Much Like Lust

Much like lust
The poetic thrust
Is sometimes
Guttural, animal
And alive as sense
Beyond a halting thought
Or reflection’s stuttering
And clumsy indecision.
Sometimes the poem
Just wants to fuck,
Consume itself
Within the flowing action
Of a primal deed,
Lose itself within itself
And ride the carnal now
Of cellular knowing.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Nothing Much To Say

No urgent image
Comes to play
And mind rests still.
With a noise
It’s draw away,
Ventures to the ears:
A bee bumping
The concept
Of a window pane,
Shrill birds
Of the near distance
Whistling heartedly,
And the muffled knockings
Of a human town
In the morning of a Saturday.

I have nothing much to say
But keep listening
To the things
Inside of me.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Royal Correspondent

In his finest Queen’s English,
P’s and Q’s in mind,
He eloquently states
And stiffly elaborates,
Using long words
And upright and proper sentences,
Annotating with slow voice
And seriousness,
The somber events
And flag waving celebrants,
Conscripting his yesteryear
And best BBC
To announce
With banner and bow,
Pomp and formality,
The stereotype
Crowning in the matter
Of his Englishness.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Migrant Crisis

For fifty years
The shining west
Broadcast the abundant dream
In films and on TV sets,
Sold their gloss of golden
Paving and streets opportune,
Livelihoods so plentifully clean:
Advertising the job lot
To the chink in the human heart
Where wishing spills out
From wanting’s germinated seed.

And now all the world desires
A piece of the unreal dream
And comes, unstoppable,
In tide of need’s imbalance.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Freshly Pressed

Nothing as delicious
As the idea’s arrival
At the pen scratch
And nib of newly unfolded time.

Here is creativity
At its cutting edge.
New and fresh as dew
At risen light,

As momentary
And transitorily alive,
For a spell’s duration,
Before soon subsided

And dimmed by
Pristine light’s creation
And the joy of thoughts,
Freshly Pressed.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

In The Summer Dusk

In the summer dusk
all is sweet temptation
in musk of earthy being:
even the grass
is dew sugar first hay,
tender and sun soaked elixir
to horsly kind,
frolicsome and effervescent
to pink noses everywhere.

And what air: warm as comfort,
barefooted and shirt undone,
base note to the roses flood
of velvet, lusty tantalisation:
a shedding of potions loving
and daintily perfumed.

What dwells in this scented night,
but creatures of the stillness,
hid deep from our slice of daily life,
nocturnal to it
and waking only to the moon
and sweetness magic from
disgorging night-flowers.

A hedgehog snuffles and is alive.
Moths are vibrant,
aerialed to the pheromonal moon
and unseen currents high and trail like.
And beetles alight the moonbeams,
unfurl their hidden wings
and step to the unsteady air,
to taste and be beside
the molecules abundant.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.