I am not a physicist or a chemist, so I make no claims to have any sort of scientific accuracy in this poem (I mean, art can bend the laws of reality if we want it to…) I’m just somewhat interested in the concept of silicon based life forms, as opposed to carbon. Impossibility or not, this poem toys around with the concept, as well as human limitation. Call it ‘science fiction’.

I’ll burn, I’ll rage,
anything to disengage
with this dying carbon cage.
Displaced, disgraced,
occupying conquered space,
outstripped by inhuman haste.

Hyperion’s brood condemned to govern the skies
with a family tradition of rising to fall.
In this skin we are microcosms of heavens
taking the throne in the celestial hall.

Find new disputes;
another structure to compute;
schools of thought to refute.
Allay mistakes
by redefining fate;
there’s no need to moderate.

The pillars of life became the bars of a cell;
the chains of the orthodox bound us to the wall.
Hearing the cry of the regressive souls,
there’s no choice but to heed the future’s call.

Another transformation
through human exploration;
a silicon creation
waiting for inspiration.


Tar And Paint

This poem looks at the problems of censorship within society and how art can be used as a political tool, also observing what might happen if the art world was appropriated by the establishment as a propaganda machine.

They don’t know the spectrum bleeds
so you’ve gotta keep your canvas clean.
It’s top collar politics
from top dollar heretics
hooked on tax dodging caffeine.

When the gold rush has run dry
pans and paints wither and die.
State sponsored artistry;
blue honoured larceny;
the enslaved artists’ paradigm.

The established hand will dip the brush
into an inkwell of shared blood.
A seasoned corruption
from reasoned instructions.
Finding freer hearts to crush.

Paint a landscape so roseate
something sanctioned and appropriate.
Gild it with a lick of gold,
have nobody sick or cold
as we condemn the dissociate.

Veiled Vilification

In modern politics, we find ourselves confronted by our inability to change things too much. We have the opportunity to vote, but it’s not likely to change anything when the two parties likely to come into power are practically exactly the same. So what do we do when we feel disenfranchised by the official method of democracy? And what are the reactions to this? How are we made to seem like people who don’t deserve a say in this society. This is a rough poem that aims to explore this political phenomenon.

When we’re told it’s outside of our jurisdictions
we will lose our innate inhibition
to disagree with continuity for the sake of continuity,
sacrificing any remainder of fading ingenuity
condemning us to languish in abject perpetuity.

And don’t you know a riot is a gathering of three or four
semantic to turn peaceful protest into something more;
the demonisation of the lowers of this nation.
Eradication for the purpose of gentrification,
throwing us plebeians to disenfranchised obliteration.

The foxes lit the fire to smoke out the rabbit hole;
fangs stained with blood; hearts not quite as coal.
So we run to the peripheries, as outlaws of our energies,
howling the last of lamentation of our dying elegies;
victims on the altar of the unforgiving hegemony.