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
a pallette smudged in
She’s bent bristles,
a crooked-legged easel,
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.
Available collected in Mine: Body & Soul
You lose something.
And you know it’s gone,
beyond a lost and found
but you still,
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
We can wear the hope as a hood,
as a cape,
and make the wishes true,
slay the dragon,
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.
tempered by its pain,
Smashed rose-tinted windows
until nothing now remains.