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Matthew Miles Poem
The street lights switch on & so does my head,
From my mind flows prose, compose, no time for bed.
Who knows if those thoughts are chose to come again,
No time to doze, put on some clothes & grab yourself a pen.
The dawn breaks & so does my stride,
Thoughts turn to dust in my mind,
Another artistic vampire, the creative undead,
Time to return to my coffin, my bed.
Here lies the great day sleeper,
Known to few, respected by none, most thought him daft,
His heart burnt bright with the love of his craft,
Fueled by the fires of passion & drive,
Doused with a lack of any real substance.
R.I.P.
Redemption In Poetry.
Copyright © Matthew Miles | Year Posted 2010
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Matthew Miles Poem
He says, anger brings him to peace, He Lies, Always sleep in fits, Lying dormant begets
clean slates & reversed states, blessed are they that believe that they are blessed, states
reversed & slates clean begets dormant lying, fits in sleep always, Lies he, peace to him
brings anger, says He
Copyright © Matthew Miles | Year Posted 2010
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Matthew Miles Poem
We are gluttons for each other,
We are insatiable,
We are irresistible, indistinguishable,
We are sin, sex & soul.
We are Ultimately Satisfied.
We are mutton to most,
We are lamb to one,
We are as one,
We are broken when alone,
We are Utopian Serene.
We are breakfast, lunch & dinner,
We are every snack in between,
We are every course of intercourse,
We are always hungry,
We are Utterly Saturated.
We are forbidden fruit,
We are delightful delicacy,
We are lustful lovers,
We are star-crossed sinners,
We are Unbridled Sensuality.
We are bloated, reeking of each other,
We are feast scented,
We are overweight with passion,
We are cumbersome with lust,
We are Undeniably Sore.
We are gourmet connoisseurs,
We are squeezing out every sigh,
We are lapping up every last drop,
We are gorging on today, on us,
We are United Souls.
We are US.
Copyright © Matthew Miles | Year Posted 2010
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Matthew Miles Poem
It's not when I'm asleep I dream,
It's the stages in between,
The moment just before waking,
The drifting before repose,
When fleeting seconds which with I gamble,
When the mind is allowed to amble,
Through the childish thoughts & tangents,
Through odditys, obscurity & madness,
Between dreaming & thinking, oh what a team,
Between you & me, I remember no dream,
Longer than it takes me to brush my teeth,
Longer still than that I bet you remember thinking thoughts,
Precisely this is why dreams are special they're thoughts you could not think,
Precisely without inebriation, drugs, alchohol & the kitchen sink,
Insane thoughts
Inane thoughts
These are what haunt me in the zone between slumber & regard,
These things these euphoric jaunts into the surreal & marred,
I don't dream of power, success or wealth,
I dream of pretty things like coconuts in stealth,
Parroquets singing barbershop to girls who have no hair,
Robot polkadot girly dudes wearing nout but underwear,
A friend is now my lover, A lover is now my slave,
I'm chased, I chase an abandoned & forgot old knave,
Who earned my ire & my wrath,
By failing to take a bath,
In a land where water doesn't exist,
But drinking honey gets you pissed,
A snake slithers slowly, seranading sirens shout support,
I take my mothers kitchen knife but quickly am I caught,
Before I get to slice into my favourite memory,
Dreams.
Dreams of transport take me from myself to another dimension,
Dreams like these are precisely why I fail to mention,
My own works of the deranged mind when at a party it is said,
"My oh my, I had the weirdest dream last night"
But I don't dream, I think, or atleast I think I think,
But if I concentrate on the thought i lose it in a blink,
It's like that chinese finger trap,
It's harder still the more you try,
So keeping a dream in mind is harder than most things,
So you might aswell just enjoy it whilst it lingers,
And then I think of the thoughts that I am thinking,
And then I'm brought to sobriety,
And left with my boring normal mind,
And that is less fun.
Copyright © Matthew Miles | Year Posted 2010
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Matthew Miles Poem
I'm not Deranged just Derailed,
Deraptured with the Devolution of Angels,
The Devilization of a Nation,
Decorum Demands that I Devalue individualism,
Some Decadent, Dilenquent, Despot shouts
"Our hair must be black!"
