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Chris Grundy Poem
The ocean of life, enriched,
Then drained. I wish I could have..
My life, full of unfinished ventures.
I never explored the wonderland,
Through the fog of my confusion and
Ended up smiling in the mirror.
The only true friend shimmering back,
He twinkles from my heart,
Into the lucid environment of the languid.
Where’s my ambition? I ask.
In the hands of the sacrificial lamb,
Reflecting out of windows. Unhappy
With myself. Falling apart; my bone
And flesh. Mentally mercurial. There
Is no point, I find as
Shakespeare wags a knowing finger.
The mighty hawk, reduced,
Now, to austerity plus the
fear of the posterity as it
Struggles, wheezes because the stairs
Are too exhausting. The opaque
Elevator fails to work under
These Conditions. Bing: “next floor demise”.
I can run, free as far as I can figure,
With the streaming winds, breathing
New life into the bingo wings of my soul,
Crashing into darkness, drinking
A coke and a knowing grimace
Welded onto the contours of my face.
Copyright © Chris Grundy | Year Posted 2012
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Chris Grundy Poem
Paint from the sane
You could not, you know!!
Thwarted in your own life
We're building a bridge but we don’t have any river
Yes, yes, yes I control sandwich monkey
The American lifestyle
The heaviest touch of the heart, is felt by finger-tips lightest brush
Aristotle understands the importance of seeking a rational mean in a life of genuine virtue.
You blink and its dark out
She could move on like a car past a drifter
Its number two from here on in
Wrong decisions stare back at you
Rather shake a princes hand than spend a day or two with me.
Standing on her parents shoulders
I look down sitting on the ground.
Copyright © Chris Grundy | Year Posted 2012
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Chris Grundy Poem
Its been a while since you, full bodied ink, moved over whitened sheets,
In a large, fluid mass.
Rippling and bubbling, underneath invisible skin.
Deeper and deeper and darker and darker.
You move over the page, and only he who looketh hard and looketh long,
Spies the depth of your integrity.
Dark, scuro, Nero, Schwarz, Navy blue, blau, then chiaro blu.
You and me, dissembrace,
and we go on to greater things.
Hear the whitened call, feel the darkened cap.
Me, back in her pocket, and you in immortals temple sat.
Copyright © Chris Grundy | Year Posted 2012
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Chris Grundy Poem
Emptied a bucket I do not own.
The water has drenched a right few people.
They are dripping, with their eyes pointed at me.
They are smiling now,
Its fake smiles but I don’t mind.
My bucket is empty, my language wets the floor.
They turn their backs,
Walking into the blurry distance.
I wave goodbye and turn my head, and spy the mirror, the bucket has turned into.
A lightning bolt of horror,
Cuts through my core, as I realise the situation.
My bucket is my soul, my water is my heart and now that it is empty,
My heart beats at my feet.
Copyright © Chris Grundy | Year Posted 2012
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Chris Grundy Poem
Existence
No doubt you,
Expected narcissism hmmm?
Cold, silver
waves shout at my arms. My
fat belly is warm under Tartan covers.
My true beliefs,
Are freezing their vowels off,
Outside on the dewy garden grass.
Life is existence is
Hypocrisy is you is me,
Smiling into each other’s faces.
Every one,
Of my thoughts begins,
With “I wish I had…”, Life!
Thy name is narcissism,
Thy name is gluttony is regrets,
Is fear of what potential might not achieve.
What would you do,
If you weren’t afraid? And
Believed in the magic that is every passing blink.
We’re dying,
One second at a time, so
Im going to start dying in style!
Join me,
And feed my belly,
My existence, my narcissism.
Copyright © Chris Grundy | Year Posted 2012
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Chris Grundy Poem
Lightning’s silver bullet,
Rips the hollow clouds to ribbons.
Cold September’s rain,
Soaks the steaming skin,
And calms the beating monster,
that punches through today
Like a plane crashing to ground.
Sitting on the balcony,
The clouds’ tears,
Bursting on the stone to my left.
On beautifully stormy nights,
Like this one,
She animates, revitalizes and
Breathes life’s cold cider through my veins.
The air tastes like a freshly fallen apple,
She smells of life,
Colour and blissful youth,
Like an iced pareos brushes past your cells.
But her bloodthirsty husband,
with dreadful discharge, unaimed,
disavowes her freshness,
and kills his victims,
with silver bullets,
reflecting his grimace.
Still sitting on the very same balcony,
Rushing my fingers, suggestively
Down her legs and up to her leaves,
Enjoying her whispers,
Smelling her make-up.
