reecenerdify, The Essex Writers' Circle

On the cusp. [Glitzy (Glitchy) Paradise Part 3]

Some stories need to be told.
I’m not saying this has to be an ode…but you need to recognise the path we are on.

We were miles away, deep in to something bleak and unforsaken.

Such strides have been made, objectives surpassed, promises fulfilled.
We must be close now, surely?

I have nothing beautiful to offer.
But, my honesty and truth? It will have to suffice.

When we get there, if we get there
You’ll understand how worthy this will be.

I’ve made too many sacrifices in the name of my own delusions.

But the world we’re approaching, it will give us our honour, integrity and purpose.

We can reclaim what is owed to us only if we have the courage to seize it.

For opportune moments are only grasped by the righteous.

But wait, hah! I’m getting ahead of myself. Woe betide, we will self-destruct if we follow these traits.

We have belittled ourselves for too long. Believed in a transformation that arises only out of luck and leisure.

But this path that we stride on, relies not on hopeless devotion or desperate pleas.

For when we arrive on that evergreen hill and the gateway beckons us in, we will be released from this world of resentment and recklessness.

From a world that prizes it’s destruction as something pure and organic.

“Here he goes again”, they say, “chasing falsehoods and foolish dreams”.

But I did not squirm my way through the Lancastrian workhouses to tell you this. Nor did I swim through the murky Celtic seas to face your scorn.

For when my journey is finished, we may not have our truth.

An alternative will be offered, with a chance to return to our youth.

We’ve all seen our reflection, but none of us know what we look like.

Could we right our wrongs and restart our failed chapters?

Or will my path end like all the others, in a dark but final rapture.

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reecenerdify, The Essex Writers' Circle, Uncategorized

The Delinquent’s Dance

The gathering has begun.

A ceremony of delightful beasts.

The crimson sunshine once elevated our heart.

But now a thick smog suffocates the peace.

 

As the traffic lights flicker from scarlet to amber,

You wait for an end to this awful slumber.

Trench lines of scorched Fords with many charred Hondas,

A blistering inferno awaits us, as the demons cackle with their cameras.

 

The climatic froth simmers towards the surface.

The sewers crust over with such acidic purpose.

This arena has been sealed with our hawkish volition.

A bystanders curse, apathy’s very own admission.

 

The conjoining of the red sea floods this principled vessel,

As they channel the anger inside, a great tunnelling begins to nestle.

Starved of tranquillity, we’ve consumed our grim fairy tale.

Blamed for playing the victim, their path of villainy is destined to fail.

 

As the crescendo alights, a mesh of colors fills the air,

Black Eagles and Rainbows descend above us,

Symbols of past and present, giving us that ferocious flair.

 

To spectate doesn’t simply vindicate.

But with the remnants of reason cowering in the corner,

Our descent to savagery grows ever closer.

 

Gone is the soapbox with openhearted minds.

We have a new audience of a more evasive kind.

Happy to watch the darkness devour us from within,

“Just in time for tea”, we say. Its the 7pm bulletin.

 

Jungle, parliament or rally. Barbarity is omnipresent.

The element of protest has vanished.

Their passion for disruption is anything but pleasant.

 

The guttural sounds of hate boom from this tattered stage.

This war for our minds…was it first fought on the page?

Like puppets on a string, ‘like freaks on a leash’,

We now dance to our own apocalypse, all logic has ceased.

 

Once the tingly tears have cleared the horde,

And the road has been choked of all hope.

Onlookers cry for more blood.

The search for reason has become a joke.

 

This spectacle alienates our heart.

Makes fools of humanity.

So the answer is to be further apart?

Now that is insanity.

 

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Epiphaneotos, The Essex Writers' Circle

You are my final point, yet to come

You smile,
and in the darkest hours of the night,
the stars start to shine.

The kind of shinning
that even blind people
can see.

The kind of shinning
that reaches the soul,
not the eyes.

So I close mine,
and I feel the warmth,
of your bright smile.

You are my greater love,
you transcend everything,
you transcend everyone.

You are my perfect,
imperfectly perfect,
transcending imperfection.

You are
the void
inside of me.

I am filling up the void,
with words and punctuation,
drawing landscapes of letters.

And with every sentence,
every semi-colon,
I am getting closer to you.

You are my final point, yet to come.

 

 

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Epiphaneotos, The Essex Writers' Circle

This one is for my fellow Essex writers

We came together a long time ago,
but I can still smell coffee in the air,
hear your chanting laugh,
feel your burning eyes looking a me.

We were there from the start but many joined us,
performing their poems,
sunset behind their back,
standing in the middle of a stairway.

We wrote those words,
in the intimacy of our bedrooms,
at the mercy of the wind in parks,
by the sea hypnotized by rolling waves.

We gave ourselves to the words,
asking nothing in return,
but one perfect transcending verse,
that would change everything.

We devoted our nights to our muses,
our pencils loving them,
bringing them to life,
or burying them alive.

We fought our darkest demons,
danced with the devil,
but always went to bed alone,
writing not to get lost.

We walked side by side,
not necessarily knowing each other,
but bound by the unspoken promesse,
never to judge or reject.

We butchered poetry more than once,
tried too hard or too little,
so sure about who we were,
so desperate to be someone.

We grew older and life pulled us apart,
but we are the Essex writers circle,
and we have a book motherfuckers.
Thank you Ossídio Gaspar.

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