Cardboard

He wakes right up
In his cardboard bed
With his cardboard thoughts
Floating 'round his head,
Then he gets up now
With a cardboard smile,
Walks to the bathroom as if
Marching rank in file,
And he washes himself
In cardboard water
From a cardboard shower
With a cardboard loofah
Then cleans his teeth with a cardboard brush,
Gets dressed because he's always in a rush.

Then he goes to work
In his cardboard car
And his cardboard clothes
Making him look smart
For the cardboard people
Who greet him at work
With their cardboard hands
Lacking soul and dirt,
Then he just drones on
And he won't stop now
Spewing cardboard words
From his cardboard mouth
And the cardboard people keep list'ning in
To his boring cardboard words with sting.

And the day goes on
For the cardboard kings,
And they all start to feel
As if they all have wings,
But they all know
They will have to stop,
Otherwise, eventually
They'll simply drop,
So they sit right down
With their cardboard lunch
And their cardboard friends
And begin to munch
On a cardboard apple and a cardboard twix,
As well as cardboard chicken sticks.

Then he comes straight home
At the end of the day
To his cardboard wife
After earning cardboard pay,
And his cardboard children
Flock 'round his feet
And a cardboard hug
Is then their greet,
Then they eat their dinner;
A cardboard mess,
Before going to bed
And getting undressed
And he lies right back and enjoys his stay
Before the cardboard repeats the very next day.

postmodern poem

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The Not So Beautiful Game

I saw the hopes and dreams of my team
Ripped, then torn apart tonight
By corrupt officials and cheating players
Who care not for dignity, or sportsmanship,
Only the bastardisation
Of this once great sport.

The promising start fuels the passion
That is needed to drive the engine
Onwards, Forwards until goals come forth
From skill and perseverence
When facing the other team
On the field of battle.

OUTRAGE!
The stadium erupts in a galaxy of rage
When the stonewall is torn down
Right in front of everyone,
Everything is as clear as the summer's day sky
But it doesn't stop the injustice.

A display of skillful fireworks
Explode over the coming half hour,
Both armies are fighting well
And demonstrating their full range of abilities,
They are able to make the opposition bleed
Which nurtures the engine that powers the army.

A sudden blackout of information
Sweeps over the stadium.
The crowd is hushed in wonder of
Who will dare to make the next move.
What goes on behind these scene of confusion
Is prohibited, therefore interesting.

And I see that evolution has come into play,
The opposing army has adapted
To our skillful demonstration,
And gains an unnecessary advantage
As they already have corruption on their side
Portrayed by men clad in yellow, so we know who to shout at.

But it does not stop them
From yielding such power as their own,
Dignity, Nobility, Decency.
Torn to shreds by the unstoppable blade
Which is forged from an unholy alliance
That decimates all who stand in its way.

And I can only stand back and watch
The sadist torture unfold before me.
Jeering en masse echoes around the battlefield,
Who's shouting for who though,
I cannot tell from earshot alone,
When the cries call "CITY" from both ends.

We came. We played. We started out with so much potential.
We engaged them in battle, held them back.
We threw it all away like misspent youth.
We feel the aftershock, burning like a million suns.
It may have been just another match,
But at the end of the day, it's just no game.

Death on a Treadmill

People forever running
On treadmills to journey,
Through nowhere and everywhere
Standing still all your life.

Some people like fast paces,
Some prefer to run slow.
The thud thud thud of the feet
Reflect the heartbeat's pulse.

The ever changing pathway
Made by pressing buttons
That conjure the life changing
Bleeps and bloops symphony.

The puffing and the panting,
Start showing on the face
In beads of sweat and slower
Pacing on the treadmill.

Music helps to distract them
From the fact they are
Ever running out of time,
Until they fall off the end.

This is not a Poem

A man came up to me one day
And told me poems suck.
He kept on droning on and on
On how they are just muck.

He told me poems are not art
And rapping is the best.
I sat him down showed him my work
And got this off my chest;

"Mate, poetry is more than words
And you must listen here.
It is an art of crafting phrase,
Listen and you will hear."

He said, "This is not a poem!
It doesn't even rhyme!
It's useless boring Greek filled trash
It is a waste of time!"

"A poem doesn't have to rhyme,
It needs to flow" I said.
"A poem needs a rhythm but
That's gone over your head."

"But it still is not a poem,
It doesn't look like one."
"But words and phrases, they'll still live
After we're dead and gone."

We argue on for what seems hours
Until we hit a wall.
I ask, "Why do you feel this way
On poetry at all?"

"It's just a boring dated art
Which has no relevance.
I feel it has no place to fit
In today's present tense."

I said, "Poetry is timeless,
It merely just evolves.
Put passion in your words and watch
The poetry unfold.

But with your negativity
You won't know where to start.
Stick with me and I will teach you
The secrets of this art."

