Hurray for barely comprehensible gibberish using the layout of poetry!

I think it’s time, time to butcher loyalty.
Time to murder and, in that murder, create.
To take these things which have seen me at my worst
and waste them, until their watchfulness abates.


I think the unwritten rule of contemporary creation, of any kind, is that if you’re struggling for ideas, just mention Bob Dylan.

To pull Bob Dylan’s monochrome image down,
into the filth which makes up my residence
lose it amongst the consequences of life
and to judge it, as nothing, then a past tense.

Feel Nostradamus crumble, like prophecy,
and behold! A great evil from the North-West;
a grey tide, sweeping aside the red and blue
and a people reborn, at their own behest.

Should I smash The Clash against their place of rest,
as though my rejection of theirs was an art?
And, saying no, I could have been a poet,
and write these hymns in place of a beating heart?

Or, like a target, stand beneath Cash’s guitar,
and regard the Man in Black, dressed in grey-white;
to hear the romance of cocaine as freedom,
and a mass opiate as a guiding light?

I think it’s time, time to burn these posters of mine.
To see plastic curl upon itself and die,
even as my head swims from heir fumes; and time,
and worship, fall apart at the seam and lie,
through brand names and lips, and fingers, and roses
of painted gold.