For All My Muses

Upon your mortal flesh
my eyes, excited to new seeing,
find windows
in which the script
unravels like quicksilver ink
heart-fast across the page,
and sees off
the mood mundane
written boring in to static fact
of joyless unbecoming,
and instead
thrills the moments in their chain,
and makes them
stones for stepping,
and feet, light for skipping,
as if life, after all,
were not ceaseless, aggravated toil
but flight, free upon the wing.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

French Guy

He holds the cigarette
With his lip.
As he speaks
It nods its agreement.

In his hand is a beer,
At home
Quite naturally.
An eau de vie lubricant.

In his face is a scowl,
An irritation
As if most things
Were shit

Or, he’s cool
To offer disinterest.
A shrug and a pout
In detachments shout,

Ejected from the self,
Thrown out
And projected
As the very loudest silence.

Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice

 

Facebook Terrorist

image

Every holiday snap
Is a slap
Right across your face,
Dear reader, watcher, liker,
Cos I’m the smug vacation maker
Whose wall you’ve reluctantly
Signed to yours.
And if you were here
I’d bore you to tears
But as you’re not
I’ll just smack you across the chops
With how lovely a time
I’m having
Under the smug sun
Next to the smug water
In the smug dream
That stinks
Of all the self importance
I could manageably conjure.

 

copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice