“I’m just a piece of machine…”

Image taken and edited by the author.

I sleep peacefully in a bed

Constructed of nightmares

And now decaying skin cells.

I am one with the dust.

Full body exfoliation

Long live the new Flesh

Renewed, fresh.

Videos of dogs for my


Stacking up finished books on my

bedside table.

The battered fragments of a prose poem.

Image taken and edited by the author.

I carry three generations of welders upon my weakened shoulders.

These black bags beneath my eyes appear to mean nothing to those who use their bodies.

The skin of my hands only ever gets tougher, creating callouses with malice by the sea, beneath…

A poem, titled after the record by The Roots.

Image by Priscilla Du Preez, via Unsplash.

Today the streets were emptied.

Cleaned by the monsoon

I walked on water

As I made my way upwards.

Lack of gravity and clarity.

I’m untouched by the forces

I dodged that broken glass

I stepped over used syringes

I’m affluent…

A poem

Image taken by the author.

Socialite students claiming to be socialists

Shaping their styles after faceless mannequins and statues

‘See somewhere along the line, she must have felt disconnected’

I see her spirit when the shadows pass and I’m feeling hectic.

I sit bitterly inside the cinemas, my eyes trail the lights in the roof

Reece Beckett

Nineteen year old poet, student and cultural critic. Check out my blog, ReeceBeckettReviews.com.

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