Poetry: Selections from Scott Cumming



Grown

I have grown into my cynicism
Sleepwalked into depression
Eye-rolled into unfeeling
Nodded into perpetual indecision
Now, left
head-scratching
staring into
the nothingness of clouds
searching for answers
long departed.



Sandbagging

Positivity
written in sand
washed clean
baggage and carcasses
the only remnants
 
Cliff face of my psyche
erodes quicker with years
no hand holds left
with which to drag myself back  
even for brief respite
upon a secluded perch
 
In the rocks and waves
I lurk harmlessly
Head drifting above water
Mind swirling the basin
seeking life raft
or any old detritus
A way to reach the shore
another crustacean corpse
to be stomped
ignored.



Thirty-Seven

Rock n Roll stuck it out
while it could
accessorised
aesthetic prized
the rest left
to wither on the vine
 
The outlaws
died dishonourably
no more romance
done sticking it to the man
just scraping each other
from the hull
scooping what we can
fading to black
 
Now I’m the dad
stuck looking at the past
searching for totems
not decayed in sanitiser
Asking
how do you sow the seeds
for something
that disappeared
 
Rebellion these days
elicits
the same shrugs and sighs
as the corruption
and incompetence
that govern our lives.





Scott Cumming never considered himself to be a writer until recently, but turns out he has some stuff to say. He has been published at The Daily Drunk, Punk Noir Magazine, Versification, and Shotgun Honey. His poem, “Blood on Snow”, was voted the best of Outcast Press Poetry: Things We Carry issue and his debut poetry chapbook is due for release in December.

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