Come you coward,
Let us see how bright I burn.
Copyright © Chris Grundy | Year Posted 2012
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Chris Grundy Poem
Do you think about me?
Did you think about me when your lying in bed?
smoothing the sheets then stroking your head.
Did you think about me when you go for your walks?
your gorgeous eyes and bountiful locks.
Did you think about me when your watching Television?
Eating pizza, laughing at athletes lack of precision.
Do you remember the touch of my hand on your cheek?
Your eyes yearning your hands reaching, my knees weak.
Our love, can you recall the date?
There was no date, the period of love was decided by fate.
Can you remember the time?
The day, the night, the week, the month, always,
you were mine.
Why did you leave?
Another man did thieve
my heart. Duplicitous lies he weaved.
Not your fault?
Who am I to decide, who breaks the vault,
of my hearts desire?
Do you think about me when your fast asleep, in trans.
We're hand in hand, cavorting through hills, we laugh and we dance.
You lie. I never pass your mind!
I think of you always, please! you must find,
the truth my lover, to me you are obliged to be kind.
Drained me of my love, then led me into the abyss!
I entreat you! Will you please discontinue this.
He never, in the evanescence spent replaced your kiss
Was it me, who paid for your fun?
I was foolish, stupid, naive and dumb,
he was not my soul-mate,
merely a street-worn old bum.
Copyright © Chris Grundy | Year Posted 2012
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Chris Grundy Poem
Love-sick
Like so many things in life, this is funny
There is this girl, I think,
In my mind she is bursting with laughter and over-flowing with love and affection,
Sunny.
She isn’t with me now, literally, two towns separate me from her.
I am junky in withdrawal, I tap my vein, but she is in somebody else’s pocket.
Paranoid.
She says she loves me, but never have I been more aware of the lack of literal substance of words
As they gush, easily, invisibly, past the lips of the person I would die for.
Weirdo.
Its 60-40, I would go further for her than she would for me, in my head,
She says she loves, opposite me, around my waist, into my eyes, onto my lips and along my tung,
Love.
Definition, life is about definition, about our personal definition of everything, always, and
Our calculated manipulations of others definitions of everything, always,
Maths.
2+2 doesn’t make four in love, for me, for her, it does,
Reason and logic desert my body and I become a tool of her desires, she never exploits,
Idiot.
My minds walls turn to foamy adolescence, insecure piles of idiocy and shaky characteristics,
Are a rising and a falling at her every un-meant whim.
Copyright © Chris Grundy | Year Posted 2012
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Chris Grundy Poem
Tomorrow, at the beginning of the treacherous month,
Let it be, let it be the month I work/ of work/ for work.
Let it be the month I face the Aberdeen wind, with a knowing smile,
A confused grin, with brazen abandon.
Let it be the month, I start the year in style.
Lets get laid, because I’m a Nietzsche-reading-animal.
And make the bed and cleanse my room, cause Rousseau knew more than me.
Let it be the month were I lay down the colourful cover,
The colourful sheets, the colourful eyes.
Let it be the month I stay most hardy and the mind conquers the body.
Let it be the month my nose grows black with ink, yet my hands,
Grow warm with the warmth of others.
Let it be the month I grow to be a man.
Copyright © Chris Grundy | Year Posted 2012
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Chris Grundy Poem
Poppy judges me up and down
and takes the smile I force upon her.
She shines back, with teeth decayed and brown,
from under her aluminum bed-sheets.
“We are better together”, she murmurs in my ear,
And I know what she means.
I am ready to re-join the army of flies.
My soul aches but it is my eyes,
that dance around her mesmerizing glow,
buzz.
Unique rivers of pleasure are quaking to flow.
She sits and smiles, precious poppy: “I will never let you go.”
I move towards her.
My trousers sag as the belt is lifted.
She is concentrating, fixed on the program, gifted,
I undress her. The body repulses me but still I go on,
It is the soul I care about. I am a man, torn.
Fulfilment crackles on the silver.
I ready myself, impatient, anxious for her,
and for a cerebral master class.
I could quit this and leave her anytime, fast.
She urges my hand towards the river of Vegas,
A deep sigh, then a smile and a comforting hiatus.
She drips with love and teases me to take the plunge
I lie back and she dances like a Degas.
I hold the brush steady,
Then stab it into the canvas.
Judge me if you want, I won’t care
I won't be able to
Precious Poppy!
Copyright © Chris Grundy | Year Posted 2012
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