I taught him everything I knew
Of poetry and prose.
His new intelligence helped him
To bloom just like a rose.

He no longer thinks of poems
As dated useless slough.
He went on to write many things
To think, he's famous now!

He's very so accomplished much
And just think that's great.
The man I argued with is now
The Poet Laureate.

Untitled Sonnet No. 3

The choice, it looms
Before your face,
And you feel doomed
Unless you place
Your order clear,
And decisive
To the cashier,
Who gives it with
A friendly smile,
You take it then
But all the while
Waiting for 'when'
To then arrive
Is just no jive.

Snow

Snow rising over the hills,
To nourish the earthy ground
With radiant splendour,
Later to be covered in a white blanket
Fallen from the skies.

Grey dawn takes hold
While everything becomes buried,
As we look into the snowglobe
That is the world beyond
The windows of the house.

The baking sugar pavement
Lies beside the spectacular icing,
That is daubed upon
The chocolate, earthly ground.

Belching wind blows icing
All around the snowglobe.
A sugary wonderland blows past
Marshmallows skewered on sticks,
Missing only a roaring fire.

The icing sugar snowglobe
Forms the blanket around the world,
Until the roaring fire comes forth
And melts the sugar topping
Until only the cake is left.

A Train Station

Walking out into the muddled masses,
All of which are confused, lost
And panicking secretly inside themselves.
For this place is the pinnacle of decision making.
One confused slip, and you fall
Harder than you realise at first
And once you've started you cannot stop,
A confusing entrance to the train station.

Coming through the automatic doors,
And having to cut through the noxious gas
Billowing from the mouths of the mindless zombies
Who think of nothing else.
They can live in their gas, but I can't,
I'll try not to die as I brush past
The slowly decaying people standing around me,
A horrible entrance to the train station.

Passing by and suddenly noticing
The enticing aroma of Subway sandwiches.
My nose welcomes the smell,
And I am drawn towards it,
Until I am bathing in the succulent vapour
Extracted from the small building.
From across the road come angelic scents,
A comforting entrance to the train station.

Getting to the waiting room,
And just waiting for the train to arrive.
Sitting down and allowing time to simply flow
Past my head, all the while
Watching the people pass by to board their trains,
And knowing that I still have to wait
Until my train at last does come,
A boring entrance to the train station.

Rainfall

I like to saunter in the rain.
Walking outside helps me
To cast aside the fire and flame
Inside my head which do me ill.

And as I wander down the street,
I hear the sounds of the world unfold.
The metallic tones of rain
Dropping into the gutter,
And the cries of the various fauna.

As I continue my heedless journey,
I stop and think how good the rain feels on my skin.
The drops of cold water nourish me,
And begin to rouse me from my dreamworld stupor
Therefore, my problems begin to wash away
Down the gutter like the rain.

And soon enough, on my relaxing odyssey,
I come across the denizens of the village
Jogging past as the rain falls down.
I view them as insane
As they soldier on through the wind and the rain.
But are they any different from I?
For I am marching on through the damp and the cold as well,
So it would be hypocritical to call them mad.

Moving on the quiet lanes
Gives me time to reflect
On days gone by and the nature of things,
But nothing in particular.

As I stop and walk across the road,
My eyes roll over the dandelions in the fields.
Perceived by many as horrible weeds,
But I see them differently; as a flower as beautiful as any other.
Therefore I stop, pick one and journey on
Through the rain and the cold
Until I reach my destination.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a car rushes past me
And at once I am drenched in the discarded tears of angels.
But I do not let this get me down
Though glum I am now, I realise there will be
Happier times for in me to dwell.
And soon enough the rain begins to quell,
And the sun breaks free from its cloudy chains,
And I realise that I am reaching my destination.

Blissful Idiocy

They live in packs
Come out at night
And waste away
Their short sweet lives
With booze and drugs
And mindless things
That do no good
But they know that
In blissful idiocy.

Posing for a selfie.
Downing a Jager bomb.
Shirts being torn off.
Puking in the toilets.
Rinse and repeat.

No common sense
Does fill the void
Between their heads
They can't be swayed
From chugging this
And downing that
And they must learn
There is no cure
For blissful idiocy.

Overhyped Facebook photos.
Drinking from two bottles.
Loud music bursting eardrums.
Stumbling and passing out.
Rinse and repeat.

Another night
With no job done
And nothing shown
But pain, anger
And tragedy
With a side of
Shameful actions
All because of
Blissful idiocy.

Obscene drawings on faces.
Staggering back home.
Crawling up the stairs to bed.
Blackouts and killer headaches.
Rinse and repeat.

Their stubbornness
It knows no bounds,
Next night the same
As last, as well
As all of them
To come from now
They do not care
They're worse for wear
There's no escape
From blissful idiocy.