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Karl Thompson

of

Newcastle Upon Tyne, England, UK

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Smoke Mek I

by

Karl Thompson

Smoke mek I high
Write I poetry
Smoke mek I life, man
Smile back at me
Smoke mek I think
So i think and I smoke
Write I poetry
Try invoke
Try provoke
Try
Cause a likkle thought
Mek a likkle stir
Get a likkle high vibe buuzzin'
In de atmosphere
Smoke mek I go all reggae an sunshine
Smoke mek I write 'bout life so fine
Smoke mek I high write high poetry
Smoke mek a high poet inna me, see
Smoke mek a angry man chilled an nice
Smoke mek you think 'bout one thing
Twice
Smoke mek you feast
Anna smoke mek you jest
Smoke put ya busy mind
At ease an at rest, see
Smoke mek you wind down
If you been wound up
If you get wound up wind down wid a spliff
Check de riff
And you'll see there's no treason
In chillin' out for no reason
Boy, it's just so pleasin'
And yes!
I is high
High is we
For smoke mek we feel chilled and happy
Or maybe write poetry
Or maybe not
No matter, see
Smoke mek I no care wether or not
There's no care about me, see
Smoke mek I high
Write I poetry.


Maybe (or dancer boy)

by

Karl Thompson

The rain is pouring.
I'm watching the drops from behind the window,
Liquid missiles melting on impact
SPLASH!
Falling, like distant memories in the night sky of my mind,
Slowly falling, silently,
Till it hits, then
SPLASH!
And I melt in the memory of that night, as I'm watching this kid, he's all of fourteen, down there on the dance floor. I've got a bird's eye view of what this kid can do, down in the crowd, and down in the crowd the people are noticing too- the moving mass of the dancelfoor's dance- breaking away, slowly making space. But the dancer doesn't notice. He's not even down there with them like they think, he's floating in the waves of the music, rising and falling in crescendos and breaks, moves and a groove- oh, yeah! This kid's got rhythm for blood, make no mistake. He's got the beat in his feet like his feet make the beat and his body is a resonator of the DJ's grace, sending out shockwaves of dance from the beaming smile of the dancer's smiling face and then, halfway between a dancing crowd and a dancing cloud, falls a raindrop of music. Like a tear from the eye in the sky.
Falling silently.
Till it hits, then
SPLASH!
And the rain keeps falling behind the window's cold glass.
I hate these long, dark, rainy days
Nothing but boredom to chase away the boredom
And even boredom becomes boring after a while
I swear, boredom is this country's biggest killer.
The orange glow of the street lamp
Is distorted by a myriad raindrops
Falling, exploding, crashing, splashing
It looks like a liquid air raid, a war on the glass
I can almost hear the sirens, air raid sirens
And I see the orange glow
Splash, drip, splash, drip, splash, drip, slip
Distant memories in the night sky flip
Send me on my memorical trip
And down that lane I dance, skip, dance, skip, dance
Dance, dance
Dancer boys' got a stage now, and applause
Whistles and cheers pierce the music in my ears but still he doesn't notice. Oblivious to the world around him, he is a living rhythm in the music and the lights. Dry ice and lasers surround him, he is living in the rhythm of the rhythm of the music and the lights, feeling so good, so fucking good! But now he needs a breather, and smiles as he spins around, notices the crowd, the whistles, the cheers, the offers of swigs from bottles of beers, bottles of water, pats on the back- then back to the dance. The crowd dissolve into a mass of heads moving, leaving the dancer looking bemused, confused. He's leaving the floor now, searching, but he can't see me up here. I'm not really here at all, really. I'm just watching from the future, watching the raindrops, remembering.
Three of us, three kids, three friends, dancing away the weekends on a binge of pills and amphetamine, good times! Yeah, they were good times and I still swear by them to this day- no matter how it ended. 'Cos you know good times can't last for ever, but who gives a fuck about forever when now is the moment we dance in, dance in, dancing. Dancer boys' looking for his friends now, they see him, but he can't see them in the crowd. He's lost, he has lost it. They can see the panick on his face, the sweat on his brow, so they barge through the bodies bouncing to the beat, but it's like a mission impossible carving a path, so they call out his name. But over the bass lines and chat up lines they might aswell be miming. When they finally reach him, he looks worse than they thought, his skin is all blotchy and patchy, his eyes are all bloodshot. Sweat is pouring from him like the monsoon began over his head. One of them suggests fresh air, cool things down, five minutes outside and
things will be fine. But when they get there it's not. He feels so hot. His body is burning and he's stood there shivering, hands in pockets with chattering teeth. They're really worried now, that this could be a bad case of heatsroke, or dehydration, or both. Not the sort of thing that would be good for thier epileptic friend. Not good at all. Even the doormen are beginning to notice that things aren't quite as they should be, but it's ok says one, he's just on a downer, nothing to worry about. So he nods his head like he's seen it all before, and he has, but when he turns his back, the dancer drops to the floor. Like somebody stole his bones. His eyes roll into the back of his head, glowing white neon as his body begins to violently tremble and twitch. Skeletal smashing spasms rip through his body, creamy foam drips from the side of his mouth. They can hear the thudding of the bass from the club and see the lights flashing, and for a second, just a split second, they feel
like they're tripping on paranoid thoughts, that the dancers' not really fitting at all but dancing. Boy dancer, rhythm for blood, see him go! But no. He's stopped his dance on the wet floor. Moving no more, just breathing. Just.
It took an age for the ambulance to arrive and when it did it was too late. He was gone, dancer boy, rhythm for blood.
And I laugh to myself as I stare out of the window, not because it was funny you understand, but because he was one of the best. I fucking loved that idiot. And yeah, maybe we shouldn't have been in the club at that age, maybe we shouldn't have been taking the pills and the speed, maybe the doorman should have stayed with us, maybe someone who was there was someone who knew what to do, maybe this is one of those maybes' that wont happen to you, maybe it was meant to be, maybe it wasn't, it may be that I'll never know, but it may just be that, whatever happens, there's always a maybe. Because shit, it could have been me, maybe.
But, you know, the sad thing is, maybes' don't make any difference at all. The rain will still fall behind the window's protection, spurring the call of boredom's reflection. Memories lost and memories found. Maybe memories make the world dance around.
And out of the window, in the break of a cloud
The sun sends down a rainbow
A colourful smile
Like the smile of a dancer boy riding the crowd
Somewhere up there
Out there, and yeah
Maybe tommorrow will be a nice day
You never know
Maybe...


Shame

by

Karl Thompson

Ears had eyes
He could see
But he was always deaf
To advice
Shame, really
He could have been
A good father


Life

by

Karl Thompson

I love life
Life loves me
Life is a game of chances
Life is sweet
Life is one big roller coaster ride
If life was a joint
I would smoke it
But life is a challenge
Life gets you down
Don't have much money
But I don't half see life
But it's a dogs life
This life
That's life
A bitch
And then...
Ah, fuck it


Wicked Is The Woman

by

Karl Thompson


Wicked is the woman
Sedutctive in her stance
Passion her persuation
I'm trapped inside her glance
Wicked is the woman
Decieves me with desire
Surrounds me in sensation
Im stripped of my attire
Wicked is the woman
Conscious of her cause
Pre-occupied with pleasure
I'm held in by her claws
Wicked is the woman
Satisfied by sin
Flesh her only feeling
Wicked from within

But hey, aren't we all.