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The whole world is my stage

The catwalk on which I pout

Performing My sexy sexy –

Look at Me, look at My life,

Look at My happy happy image

Filled with My stuff, My shiny things,

My tits and My gym body bliss

And all the holidays

I could ever wish

Distilled into one perfect shot:

One contrived glass of fizz

Against a perfect sunset

Where all the angst of life

Is edited out

And brushsstroked clean,

Proving Me special

And different without doubt

In a tsunami of content, this

Bland-sewering-scum-tide onslaught

Of same and same and Noisy same

Ejaculated on to the face of My screen.

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Legacy

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We, the future
Froth upon the past,
Like lights girdering
The stanchioned and cemented rise
Of our skyward technological pride:
Apparently so different to our
Top-hatted and bonneted selves.
Yet sunk in the sump,
Our architecture founds itself
In skirts of steam empire
And Britannia
Greater than wishfulness.

I propose
The top hat to be
Present and near,
Not relinquished or pushed aside.
We are merely bareheaded
And not in the least bit changed.

©A Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2017

Immigrant

In chill October England
the African waits incongruous
by the grey concrete divide
of a duel carriageway.

He wears a leopard skin hat
and the curly white beard of
an old man. In his hand,
a tool dangles like a nonchalant

machete. He has bare feet
and baggy shorts and has
come from the woods,
filled with cool heartbeats

of high latitudes. He hears
as he heard in his homeland:
the voices are different
but still voices, greener

and more tidal, sleeping
for half the year at least.
Yet his heart beats as full
of blood as when his calloused

feet scuffed red, dry earth,
and though all through his
eyes is a paler brother,
less rich, quelled

rather than vibrant,
the murmurings he feels
through his soles
are so similar in vibration

he cannot help but
accept the meek light
as home, and breathe in
the arrival of happiness.

 

copyright distilledvoice & Ben Truesdale

August Morn

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Dawn slides oblique
Between the flat shadows
Of night’s quiet layering,
Piques the corn-ripe air
Spiriting earth musk
From the damp leave’s
Cool-blooded undergrowth.

A chill hint
Of vapour in the breath,
Bumble bees slow
And sleepy,
Bird twitter in the bush,
The west leaf in day light’s tilt,
The east leaf, still suckling
In dim pockets
And grottos half shut.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Multiverse

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Some peer for heaven’s star-load,
Grappling with infinite mathematics
And paradox strewn colourful
Beyond the impossible reach of the mind.

And yet others peer close as home
And find the universe layered
In unending planes, thick with reality
In which life forms inhabit.

To look is to exclude the rest,
Understanding found in the narrowing
Of the pin point eye, alive on the observed
But unconscious of other and else.

What dwells where we cannot see,
Where our minds have yet to examine,
Where are backs are turned
And worlds are yet to be seen?
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016