The Great Writer

7:14am – Cowley Road

N.M.Pinnell — Sat, 11 Dec 2010 21:02:06 +0000

Dreaming of a normal day.

A bus ride home without incident,

or a walk of solitude.

Just my thoughts

mingling with the cold,

night air.

Too dark to see where i am.

too loud my music to think.

Peace has broken out

in my head.

Mery,

thank the lord.

M

N.M.Pinnell — Sat, 11 Dec 2010 20:53:16 +0000

Your beautiful.

All fur and intrigue.

As i leave this satellite,

to take my own orbit.

You give me inner peace,

and a fresh bag of carefully,

prepared Sandwiches.

My eyes look no further

than you.

The Last Pub in town which serves warm Beer

N.M.Pinnell — Fri, 10 Dec 2010 02:15:49 +0000

The lights are orange

No smoking ban will take away

the stains of tobacco and warm hearts

Men standing

Some playing pool

Others messing with the Jukebox

Hoping to find a song that can Cover

the unbearable howl of their own Existence

Raucous laughter as people spill out Into the alleyway

to discuss women

And roll cigarettes.

Each one of them leaves a terrible life At the door

Ex wives

Broken families

Joblessness

The recession

Broken teeth, or unfashionable clothing

But they come together Like they have always done

Great men People who know how to live

Who knew this was waiting for them Later in life.

They will stay too long

Knowing the consequences

Knowing what they will come home to

A prolonged and painful fight with the wife

Or a cold empty home which echoes and amplifies every sound they make.

Here they will stay Until their son’s school lunch money Is drunk

Or until that howl Becomes too much To bear

I always wanted to be a Rap Star

N.M.Pinnell — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 14:20:07 +0000

I always wanted to be a Rap star

But i never had cool enough friends.

As soon as i got to the level that i thought was the pinnacle

Someone aloof with better trainers(Creps) would turn up

and id have to start all over again.

But i wrote some tunes.

80% im not proud of,

10% i can recite today,

5% i cant work out my handwriting.

And another 5% hs ben forgotten like my first pair

of Reebok Pumps.

But some of it stayed with me.

A will to create.

An appreciation of a particular beauty.

A hatred of the mainstream and a hatred of

spit in your face manufactured culture.

Who knows

In Ten years i might be cool enough

Lets just wait and see……

The Final Godforsaken Act.

N.M.Pinnell — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 13:57:18 +0000

Sometimes the Rain brings with it

A wind that silences traffic.

A breeze that whistles passed your ears

clearing the noise of traffic away into the

Gutters.

Leaves take on a life of their own.

Entangling themselves.

Clipping your ears and generally

Acting the fool.

It proves that nature still has the final hand.

That even our vast structures could not withstand

The forces of the elements if they so choose

To destroy us.

And lets be honest,

I think we all want it to happen.

We save a piece in the back of our psyche.

In the back of our brains.

For the walls to come down.

For us to rush to our loved ones in vain.

We know its coming.

A biblical atrocity

To wipe clean the white board,

To revert back to norm.

To erase the memories.

The Heart has a will of its own

N.M.Pinnell — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 13:00:18 +0000

Round the snooker table she walked
Leaving behind her a trail of sex and high spirits
She was the last pure rose I ever saw
And when I followed her out of the building
Down the steps and out into
The cold night air,
even the overwhelming smell of street garbage
Could not take my attention from her wiggling behind
She leapt into the taxi with an assurance that defied her
Early age.
Through the smoked glass of the window
I could see her pull her purple Skirt to cover her
thighs
She didn’t wave with her hands
but her eyes passed over me twice
And I felt more alive then ever.

Life

N.M.Pinnell — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 12:52:20 +0000

The Sun Beats down and I sneeze.

The rain comes down and I sneeze.

The daylight rises and I get a headache from being up

too early staring at this screen.

As the daylight fades my head starts to ache from trying to

read a 1979 chapbook from David Barker.

There appears to be only a window of opportunity

just before full solar eclipse and the darkness it throws upon the earth.

Even now the suns glare makes reading what I type on the laptop virtually impossible,

so I will head to the conservatory where there is shade but also the smell of paint,

which gives me a headache.

Maybe God is a critic after all.

Anthony

N.M.Pinnell — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 12:47:30 +0000

I’m sorry I did it

You came crawling along my shoe and i flicked

you with my left index finger,

right into the spinney fingers of the hungry spider.

You don’t belong to the same laws, logic or reasoning that I do.

I don’t know if you have a family or if you will be missed or even noticed.

I thought the same thing just the other night at work, this time when I stood on a snail.

My walk to the smoking shelter had indeed been the walk of the executioner

I only realised when I heard the cracking of shell underfoot.

But you Ant, or did you prefer Anthony?

You I flicked because you annoyed me,

it was my house you crawled in to.

It was my dirty Nike trainer that you decided to treat like an assault course.

But if a human did that would i throw him into the cage with the Lions?

Probably.

A surrealist dream

N.M.Pinnell — Sat, 24 Apr 2010 12:10:04 +0000

Your face covered in beetles

black and white shells scrabble for flesh

just a mop head full of grey to black hair with a brush of non existent fringe

maggots flick there bodies amongst the foliage

hundred of them cuddle up to me

rotting fruit let of a smell of death mixed with summers gone

and all I can think of is setting you alight to burn away the bad dreams

they feed on my scar tissue they feed on my thoughts

death I everywhere

in my soup

in the bread I rip apart

in the wooden chair that I sit on

and I think of you every night

blank

passed

alone.

Im Sat Here

N.M.Pinnell — Sun, 21 Feb 2010 15:55:49 +0000

So I sit here

Smoking these cigarettes that make me ill

Drinking this beer that makes me tired

Watching the world as it creates and digests

on a Sunday afternoon

Everyone seems happy but it cant be true

Because in the back of my mind I know

The weekend is nearly over

Gnawing its way to the forefront like a child

Chewing his comfort blanket

Away from home

Wasting the last hours like I do every weekend

If only we could adjust the scales

Press the pause button

Stop the tape

Like an old C90 with no label

And when you find a tape recorder

And you put it on

All you can hear is feedback

And the fuzz of Saturday vanishing

Monday is looming overhead

I can see his horns in his shadow