coffee

coffee just isn't coffee

it's a world of audio and visuals

not to mention an underlying current

it's an ulterior motive, an objective

but it's not objective, in fact, far from

purely subjective, with an objective in mind

sounds foolish

i know, i was just there

the current was swelling, i made sure of it

down stream i thought

up stream it was

back to the past, far from any bright future

or wide expanse to pour into 

solemnly, i lurk at the edge

without intention, i've got none

completely empty, but wholesome

there's a surge, it's the current

i'm pushed further than the edge

to limbo, where i now dwell

where i was once cool

i am now beyond heat

it's humid, i'm addicted

and i've run out of things to say

imagery; too much

foresight becomes overwhelming

hindsight frightens me

being in now changes every time i think about it

don't think or analyse

be imaginatively illiterate

sound out no vowels, 

abandon your journey to a conclusion

instead, hold firm, despite the heat

take a sip, burn your tongue

smile occasionally, it's polite

let the warmth of sip cool you

run through the system, fix you

take you from limbo, back to the edge

where you so gracefully stand

coffee just isn't coffee anymore

if i didn't have a problem

this mood would cease to exist

and yet, here it is

i always seem to be saying hello

there's never an end to this conversation

or if there is

there's no break, it's straight into the next lane

and when do i get to speak!?

a conversation; that implies two people

this is no one way street

this is a motorway

so, slow down, the limit is 110kph

you're speeding

i'm about to crash

you've taken off my seat belt

i forgot to check the breaks

you've fallen asleep

i woke up

[went out for coffee]

it's continuity, but it changes

it's dynamic, and but always the same

in foresight

you can usually tell when it's comin

or when you're going to get yourself stuck in it

you can feel the early stages

those itchy sensations of 

[ends here, mood change]

anti-anecdote

antidote 12th OCT 09

if i could talk to myself

without hint of insanity

just a pinch of six foot below

the scent of vanity.

there’s no telling what i’d say

mostly as you wouldn’t hear it

mostly as i’m talking to myself

and not you.

albeit, it’s intended for you,

you remains nameless

just as this feeling

unaccountable, it is and you are

without label, without inscription

just as i wish this antidote were.

an antidote infers the end of something

whether or not it’s the right ending

could be ironic, intended, irreversible.

mostly as you wouldn’t hear it

mostly as i’m, still, talking to myself.

___

Thomas A. Bradley.

understanding

it’s not that I don’t understand

because I do

maybe it’s that I understand too well

is it overwhelming for you 

to know I know too

it’s isolation and multitudes you seek

an unsettling combination

one a ‘white coat’ may tick off their list

following, you’re sentenced to this now

you set your own sentence

you were your own judge, court, appeal, defence

step down

you needn’t be restricted by such laws

for these are all in metaphor

all inside your head, from my page of white

so read, read well and read right

if you don’t understand anymore

stand up, don’t try and make sense to understand

you only sentence yourself that way and

hence, confuse understanding with ulterior motive and intention

not my intention, do you understand?

completed 1250am OCT 7TH 2009

___

Thomas A. Bradley.

tuning into sanity

i’m losing you

crackling, like radio signal

only I’m able to hold on just enough to send me through insanity

it’s enough to know how it was, 

and enough to see where I’m going

it’s the [im]perfect balance of past&&future

the torture of the ultimate equilibrium

make no mistake

for this is no content state of mind

this debatably perfect instability

this nonchalant artwork in human form

none of it is actually true

it’s all just words on paper

___

completed 205AM (OCT 6TH 09)

Thomas A. Bradley.

a tad caught up

152AM (OCT 6TH 09)

I know you’re caught up

and so am I

the busy melody of life continues

yet, you’re stuck in prior chords

by no fault of your own, or his

by no fault of mine own, or his

in fact, faultless

lacking melodic harmony

you’re out of key, tuning required

but you’re afraid to be touched

afraid it might work, again? 

now, if we could open that top of yours

fringes comparable; chocolate plum piano lid

let’s sort out the keys

black from white, apparent rights from wrong

don’t smile, you might enjoy this.

___

Thomas A. Bradley.

three to share

august 17th two thousand nine

835PM for us all to see

I’ll make tracks to the sun,

On feet of white lines,

Taking handbags of light bolts,

Leaving trails of scorched angels behind.

Did it feel so good Son?

Is that what it’s like to wish in foresight,

If time (n.) took the time to realise would time stop for us.

