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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
Colorfully happy, shining bright balloons
Cloud the atmosphere of my head
And make atrabilious clouds invisible.
Make them more divisible, and
I love them --
-- dearly.
A million lights in my head,
I am in love with nature's song.
conceiving the green, green grass of life,
The sun, eclipsed by enduring
clouds. I look to the heavens.
The birds, avert from their spectacular
songs . The rush of wind, through my ears,
misusing the screeching and
screaming evoking tears,
insidiously alluring balloons.
I'm not a dazzling, bright balloon
I fail to be defined by them. They
brighten up my day and eclipse my sun.
They dance and laugh, when
fate blows favourable spotlights
on the cynosures of my life.
The cadences of destiny reverse,
and I'm alone, standing in the rain.
Only wisdom dries my feet.
Man hands misery to man,
The warming, comforting, celestial
light. Chucked, by an invisible stranger
at my feet, makes me shiver.
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
Can you see the people moving?
Do you see them fighting?
Not with their arms and fists, stupid,
Rather with their minds and thoughts.
“Life is short and then you die”,
Thumps through a pair of headphones.
The owner isn’t smiling, rather scowling, or impasse.
I stay seated on my park bench,
And ignore the hobo, snoring his life to me.
Beside me on the park bench.
The hobo snores contently,
Onto the unassuming walkers,
A dreamy smile pasted on his lips.
So what if his content isn’t rational?
So what if he is happier with less?
Does that mean a thing?
Isn’t your life a mess?
The dog beside him licks his dirty nose,
And he wakes, serenely smiling.
He pats the dog, and plays with its ears,
And grabs for happiness, under the bench.
Its not long before he is snoring again,
His dogs’ head on his waste, glances at me,
And licks its joules.
The hobo is still snoring,
But I am walking into the distance,
With his dog and his drink!
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
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
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
Half ink, half white space.
Your book choice,
reads books on your personality.
The pretence of intellect,
owning but never reading.
Observing knowledge but never shaking her hand.
The idiotic republic,
the 13th sonnet of indolence,
Standing female stupid,
Not waving but drowning.
If only,
it werent december,
and you were sinking,
huge and beautiful,
in a puddle of ink.
Copyright © Chris Grundy | Year Posted 2012
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Chris Grundy Poem
Bed
Plump down on the bed,
My head, heavier than before,
Follows my body,
Contently onto the bed.
My arms spread like a crucifix,
A groan escapes my lungs,
the blood-red sheets,
crushed on my bed.
A final smile and I sit up,
Norah Jones sings of new York City,
She does it so beautifully,
on my bed.
Copyright © Chris Grundy | Year Posted 2012
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