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Best Paul Knight-Kirby Poems

Below are the all-time best Paul Knight-Kirby poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem


The sparkle of insanity, a mirror of colour.
A delusion of grandeur sailed in a mast of dazzling eyes to make a meal of mankind.
The pretentious material created to incite the imagination, to gift again from its external and invisible eyes. 
The multitude of colours come again, surprisingly changing within slight movements. Never static. 
Like the rainbow, its mother, filtered through its sharp edges ever so gentle but incumbent.
The relation of captivation with the precious jewels of earth created in the beginning but such little girth.
Like grains of sand, it is born; used on paper faces, even the dead.
A subtle object, aloof and bypassed by many.
A subconscious youth like raindrops in the brain.
A familiarity, a conformity caressing the tips of thought.
Never there but always here. 
An object of mankind, taken advantage of its seemly unlimited supply.
Children play innocently with it, while adults use it to woe the victim into a deeper state of arousing confusion.
An extra device to dilute reason.
I am impartial to your conclusion. 

Paul knight-Kirby

Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

Collective Recognition

Modern day Empire
The same as old,
Man doesn't really have time
Just Inventions and different clothes. 
Still craving our nature the two split purpose,
Consumption and reproduction
All else is conjuring vanity, 
An evolving Microchip of lost perception, a tinted clarity.
Yet we entrapped ourselves into a diamond cast,
Being compounded by every grasp that meets ear, eye and touch. 
Never forget the truth bearing lust, 
that feeling of inner-ness that splinter-hair precision awareness 
And ask the question you've subconsciously locked away
Why are you being and what are the aims? 
And then at that moment your shell will fall apart 
so remind yourself of the real truth the binds mind and heart, 
and roam among your ancestors in the lyceum of endless fascination 
in one's mighty reflection and complacence.

Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

America where art thou

Mankind has been persecuted, slaughtered, raped, pillaged, enslaved, taxed and under tyranny since time immemorial battles have been fought physical religious and verbal and what greater has sufficed from such noble struggles second to none would be the common sense of the American colonial lit upon the shores of the new found wealth an open land of nature worshipping muttered upon the dirt now the empire building nation with its obscure technology and obscure idea’s come manifest it’s destiny upon weary ears poor natives who now live under the Anglo-Saxon sphere poor natives who were given the ringing of bells laughter and cheers of punters that drool around the cathedral  of neon lights and free beers 
Given the choice would they have traded that for the hush sounding swaying of trees and cries of wolves who live among them the otters the beavers to reindeers 
Blessed are those who have ushered the knowledge of genocide for so many years 
But when man has reached he’s step and was given the chance to read.                 he founded his deepest principle he’s most noble and desired needs in the vast continent and empire of the United States beauty and truth behold those men of 1776 leading the world from its canopy of tears and taking their fathers ideas and strife’s and putting to battle what we all know is right a self-evident cause a infused sense of time has come. The providence of mankind is now and one cracks of muskets screams and bayonets blood soaked mud deeper than the darkest claret such compassion confounds the senses what a special great nation it was back then 
Why did the American trade  it’s prairies and untouched heaven and replace it with concrete and the grotesque to build a land for the few to build a farm of financial gain chasing the dollar without it the insane left on the concrete street all bruised battered and in-flamed the land of the ‘free’ the land of plenty silenced never to explain why such beautiful principles lived then and haven’t lived again all beings all one all equal the real American idea understood then maybe a genetic longing built in the history of the soul lost through the mix of peoples who came after the story had been told and didn’t live to it’s meaning or failed to understand that America’s beginning was the American conclusion to these ghastly awful solution and situations we found ourselves in today don’t copy the oppressors be the world’s hero again.  

Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

Fatal Awareness

Bang, Bang, Bang 
The cracks in my ears 
Run,run,gone the silhouette of my peers 
My boots are sandals of mud, moulded like baked pastry 
Time, time, time, was the beating of my thought 
March, march, march, were my orders of before 
Now the battle smoke has cleared and my heart can feel no more
Strains of my friends leave memories upon this ground 
Like ripped soggy tissue, all around 
And I am alone, too scared to make sound 
Too much realization too young to know 
What things I could be doing and what things I should bestow  
What sights I should of seen and what has tarnished the in-between 
The passive reacting cold has taken my future, blemished the soul 
Young,young,young was the age of us all 
Kill, blood, kill was all we had in store
Rapid swirling deaf I see the blood inside
I’ve taken one round and I’ll never survive 
I can see a rain drop roaming down this rock 
It’s the last vision to understand this life I still have got  
It’s harmonic stature it’s peaceful rot 
And here is my end I cannot grip a stare 
I cannot effort my fingers I know I must be dying, seconds to bare 
I don’t know what to do but I am not crying 
It’s getting hard to breathe I cannot feel my toes 
I can hear my mother calling, I muster a smile 
I am surrounded by the loved ones escalating mile upon mile 
A final push of effort understood as folly
Yawn, gasp, then death has taken me to dark 
I’ll miss a many faces; I’ll never ride my bike 
I’ll never kiss those soft lips or feed a little guy 
I’ll never enjoy those things I’ve always lived to buy 
And I’ll never know the future as I am far too young to die 

Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

Lost Generation

We the victim's of incompetence 
We the pawns of vain experiments
Imprisoned by oligarchic, social engine.
Our pains, reflected by gluttonous pride.
Fermenting in black boil bubbling greed
Modern slavery in it's prime, glistening 
like polished diamond shine.
All pretentious, phoney entrapment,
lurking through time,  the ideal system, 
for a criminal eye, the perfect crook, 
filtered on a system it built, it impressed, 
and we undertook, now just mere 
Upon the ladder of fingers,
The shadow composer casting the melody 
of subjugated illusion, laughing at ease, 
gazing upon their resolution.
A famine of needs and desires, tortured 
by the selected lot, who mock as we rot, 
in the mould around the bars of our cot. 
The misleading consequence of 
innocence, of ignorance, of vulnerability.
The digital web of deception, ripples in 
shuddered glee, it's next victim 
screaming, and then hushed silently 
among those chambers of conformity, an 
commodity given a number and then 
freed, for some years.
Next it's taught to adhere to the 
requirement of 'our' society,
Pushed through  any resistance,
Your ADD, labeled and branded for all to 
see, your defunct from a higher form, an 
acceptable sense of reality, the easier 
chores of slavery,
and less material distraction, an extra 
In the sinister sweating perversion,
The passive exodus that moves in night 
and day excursions, fossiled in a lava of 
weary confusion.
We are the lost Generation on a path we 
cannot see, in a destiny that isn't you and 
isn't me. 

Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

Modern Delirium

Perilous addiction hell bent completion deluded cohesion.
Negative infusion feathered motion, spiraling down like a crispy weathered October leaf.
Faded grasp like the winter sun in vision the same but a difference so vast 
The echo of mankind never seldom to my ear, peace of mind never at cheer 
Bellows and bellows of screaming lucid thought crippled by the same resort. 
Wonky leg like a wonky chair bruised battered weakened and loose escaping like vaporing air. 
The ripple of contained liquid just slight but a mystery to the mass I am inclined 
Coned, padded, shut away, forgotten,  a pressed particle of cigarette ash in a dormant 
Hallway corner, 
Noticed by a moment of dust filled beams of light, exhilarating in such short time 
Gone again like black from night the acute jest of life, smashed glass left and unoccupied 
The heart so cold like bitter urine in survival mode soggy chip squashed under foot nobody cares
Nobody’s good. Lost in a cold shockwave of pain thrown to shore different than any other 
Too alien to mention too slain to fear a wondrous maze of capital esteem stagnant in movement 
Pointless art all curved and pointless oh where I am and oh where do I start.
Can I awake can I resound is this reality or is it just another calamity. Insanity gone beyond 
No track to unravel stability of the foundational start, just a implosion of art.  

Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

Ego Vulture

What do you see in the mirror of your reflection? 
your own body, or your own detection? 
or the competition of another...the mindless mind occupy your subjective projector
Confusing, deluding...dreams know more order, dreams show more practical structure
The Ego is your master and you the acute apprentice infecting the weak of reality 
using the close resources to master it's design in your mind
It's built your normality and to question is your own insanity 
Feasting upon your wretched blindfold granting your desires \
it gave you your house, that house in which it made you. 
the fatal awareness that mostly last breaths discover
a touching leap too late too seeped with much too weep 
And by then too little to seek what then shall you do once you see the truth?

Could you even muster your own imagination and destroy natures enemy
Or are you the Anti-persona dripped in your own tragedy rippled and shelled
making a hell of a heaven or a heaven of a hell this is the abundant device 
so rarely fought so quiet like mice so if you unveil this master of tricks 
be sure to find your way out of it like shattered glass you may find yourself 
lost without hope grinding deeper into the oblivion vanishing like air in smoke.

Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

resurrect static

Tap into the art of the unknown magick , unknown by vocabulary unable to bridge a connection 
Lost like trickles of water in the cracks of the next dimension
 Gaping black hole sucking life 
Through the straw of deletion, everything is consumed though time 
With a little to grant fruition, everything is on repeat until the jolt of perfection hasn’t reaped 
Its pole position such confusion has become a daunting pollution 
Unable to reach any conclusion without understanding a foundation 
This structure is without a clue it’s all wrong it’s all off 
The geometry secret has gone beyond our capacity given once but lost 
It’s all here the infinite reply the infinite answer invisible to all 
If browsed by any if ever a any, captivating its mass transparency 
In the splinter of a second one grain of it’s speed the equivalent in weight, of ten million elephant feeds 
Holy imagination laid to rest upon that last moment we like to claim as best 
And then back to ignorance and yet again sucking on the teat of another’s breast 
These are truths of wandering masses running around after materials, memories 
And prideful clashes and what a purpose built and all done before 
It all means no-thing when everything was saw piled on the heap of extinction 
Burnt, vanished, broken, diluted mended and then manifested ashes 
The plethora of our understanding it’s all gone, Just magick.
hints of sorrow and completely tragic. 

Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

The Great Illusionist

The Great Illusionist
You tried to defeat the beast 
But failed to bring them your truth and virtue 
The people’s hearts showed no mercy
The master servant of the people 
And all they did was put you on the highest steeple 
The steeple of shame and dishonour 
The hypocrisy installed its father 
And the whip, its main device 
And now in these modern times 
Far from your glory past 
We are all tamed by the same structure, system and class
Your words do live on though greatly misunderstood 
And now in such worlds divided we are lost 
Lost without our guide and your guidance 
Removed from your whispers and philosophy 
Distilled in absolute silence 
But thank you for trying and being exceptional in your deeds 
We only can take your words though, assumptions mislead 
And when we go about our business as slaves within the boundaries 
Of this order we can only blame ourselves 
For our ignorance, selfishness and cowardice 
We ourselves have clamped our lives 
With sins, troubles and strife 
We put ourselves on the sacrifice of falsehood 

Details | Paul Knight-Kirby Poem

Untouched living tapestry

Pondering in sloth riddled exile, Stained by resolute pixel batter 
Mutilated by idea’s negligent dirty mudded and infested bath-water 
Sharing the extreme imagination contrast reality. 
Panic thrusted full pelt entrusted. 
Money feeds such little it cares 
Freelance breed suffering servant indeed. 
The ubiquitous sleeve hidden and deceived 
Laughing smiles teeth that gleam 
Sweaty handshakes left unfilled and malice built 
A practitioner of harmful concept 
A leveller of nature’s milk.