1229-3007

Seems these days that I write more than one poem a day and I dont title anything anymore so everything is just gunna turn into dates - whatever. I divide each poem by a little line and a copyright thing. Thanks for reading.

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122907am(3)
I want to pull
HAND CANONS
Out of my sweatshirt
And paint the word “LOVE”
With bullets and bullet holes
Wait… ive got it all wrong you say?
O dear,
I better take these clips
Out of my hand canons
I better erase what I know
About the word “LOVE”

::START OVER::
I want to give
HAND CANONS
To preschoolers
Chewing gum mid-play
And then have them
All
DROP IT
So that peace
Could be possible
someday
and love
could find a way.

Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

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123007(am)
Dim the conversations
Echoing inside your head
Make them like these rooms
Only half lit by naked bulbs
Make them something
Seen and not heard
Take those words
Dropping off mind lips
And hang them up
Effervescent and lovely
Recycled from the day’s
Worth of words we hear.
The song plays background
Filler:
Do you still remember
When we were little
We would play in the park
And you asked what happens
When we die
I SAID we forget everything.
It reminds me of
A childhood in London
The circling streets
The swarms of crowds
The day trips to the park
Where I would run
And run and climb trees
Where even the dingy city
Seemed to be ablaze
With summer light
And the car rides home
Streets moving like a slideshow of
Black and white photography
Depicting city
Painting loneliness
Screaming desperation
Crying inherited sorrow.

This is where we go

**Song lyrics from Ólafur Arnald’s “Himinnin er ad hrynja”

Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

for the War Children

Oh look, wasn’t Suzy a pretty young lady?
Shame about the stray bullet that popped her head.
And look at little James, wasn’t he handsome?
Shame about the napalm that melted his face.
Hey, there’s his friend: little Rafael – wasn’t he so big for his age?
Shame his village was disintegrated by an atomic blast.
Check out Jennie – wasn’t she so smart even for a child?
Shame a group of soldiers raped her and left her dead.
And look at all the parents weeping at the funerals
Blaming everyone but themselves.

Those who are directly affected by war
Are our [war] children who inherit
Our violence and hate.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Another peom from the wilderness series

101107
Ive got this late night
Search warrant
Fueled by tea
Dizzying thoughts
A child stares at me
From the steam
PG Tips - slow slips
The child: blue eyed,
Blonde haired,
Sad, confused, lost
I know him well
His hidden tears
The way he will declare
War on friends, family,
Then when no one is left:
Himself.
I know how he shakes
With booming emotions
Trapped and bottle necking
Into a sweet therapeutic addiction
I know how he will search
Through canvases
Crowds, love, drugs,
Religion, fights, women,
Fashion, ego, hate—
Trying to find himself
Where he left off
So many years ago
I know how he can’t
Conjure up the words
Allowing him freedom
I know how he analyzes
His every footstep
His every utterance
His every thought
I know how he cries
I know how he will
Forget how to cry,
How to feel, how to love,
How to express anything
Besides bipolar pendulum
Swayings between negative
And overwhelming positive
I know how he won’t
Be able to accept
Who he is until
He is stuck play acting.


Most of all,
I know how he will be up late
With a warm cup of tea
Staring through the steam
At things that aren’t really there.
Oh, I know these things all to well
If only I could spare him
If only.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.