Graham Eccles

There’s no such thing as a lonely cloud

Wandering round here
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king of piel, lord of ale

hear the cryer wail
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His mind filled with his fathers’ stories of monsters in the wood

The wilful child started out to see if these tales were good
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a poet can write about a pebble and make a page of it
he'll tell you all about the texture, and any lumps or bits
he'll tell you how it feels to touch, and smell and see and taste
but by writing much about a pebble, an hour of time he wastes
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For too long now have we been oppressed

Our ancient languages suppressed
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Up the steeply sloped road, i tip tippy toed my way away over the hill

then i spied i a view, so i stood stiffly still 'til i'd greedily had my fill
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people keep thinking, for this is all that you've got,

not the treasures you surround yourselves with
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I want to hit you with my word-stick

It’s for your own good you know.
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You would have been my sunshine

For you I would have died
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Why should I move?

What have I got to prove?
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Not again! The Russian always turned up.

Like a bad penny; come in from the cold.
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I used to live on the roadside and make random art from rubbish i found.

Here is an ode to this peculiar passtime of mine, and a small nod to Mr Schwitters too.
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We hide our true nature behind our deeds and possesions

even unto our deaths.
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There was a time remembered fondly

when i was young and fair
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Rain hits the road like fireworks

Wet sparks flashing lighting up the earth
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Its something to do with the sound of tapping of fingers on keys as the words keep a wrapping themselves around me and i try to get free but the rhythm wont let me be. Its something about the noise as i shout at the people about the things that enrage me these days. I try to escape the cage, of the black and white page that ive been trapped inside since an early age but the elongated sentences that ive been dished out from the judge of the poetry slam, has made me turn out the way i have become, not a complete bum just a bit of one who fights with his tongue cos he cant use a gun and couldnt afford one if he wanted. I write automatic like a kalashnicovic machine gun would spray in a driveby, and when i read out loud it seems that im about to pop, but i dont i just keep my head afloat above the waters of chaos that try to drag me down and down as i splash my way around.

Its something that bubbles up from inside me, and i try to hide see, but often it finds me at three AM with hand on a pen and im at it again, not making much sense but not sat on the fence either, im right there in the middle, a poet who scribbles his random meanderings in no sort of order just comes as it ought to, and i rearrange later the scraps of the paper that i find just lying around. Theres many to be found in the pockets of my mind and the drawers of the time that ive wasted, and i should be frustrated by the way that im going, no sense of me slowing down as yet, i have big breaks but my mind still aches with craziness deep and i often feel bleak but i know its just the void a filling.
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star guided i walk, this world is mine

strange night mist shrouded time
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