"Our hair must be pink!"
Displaying our inner inability, denial to think, for ourselves,
And this juvenile notion,
Will take a while floatin,
While we stand smile gloatin,
With a clan of vile showthings,
Definately stupid,
Definately wrong,
Definately Deafening with our Different songs,
Decensored & Desensitized,
In a De-axised world normality is now abnormal.
We Delve Deep into Different ways to Display our Desperate Demonstrations of self,
A country of Deadbeats with credit card debt to nike,
A thousand like you,
A thousand like me,
Wave goodbye to individuality,
In matching gloves.
Surely we see?
This rebellious Unity?
Unlikely.
If we're all SO different,
We're all the same,
Any other interpretation would be insane,
A United Unhindered generation of Undertakers,
Caring for rebellions now defunct,
Just wearing a mohawk does not make one a punk,
Find your own voice,
One that's unforced,
One that's your choice,
One that's your course,
Unfullfilled with an Unfullfilling Universe we Unwittingly Unite in Uniform,
Untying one set of bonds to Undertake another,
Only now pledging Undying allegiance to Unwritten social rulings,
Seclusion is the only Untainted place where one can Understand, Uninfluenced self,
Under supervision only Unlife and Unself exist.
Bright Pink sheep.
Copyright © Matthew Miles | Year Posted 2011
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Matthew Miles Poem
Pretty little flower,
I could pick you, pluck you, pervert you.
I want to I do.
My bud, blooming, blossoming beauty.
But would you whither, wane, wilt within my sweaty clutch?
My greedy need for your scent & touch.
Your fragrance stifled by stale smoke & cheap cologne.
Your fantastic form drooping & listless from preening & jealous custody.
Like all the rest, would you rot?
My desire to have or my need to have not?
No little flower, I'll stay a picker but for one so perfect as you,
I'll stave the perversion, stay my wandering hand.
Sit pretty little flower, Till the next picker comes.
Copyright © Matthew Miles | Year Posted 2010
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Matthew Miles Poem
I can't cope with copacetic,
A life of compromise seems to me pathetic,
Without completing dreams, I can't gauge my worth,
So with arms raised high, Eyes shut, I fly out to mirth,
I find myself flattened quickly against a glass ceiling,
Now a budding career in retail seems appealing.
Copyright © Matthew Miles | Year Posted 2011
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Matthew Miles Poem
I haven’t wrote to you since you went to war.
In fact much longer before you started that tour.
So I’ve taken pen, whilst you took sword.
But right now I don’t feel it’s all too mighty.
I’m struggling too much to strike a chord.
And I wonder if over there you even thought you liked me.
Remember when we used to play war with sticks and twigs,
For giddy kiddy kicks and gigs?
I fear I may have made that too fun for you.
Cause it was my imagination your enthusiasm used to tire its legs through.
We used to fight a lot and not just for pretend.
Both of us took too long with toys we’d lend.
In our angsty teens we tore the seams.
And we were both too busy trying to be men to learn to sew.
It was your mum who told me you’d enlisted.
It was for the best you always lacked that discipline she insisted.
And I agreed.
It was my mum that told me about the funeral.
Said your mum wanted me to go with her to meet your coffin still.
And I couldn’t.
Copyright © Matthew Miles | Year Posted 2013
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Matthew Miles Poem
Another numb citizen anaethetized to atrocity by forever exposure,
Another perfect being being perfected under the knife of celebrity,
Another beautiful animal lungs & fur stained black by industry,
Another blunted soul mind mundaned by menial labour,
Yet another poet, throwing numb, perfect, beautiful, blunted prose to the wilting world,
Praising the invisible she with recycled words, Hailing who knows who through the smog of
society with his attempts at lucidity.
Copyright © Matthew Miles | Year Posted 2010
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Matthew Miles Poem
I can see myself in a few years,
Drinking with a ghost,
I’ll take a magic marker and trace my outline on a mirror,
To that dark border I’ll raise my drink,
The best and the worst of me,
Crux and credibility,
Least or most?
Shadow or ghost?
I pray that there will be two outlines, rather than an outline and a ghost,
We can both drink to that.
Copyright © Matthew Miles | Year Posted 2011
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