A scuffed beatnik heart riding nowhere-rails,
shoulders a bindle bursting with damned hymns.
Spirit full of hollow, head full of clouds,
crooked bones rusted beneath old-iron limbs.
Just pocket-change notions for a pillow,
a trade of a song for a fleeting stay.
No fixed abode, a balladeer roaming
in search of destination on the way.
Cameron Lincoln 2017
Collected in Sideways Rain
We met at crossroads, come from opposites,
but I had a feeling you’d walked furthest.
I’d brought a heartful of battered-dull dreams,
and intent to make a regrettable deal.
You’d packed lunch, wore a smile to beat the devil,
spoke in lyrics that were nothing but true.
To this day I write far sweeter music,
because I sold my soul to you instead.
Cameron Lincoln 2017.
Collected in Sideways Rain.
She’s ink and charcoal
on canvas unprimed,
pencil shavings and
spilled thinner,
a pallette smudged in
zig-zagging rainbows.
She’s bent bristles,
the rain-kissed
sketchbook, streaking,
a crooked-legged easel,
spattered with
works unfinished.
She’s the clumsy shades,
the awkward hues,
creativity you can’t
keep within the lines.
Cameron Lincoln. 2017.
You’re the liquid silk within my lungs,
the perilous velvet upon my tongue.
You’re the filthy habit I cannot break,
I crave your taste when I awake.
My devil-sent weakness, my favourite vice.
Danger’s delight, naughty and nice.
Addicted, enslaved, in clouds of sin.
I’ll light you up, and suck you in.
Within my soul you twist and taint.
You dizzy, dazzle, leave me faint.
You roll and drift, you coil and curl.
My nerves are raw without you, girl.
The lingering scent on fingertips,
your fiery kiss upon my lips.
Unfiltered, toxic, my senses crash.
I’m left as vapour, reduced to ash.
Cameron Lincoln
Available collected in Mine: Body & Soul
You lose something.
Something huge,
irreplaceable.
And you know it’s gone,
irrevocably,
beyond a lost and found
but you still,
every day,
pat your pockets
just in case.
Cameron Lincoln 2018
I believe in fairytales, in fantasy,
because they have hope.
The news has little
to bolster, to assure us
that we’re better.
We don’t need to wear
the doom and the gloom
as armour.
We can wear the hope as a hood,
as a cape,
and make the wishes true,
slay the dragon,
and soar.
Cameron Lincoln 2018
The future happened yesterday,
tomorrow fell at dawn.
Hindsight sits awaiting,
silent and forlorn.
Potential dried and withered
as prospects never were.
A month of Sundays marched
to battles not occurred.
Time’s arrow left its quiver,
blunted, veering, dull.
Lost in a maze of retrospect,
amongst best laid plans’ cruel cull.
Nostalgia’s optimism,
tempered by its pain,
Smashed rose-tinted windows
until nothing now remains.
I’m looking back over old stuff to post again, remembering inspiring moments, and struggling to remember others. The genesis of a thought, the spark of an idea, so often gets jumbled with the day to day. It’s been a busy year, and certain things feel like I wrote them two years ago. The date stamp on the pieces shows other wise. Older pieces often feel like they were written by someone else entirely, a version of myself that’s been all but washed away eroded by the accumulated storms of living, old skin scrubbed away and out to sea.
19/9/17
Roller Grrl
A bubble-gum sneer and
socks up to skinned knees,
not scuffed solely from tumbles.
The unbashful bruises bared
are born of tight-curved speeding
and unpadded, wild rides,
hip-whipping, hard jamming,
climaxing in the
spills she loves most.
She’s trundled over a score of
polished boards and eager hearts
rolled back to her feet,
gravel-grazed and grinning,
blocking shame at every bend.
Cameron Lincoln 2017.
Cameron Lincoln. 2017
Cameron Lincoln 