Dollar eyed
Fever rush
Surge of
Salivation
Desire grasp
Consummation
Migrated acquisition
Of need
Panic blind
Ugliness
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Author: distilledvoice
Black Friday
We are dogs in the trap,
thoroughbreds
straining in the cage.
The doors are not yet open
but our faces
are flat against the glass.
We’re squeezed together,
shoulders knocking,
anticipation breathes
through the crowd
as one singular excited thought:
our hearts beat fast.
We can see the shop assistants
hopping from foot to nervous foot,
worry in thier downturned mouths.
They see the pack outside
with lolling tongues, wide eyes
and desire:
to buy, purchase, get
by any means: we’re all salivating,
our finger nails are sharp.
We’ll fight if we must
as it’s all for one
and one for one
in the up and coming scrum.
And if it’s a granny
who goes sprawling
then there’s one less
in the queue, one less
elbo in the eye,
one less combatant
who needs flooring
in the mad dash
to come.
Hold on,
I hear something!
Wait! No one breathe.
It’s the shop assistant:
her hand is at the latch.
I can feel the ground swell,
the moment near unburdening,
the instant triggered
and about to explode
in claws skittering on tiles
and limbs grasping,
flailing hands
and shouts of
mine, mine, mine!
Here we go
in madness flow:
she’s opening the door.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
A Story From The Western Sea
Far off in the Western Sea of dreams and beginnings there was the birth of a story. It bubbled up from beneath, from deep in the gloom of a cold benthos, where strange things scuttle and make their homes. Some bubbles rise as stars while others are neutral. This one was like the very first born thought, as fresh as the newest thing, pale skinned and beautiful. From the waves of the Western Sea it rose high and caught prevailing winds. With birds and things airborne it navigated the Coriolis force and felt the call of land like a heart beat in its body. For days it watched and winged on blue ether and mist. And when it saw the brown earth it dropped like a stone and kissed the hard, dry soil and burrowed as its feeling decreed. And then it waited. And waited. And waited. And when the time was right it germinated on sweet water and the worlds urge to change and put up a shoot, then a leaf, then a flower: a new flower that no one had ever seen before.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The End Of The Written Word
If voice
Were sky blue,
Without a word
To clutter the music,
Poetry would find
Its end
In ink’s redundancy,
The written word
Consigned
To beyond memory’s
Grasping hand.
Voice
Would become movement
Of soul through energy
And energy intern
Through the body of the man.
And happening
Would happen only in the instant
And not either side of now.
And thus time itself
Would wink from existence
And yet stretch out
In forever’s eternal flow.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Epoque
In the black and white photograph
the 19th century station bustles with
top hats and ladies in feathered felt,
and there isn’t a man without a
moustache or sideburns flanking.
Hot bellied locomotives simmer
in the sidings and polished carriages
queue in timely lines while walruses
inspect pocket watches and point at
the world with portly cigars.
There isn’t a thing out of time: every
article existing is touched by the age,
coloured by fashions of the mind;
the ladies fine frocks of puff
petticoats and pinafores, the hiss
and mist of escaping steam, the
brass tubing veining engines, the
great hall aloft on stanchions of cast
iron. Even the tea cup and train ticket
exude époque and the purity of
happenings coinciding to form all
that was in that moment then. And
when I look I can’t find a thing that
seems unreal. Is this a trick? Will my
decedents look upon the vistas of
our time and see rich nostalgia
colouring the skin of everything. Or
will they see the lack of meaning by
which we shape, steer and live our lives
and want no part of its empty shame?
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Distinction
Winter jasmine
Impossible on the branch,
Juxtaposes against
The season’s hour,
Flowers in contrast
And yellow distinction.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Fight The Gloom
If nothing else
Then coffee’s
Bitter roast warmth
And bite back,
To light
The cold night
And cold morn,
And twang it
To a bit-better
Vibrational resonance.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
On The Road
He might be Californian,
Shaggy
In flared denim suit
And long
Sun blond hair
Agitating his eyes.
He wears a moustache
And breath
Spiced bourbon and cigarette.
The days are a sun blanched
Headache while the nights
Are dizzying breakneck
Of life lived fast
With liquor cubed drink
Chinking glimmer in a glass,
Or bottle neat
From a brown paper bag
Hidden in a back street:
It’s all much of a muchness.
There are girls:
All with faraway look,
Smacked up
And drifting nowhere
On the drug of sex
And fleeting break
From loneliness
Found in strange
Bedfellow’s quiver
And alcoholic unburdening
Of orgasm before sleep.
He says – be cool baby –
To whom ever he meets
On the road,
Salutes them
With joint
Marihuana journey
Or acid trip
To nameless places,
Passing in a flurry of faces,
Hard as cold asphalt,
Futureless and travelling
Without name.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
First Frost
First frost
Withers foliage,
Yet a few hardy flowers
Persevere,
Blooming ragged
And defiant
In time’s cool withdrawal.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Effortless
Under blue-grey clouds
Red kites find
Effortless updrafts
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
distilledvoice 