[poem]

I ain't got a hope today;
all died when the sound flooded in and filled my head with faulty wiring.
My eyes only half open
in this false waking. Choke down stupid little pills for a facsimile of comfort.
Takes forever to leave. Streets wailing with people like caskets constructed from nerve-endings.

[poem]

I dreamt that I dream. In this dream I dreamed i dreamt my dad and myself in a carriage on a wire were led nowhere in paticular. The radio played out a puppetshow in front of our eyes where the iraqi people had no happy ending, because, in the end, politics corrupts everything it touches.

I stole a cake from a stall as we stumbled by and shared it with no one.

I guess the dream doesn't really mean anything.

[poem]

dingle-dangle in the gentle
breeze a-blowing
spider falling
up and down
on infintisimal
thread its dancing
with its shadow
all around the yellow windows.

[poem] extracts

so off they went, their eyes ablaze
and smiling happy at the mission
skipping merrily-mentally forthly
seeking onwards, mysterious, glorious
ever searching for that thing;
mad-marvelous slack.

hearts a-tumbling slinky slinking
downwards deep into despair.
trapt and lost inside the maze of
endless-omega bureaucratic snare.

[ poem ]

This building is sick; it seeps out of the walls,an accumulation of a hundred frustrated lives spent working corridors, shuffling in hush puppies.like a naughty child bearing the weight of judging eyes. I ain't cut out for this concentration-camp existence; Walls make me panic, barriers trip me up. Sometimes can't get nothing straight; thoughts collide and make orphans of good intentions.

If I cut myself open and bleed all over your filing cabinet, can I please go home?

parkwise went the three, hands and cans all mingle mangled and merged, mighty was their purpose as the sky was shining blue but alas the wind doth blow mighty too.

So, in came bilious nimbus forms, turning the palette more monochrome casting doubts on the expedition but still they tramped on through cardiff school of, engineering shortcuts out of well aged past experience, tramped up and over and down traintrack bridgecrossings, stumblin' bumblin' by the museum and dripdripdropping in on the small man.

makes nonsense, this plaything of the senses [poem]

One of the few poems I have an actual date-of-creation for. IT doesn't have a proper title and the one it does is there merely for archiving purposes.

=*=

What's this?
slowly unfolding in this static darkness,
sweet difusion, intoxicating, a cloud, like a blanket,
falling, enveloping;
makes nonsense this plaything of the senses.

Spins nebulous yarn
from ethereal thread;
a throw,
a scarf,
all the colours of the unseen
lost between the pavement cracks,
crushed underfoot in velvet sighs.

Want to hold it in my hands
like sand, but cannot;
the sensation slipping
through my fingers.
It's the closest you can get to touching.

(c) Adam Cheshire 20/02/2007

coffeecore trumpetrock [poem]

The following three poems were written during a feverishly creative time over my friends Darko/Stew/Pete's house, stoned and tweaked on Dr pepper. Its a really good enviroment, with Darko and Pete working on their surreal mini-series and Stewart thrashing away on his beloved guitar, everyone toking away with gleeful abandon. The house has recently attained a music room, what with the loss of fellow housemate Aareon to the seductive pull of the big smoke, which currently contains an ancient casio, a kick ass korg synth (borrowed), a couple of acoustics, a left handed acoustic (mine), a few fucked up french horns and some bongos. Oh yeah, and a couple of tiny lickle amps. Its beautiful man.

Its the only one of the three with a proper title.

=*=


This afternoon I got tweaked at this girls house
who I'd met the night before in a bar;
she sang songs of tequila heartache and emo rock,
lost on memories and laughing.

We play dice on the kitchen counter,
smoking goldern virginia.
shivering with the backdoor open
we listen to cake
and drink coffee.

She's going to teach me how to juggle.

© Adam Cheshire 2007

something missing [ poem ]

sat in my friends Aaeron's room after he'd packed up his stuff ready to move to london was a strange experience. Gone were the turntables, gone were the scultures, paintings, and pictures that adorned the walls. It made me feel kinda sad. I was sorry to see him go. Again, this didn't have a title yet but I had to call it something.

=*=

this room has no soul no more
bare boxed, stripped and packed
just a shell now; canvas stacked all abstract against the wallpaper
CDs stretch babel-like.

I find myself falling down a k-hole of nintendo bleeps and whitenoise
chasing the white rabbit with some malt liquor,
don't I have someplace to be?

© Adam Cheshire 2007

blinkenlighten [ poem ]

This poem doesn't really have a title yet, but I had to call it something. Ho-hum.

=*=

When will this end?
sick of standing, button pressing
blinkenlighten hypnotising
too much thinking got me sinking, need a sliff
those stinking kids have got my temple pounding,
what's the time? Shit, can't this thing go any faster?
wires have been crossed,
events set in motion.
Can't let myself get caught in the combine, that would be foolish.

Apathy is so passe,
like recycled water,
wish I had a bit of control.
This life is killing me.
I'll be dead before I'm 27 if I can't screw this head on properly.
Should try more painkillers, maybe some tai chi, run away
and live on a mountain smoking a pipe.
There has to be something more fufilling
than register fiddling.

I must of been very bad in a past life to deserve
all this neverending bullshit.

© Adam Cheshire 2007