milk.
Year on year it sank deeper,
Collecting rain, and new tossed treasures
In its spacious, family-sized boot.
Like a time capsule it filled, until
I skipped sideways down the hillock
And found a hole, partly filled
With gravel and river water,
And giant tire tracks leading away
To a place I couldn't follow.

Wednesday, 22 November 2017

Frogs, a Lovecraft inspired poem by Adam Common, poet

Nice things include sunshine and flowers,
Whose beams and petals can be poisonous
To both men and frogs.

Bubbling skin presents in the first case,
The light of day anathema to our lives,
Proof that open sky rejects us all,
Without preamble or prejudice
Shining on through matt or glossy skin alike.

In the second, the pretty leaves tempt,
Flexing those skin-like cups in mockery,
Welcoming us to touch. To taste. To swallow.
She mines the bowel, growing roots that corrupt,
Branching out her death elegantly.

This way, I appreciate my enemy,
His glazed, inhuman eyes familiar
Through our twice shared vulnerabilities.
Somehow, it allows me to kill him better,
Knowing just how very alike we are.

Saturday, 18 November 2017

Click, a poem by Adam Common, poet

The night ends with each sombre click;
I am blighted; hung up on, sad and sick.

They tumble around the tenebrous muck
That clouds the evening; giggling kobolds,
grave goblins all gathered among my junk.

There, you doze. Right there, swimming in it.
Madness abundant, and you're sleeping as if
Nothing is happening, because
Nothing is happening, and I find that
So hard to understand.

Your fingers curl around the sheets,
And your breath comes deep and heavy;
Growing peace from peace
Like it's so simple to do,
Like tiredness means closing your eyes
Can make it all go away.

They twirl.
One of them laughs suddenly.
I jump.

My brow is plowed earth cresting a rise,
Mouth pressed and pursed in to the mattress.
The tingle and ache. The cold air.
The cringe inducing touch of wet hair on
My back, my neck, my face, my thought.
The all-overs leak all over me.

My stomach criss-crossed with the map
Of creased and crumpled sheets.
Still, nothing is happening, because
Nothing is happening, and I find that
So hard to understand.

They tumble around the joyless dusky mire,
That shades the morning, cackling gremlins,
Simpering sprites, digging through my clothes.

The morning comes with a sombre click,
And I am sleeping; exhausted, sad and sick.

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