self

Both

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

In your opponents face,
In the coin toss –
You won
He lost,
He won
You lost

– You wear each others masks,
Feel the flip side feeling,
Touch
The sharing self,

Feel one side –
North
Or connected south –

Reservoir of sameness
Joined and spinning fast,

Bullyvictim psychology
Yoked like binary stars
In gravity entrapment,

Not two distinct,
But one swirling
Entity of both,

Like the coin flickering
Through its duplicity,
Showing
Its alternate pulsar sides.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

The End Of The Written Word

~ distilledvoice ~ 1 Comment

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

Glass Cage

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The heart
Wrapped
In the glass cage,

Separate
From the body,
Separate from the world,

Isolated
From synapse touch,
From neurone being:

Yet still
The mind watches
From behind the glass,

Seeing everything,
Un-blinkered,
Unblinking.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Violence Of The Self

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

If at the core
There is violence
Of the self
Against the source

All the health thoughts
Conceived
Or applications put,
Won’t alter

Or bring life
To the body,
Who’s passenger
Rejects

The fundamental
Principle
Of love
And murders instead

The energy
As it emerges
In free form
Child emotive.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Brothers In Colour

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There is something
Victorian
In his whiteness,
A correctness
Disciplining the rest
So regulation
Rules in dry doctrine.

And to his eye
His black skinned brother
Is carnal opposite
To the structure
Rigid in his self
And he fears
The hot power
Of a primitive.

And thus
The black man
Is subdued
For being
The outward heart
With body filled
With blood and vigour

And the white man
Gelds himself,
Separates from his pulse,
His inner fire,
Grows cold and stiff,
And with backstroke
Of his incising knife
Flays
His collateral brother,
So in neither
Is the life found flowing,
And in both
The cut
Equally deep.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

The Belief Feedback Loop

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

Out of the mouth
Via the air
To the ears.
Imagination plays its part
In conception
Of ideas,
Of how
And why.
And like that
The view point
Expands,
Resembles a fact
Becomes a bit like a truth,
Ever Growing
In to something like
The real thing.
And then
Once cooked,
Once fiddled,
Once deceived
It spews out dogmatic
And unrestrained,
Exits
As it is born,
The truth formed,
The truth made,
The fact ejected

Out of the mouth….

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

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

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

For Sake Of Beauty

~ distilledvoice ~ 1 Comment

For sake
Of beauty
I turn to the pen
To scrawl the music
And the word
And the rhythm’s verse
In gliding ink,
And trace
The shapes
Of worlds,
Following their forms
Like a child
Whose love
Is absolute
And brimming
With what perception
Endlessly births,
In riches unfolded
To the mind’s eye.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015