Inspired by mind

The Deepest Typo In The Edit

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

What blindness is this
That sees
The mind
Creative
On the page
Even where the ink
Is absent and forgetting?

For surely
I see the words
Formed perfect
On the paper
With these eyes
Of mine.

Yet others
Find
In the form,
Omissions
And lack
Where my mind
Has conjured
And bridged
And leapt
Across the cracks.

And if
In my blindness
I still see
Words fully formed
And correctly ended,
Then what
In the real world,
Beyond the pen,
Have I also
Made perfect?

What gaps
In reality
Have I
Fabricated?
What have my eyes
Seen
In the jurisdiction
Of belief,
Unreal to all but me
Who paints
Stencils and stained glass
On lenses
Through which
I look
In order
I might see
The things
I wish

Rather than
What is actually present.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

The Terrible Speed Of Missing The Moment

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

The world spins
On instant access

Where secrets
Divulge
In the second of their conception

And news
Burns like star-fall

And dies as quickly
To the black
And old.

And time,
Shackled workhorse
To the mind

Careers
As never should
It fall precious
Past uncaring hand
And fingers barely touching,

Racing
Itself to panting
Wreck and ruin:
All of what it’s worth
Spent
In a flash
Of fast food
And capitalism,
Memorised
Even before
Its moment
Of occurrence
And physical birth.

The future
Travelling
To the past
But heart bypassed
So as not to happen
In the now
At all.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Waking

~ distilledvoice ~ 5 Comments

Warm as I wake,
Still clothed
In the arithmetic
Of dreams;
A few sentiments
Found
Like gold flecks
In the pan,
Tangible and inert
To oxidising approach
Of the fast and probable day.
Yet there they are,
Untarnished evidence
Of my mind’s wandering,
Its sinuous, filamentous
Questioning
In to that untapped,
That mystical
And incorporeal.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

From The Land

~ distilledvoice ~ 3 Comments

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From wooden boxes
Her land
Unclasps
Still warm,
Knobbly tomatoes,
Imperfectly formed
But flush
With the colour of the sun.
Likewise, the just picked grapes,
Dusty with botrytis,
Contain the same
Sun-drunk quality.
And the wine
Decanted
With a funnel
In to re-used plastic containers
Is matter of fact,
Poured for its sweetness
And personality’s distillate,
Not for any labelled
Contradiction
Or propulsion
Of aggressive advert.
With a shrug of her shoulders
The woman says the only thing
She need ever say
To anyone:
‘I am, as I am.’

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Her Summer Dream

~ distilledvoice ~ 2 Comments

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Her summer dream:
To fling open the shutters
And find a cobble stone morning
Already bustling
With early light
And amblers
Foraging for breakfast.

From her dwelling
In a stone cottage
Fronting the harbour
There is no better moment
Than when the sea air infiltrates
And she hangs loose
On the window ledge,
Smoking a long, cool cigarette
And sipping coffee
As her eyes quiz
The holiday makers lives

While her mind wanders lazily
In the light of a summer dress
And in the passage of time
That might steer aimless
Towards lunchtime
Or even a sun dosed nap
In the hot afternoon.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

For Mima

Smoking Controversy

~ distilledvoice ~ 1 Comment

He puffs on a cigarette
In the manner
Of the ancients
And the Native American
Smoking a peace pipe

And thus inhales
Only pure divinity.

Watching,
The one who disapproves
Inhales the self made smoke
Of an acrid thought
And breathes pure air
Laced with the power
Of negativity.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015