Richard Hobley

Left-wing, on/off insomniac, screenwriter, poet, fan of all things surreal or a bit edgy, hates control, dark, changes his hair, insecurely over-confident, lost in himself, faithless but faithful, a lover of time: somewhat of a beautiful head fuck.

“That was the best way I could think to describe myself. I tend to write my best work sitting on the roof of my garden shed, late at night, trying to write in straight lines lit by moonlight and the odd match flame.”

The Flower above the Office

Standing on the bridge of normality,

breathing in absolution.

I was

tricked to talk like top hats

by a corrupted illusion.

Paintings of glory hide velvet blood.

Living like seagulls,

I was

falsely flattered by thieves.

Russell dreams the chicken tolls.

Counting up your greed is watching decay

thriving in the ant passage.

I was

lead to live like Logan,

confused over the Lord’s message.

Judging with brief glimpses on silhouettes,

life becomes a skyscraper.

I was

promised by puppeteers

that life was so beautiful.

Yet the flower deceives perception.

Who are you when the lights go out?

The Pebble and the Twig

Breathe in the frail smoke before my lips,

And kiss me with your eyes.

Where are you today?

In forests of fear, holding homes where I am not welcome.

The pebble or the twig in the river?

Together they’ll sink.

Breathe in the frail smoke before my lips,

And calm me with your lies.

Where are you tonight?

Dreaming of dawns that rise without the scars and the drain of me.

The pebble dare not go without a fight.

Afraid to swim.

Breathe in the frail smoke before my lips,

And trap me with your thighs.

Where were you last night?

Living in fantasies that I am but a whisper of.

The twig is broken beyond your repair.

Try as you might.

Breathe in the frail smoke before my lips,

And keep me with your smile.

You are here right now.

Alive and excited by truth dressed up deceivingly.

Washed ashore fate brings us together now.

Until Spring comes…

Then where will you be?

I Am Man

I’m bored of living for the sake of living.

I stand here before your glass skulls,

And mirrored hearts,

And I believe.

I dress myself in cotton skin

To weave my webs of advancement.

I fall in love with my dream.

But I am hollow.

My lying lungs inhale the words of

Untruthful tongues.

I breathe your hope,

And I exhale your scars.

Whispers of echoes that never began

Roam the red skin of my dreams.

I live like I know.

Red is a colour.

I live in splendour,

Whilst my heart dines in poverty.

A thousand years, a thousand tales.

I am man.

Man exists. Man does not live.

Little Boy

She captures you within her portrait

Of coffee stains she left behind.

But tonight I am just a boy in a photograph,

Without my freckles, but with my theatre masks.

Now my eyes are battered blue.

I’m so tired of watching fiction

And tasting those kisses that pretend to matter.

Can you tell me Winter isn't on your lips?

Tension constructed from broken bricks.

You are the Queen of Hearts.

I’m caged within this freedom.

How do I know who I am anymore?

Wearing a dress size that's slightly too small,

Trying to be somebody new.

The laced complexities I watch within raindrops

Turn our smiles into shivers.

Like a ship with no sail, I'm stranded here.

Or maybe it's just where I belong.

Cry, boy.