Livi Topley Poems

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The Definition Of You And Me.

Don'T Ignore Me.

Incomplete Perfection.

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.

The Distant Thinker.

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.

Soft Salted Seas.

Just That Girl.

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.

Hardwood Floors

On hard wood floors we eat our hard wood appetites, dowsed like liquored up addicts we beat and repeat and repeat the same monotone syllable lunch time.

We live in thatch houses ashamed of the stereotype, the stuttering days of yesterday, precarious swearing on our mortal tongue, slathering we pass our kisses on the crack on his head, he might be dead. We know he is suffering; we suffer too, laughing through his gritted fingers he keeps in, stifling.

The Boy.

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.


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.

The Feeling.

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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