Livi Topley Poems

So slow the minutes of the day,
Are etched in your hard wood floors.
In the charnel house, where your spirits lay,
Only resentment is something you adore.
...

Because we‘ll cross at crossing and talk of nothings, sucking on sucky sweets, wrapped in wrappings that we found at the back of your car.
And because we’ll sit in stillness as time washes through us, I’ll tune my bass and you’ll play your guitar.
Those couples that touch and rub, and make out their feelings are nothing but love, and we’ll just laugh because we can, because you put your hood up and cried into the lining of your coat.
Waiting for buses to stop at plastic posts and pretending we’re the type of folks that live in high places and know all the faces, because we can and we do.
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Her hair is just a combination of cheap blondes, slung across cold shoulders; she’s just waiting, so sick of waiting for something she knew would never happen.
And she’s stuck in white stilettos followed in broken buckles. She’s caught in a black and blue dress that swings on its own to a song that doesn’t make sense in a place that knots her up.
And there’s tears falling down her face that cut through her make-up and dribble off her chin.
And now the music’s pumping and she’s got her head in the clouds, sometimes that’s better then getting lost in the crowds.
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Ode to the boy with chocolate coloured hair,
Though views are sometimes ignored, his heart will never be shut out.
For the memories and moments locked away in golden seams,
They will never be tarnished, they will never be fractured.
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Again and again he cut the air with parts that splintered heroes that broke the fall of the dead, the wounded and the living.
He choked himself with his actions.
And now he see’s a blade disappear in the harsh, cold mud of war.
Oh reality, you bitter thing, you constant reminder of it all.
...

And there is a perfect moment, when we sit at the bottom and be,
There are no words to complicate, there is only you and there is only me.
By your feet there is confetti, that symbolises nothing, it is just there.
There is just an impulse that throbs like a heart beat, the constancy of reality.
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By candle light we wait, for the meaning of her gun to make sense,
For the pictures in her head to publish.
Forgive me lord, I have sinned.
And this time the pieces don’t fit together,
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And we feel these constant things,
these pieces, perfect pieces,
all arranged across the canvas in seperate rows and columns.
And self consciously we word our thoughts to a page,
...