My vision only visible with bouncing light,

That sun emit, but hath naught control,

All perspectives illuminated, most illustrious beauty,

To make visible all that wouldn’t be so.

Thee, making all visible, be without force,

Without handbags of bolts or shoes of jet lag.

Flashing lights lead you nowhere, just as regular conclusions you draw.

No end in sight. But in foresight, there is so much to see. 

To be made visible, to be visible, for all to be seen.

___

instructions for modern living

Now I’m using like I believe in God,

Injecting Him not only into my arm, but strands of sarcasm and daily contradictions,

I could teach Him a thing and then some.

If only I could find my pen, I’d write Him an email, mail Him a text,

I don’t think You’d accept if I came to my own conclusion.

I’m going to be gay, but this isn’t what this is about.

Fuck off. ~extends no apologies~ 

Take not of me, or off of me, or what’s on or in, but from out. 

Take from my wardrobe, steal from my till, borrow from my veins,

But I want that nonsense back. That ’blood’. 

True blood.

There’s a little bit of You in it all, isn’t that right?

In every capital letter, there’s [another] strand of ambiguity.

Poor souls confusing grammar for God. Extension English turns into Biblical Studies, the day Mr Osama killed some of Us.

That’s right, Us. Not You, but Us. Us for being just as important as’Y’ou, Us for having the courage to be against, to be sure on our own, to stand without.

Hasn’t Everybody Learned to Live their own.

___

collect your things, 854PM

gather your things, you’re coming with me
don’t think, it will inhibit the process
just grab, be grabbed as part of my things

to collect my things, i’ll pack you
i’ll unpack you first, pack unpack then pick apart
you’re of no use to me whole
i don’t like all of you, i’ll take a few, leave a substantial

when packing, watch your head
don’t get analytical, mind your step
there’s things everywhere
lots of small complex things without purpose
cluttering your room, or head, your mind your step
your mind, your step
you mind? watch your step

you stepped on my packed things

___

Thomas A. Bradley.

1235AM and 137AM

Here you will find.. two delicate little numbers. 

Mind your step, watch your head; poetry is exhausting, you don't want to close your eyes.

1235AM

It’s this feeling of frustration

the ropes that ever tighten

never loosening their grip

like love on a lonely heart

strung up

hung up

mid air, as if 

on show

no medallion to be won though

just [self] esteem to be lost

put on a soap box

with false information

taken by surprise

you were

a fool

fooled to extreme

by the extreme

cut the rope for me

or leave me hang

for death

and love

are one and the same

at 1235AM

                            -----------------------------------------------------------------------

7th Feb. 2009, 137AM

Invisible Flaws

I’m not sure whether you heard them,
But the sirens came for me,
No time to stop for traffic lights,
They soared through hastily,

They arrived at the scene soon enough,
to find my body detailed,
No common cause, or visible flaws,
Just a corpse laying, frail.

Examining closely, the tears became apparent,
I was lying still, but weeping,
Dead, but dying of fatal emotion,
No time for calling 911, Reaper was sweeping.

Wide, gliding strokes, that never missed a whole heart,
Now torn apart, rip or cut in many,
Lost count of pieces, unimportant,
Like the out of date penny,

The eyes, 'windows to the soul',
Now lay extinct witness only to what had been,
The last few strands now fading as the tears dry,
As dew from the grass so green.

If ever you knew of a love so pure,
You’d find it there encapsulated within,
No words to do justice, or begin an outline,
Just prices to be paid, of sin.

No degree or certificate could discover,
Any text book answer to solve this riddle,
No wise guy white coat, or Sherlock Holmes would fix this apparent dilemma,
The only one, I believe you know him, who could solve such honest equation,
Is the one in the mirror, the one you admire, who speaks and walks and talks like you.

Eloquent and fragile, but rough as guts,
You’re sure to cause a stir,
T'was to you I fell in love with Sir, and t'was to you I fell in death with Sir.

So next day you take a risk my dear, be sure to stop and question,
For karma isn't on your side, nor Mother Nature or Guardian,
You see, I’m a part of everything now, my energy fills the world,
And now the world knows of your deeds, you’ll feel my love, it hurts.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Over and out.

Thomas A. Bradley.

Initial inscription.

Dear fellow bloggers,

A new blogger has entered the space. No need for panic, or concern.

Predominantly, I'll be using this space to post verse and poetry I've composed. Obviously, any feedback is uber-appreciated. 

Let the entries come-a-rolling.

Thomas A. Bradley.