The Flowers In Your Garden

Your garden on the corner
sits and waits to alure
to lead astray
innocent passers by.
You cannot live the scents
you won’t survive without the roses
the blossoms around you.
They must smother you
and others
are drawn in through the
red bushes and the yellow bushes
scattered in your Heaven.
Flowers surveying the wind
and sending out “love” and “peace”
and “be what you want”
“who you are.”
Like alcohol it works everytime.
For why not? Led in drawn into your garden.
Deeper and further on the grass
through the stalks
fresh the smell of Vermouth
in my mouth and my mind.
Hitting and tickling
“Come on! Come further! Come in!” said the spider…
I believe in me
and all I do
I have confidence
these beautiful flowers all around me
tell of cool things and nice tunes
and wonderful things like those…
then I draw I too am led astray
one more sip and I’ll be away
but am stopped.
Your garden triumphs once again
on the corner
down the road and full of pretty flowers.

Frozen Ices

Blind I am, and
Deaf I am, and
Dumb though I trip go
The smells get over,
No odour more spelling
Than that rumaging
In your empty stomache.
The boy you never knew
Rushes past and pushes
Foreign jellied smells
Upon your memory
You never knew,
But now you do
And you never shall forget
The beauty. The want.
Day alleys down wander
Stunned and stenches
Made niceties by powder
Muffling the horrid odour
And weaning it to your
Tase. How nice it is,
Frozen ices.

Left Evidence

THERE IS A BUSH THAT BURNS,
THERE IS A FIELD THAT NEVER LEARNS,
AND TAKES IN CHILDREN SUNDAYS
JUST FOR GAMES AND INNOCENT PLAYS.
LITTER PIECES LIE ABUSED AROUND
THE DIRT EDGES OF THE HOVEL.
DUST FILLED PACKETS CRUMPLE
AND COWER AROUND MY HEAP.
MY SECRET EXPECTATIONS I KEEP.
THE DECAYING BRANCH ARRIVES.
HOT, STINKING ASH STAINS THE AIR.
GREY, NO HEART, NO FACE OR HAIR.
FLOG MY FLESH, FLOG ME CHEAP,
THE DANGEROUS PLEASURE IN BEING
WANTED, THE NEED BE LUSTED.
FLOG ME BLIND, STRAIN MY LIMBS,
AND GRIEVES.
I HAVE NO MORE WANT OF LEAVE.
I CAN NO MORE BE INNOCENT
THAN TO BE DEAD.

Curl Up And Die

2 nights running
the bird with the cobalt blue
beak and neck which this family
had acquired as new
sat in the north-west corner
of whichever room we chose
to inhabit, so it couldn’t run
or escape to its fatal foes.

but the bird who couldn’t run
as long as it was sat
in a northern westerly corner
looked grim, sad and flat.

I loved the thing so unknown
that I shouted at my world
and upon the first acceptable thing
I loved, myself I hurled…
“I love you, don’t go”
but it was cruelty
and only the blindness of charity
is too stuborn to see.

so I put it in a Southern corner
to see if it could fly.
the following morning I cried
to see the bird curl up and die.

Mine

down here is close and stale
and egg-like, my head is
small and tense and tight.
down near by you is
dense with breath filled air,
loud ambience upon my ears.
of what line of fault did
you become to keep me here,
my kept head fears this dark
lit brown – your presence –
I would not see by choice.
sat tucked and tired, my
ear drums ache with dread
for final death, the crumble and
approach that is your voice.

Mist

what will I wear,
what shall I wear,
what shall I do with my hair?
I’ll wear my black,
my sweet, and we’ll smoke
’til the smoke comes
out our ears. we will

clamber out of the valley,
climb up the mountain,
my feet will drink the grass
and our breath will evaporate.

you tie a bow
so it sits on your head,
then we’ll dance ’til
the steam rises
from our feet and evaporates.

Raindown The Window

He peed against the trough
like rain against the roof.
Take me there.
Newspaper cutting walls
and drunken acoustic balls.
Take me anywhere.
She smiled so sweetly
whilst pursing her lips, neatly.
Her head nodded once
and twice, four times,
rotating, my head followed
while my inners swallowed.
The walls nodded; bottles bowed;
the ceiling too; all joined in.
Speak deep – speak in my head,
grind your tones in my throat.
Too hot. Sleeves
too long – cast aside my coat.
Rain down the window
like steam on my showered forehead.
Body odours killed and dead
but still the toilet stinks.
It’s all too dirty – he thinks,
and slams the door out of there.
Take me anywhere.
Bum perched, in training,
she sat, legs curled under the pinning
of her piece of skirt.
Yet who when it’s she
who believes that I’m empty?
I am full of alcohol –
my veins injected pure and full.
She is the original angry young cat
and she hates me!

Tease

the movement in my arm from warm
to gradual chilled existence as the
nerves begin to wake and regain sense.
both limbs recapture consciousness as
I again can breath, under flourescence.
lights, above my body, show me tense.
pinned down like an insect but not beautiful,
not similar to a butterfly,
but still, it is of course my own fault.
I should hide and not exist – be numb,
no blood, just dumb, or dead, my curse
that I am made of flesh instead of salt.

Little Things

little things please little minds
if you can get them up,
if you can find a mouth to fit
your dreams tonight.
chase the length and
breadth of me,
cut the wires in my back,
and waken me tonight.

Spontaneous Human Combustion

explosive character – you ruined my night!
I bought you a drink and you went and combusted.
clever tricks like that aren’t perfected overnight,
your love for cabaret has made you lusted.
attention seeker, in death as in life,
as ever, you left ’em crying for more.

One More Taste

don’t look at me,
I’ll only laugh;
you’ll say I’m such a waste.
don’t touch my tongue,
when I say stop,
don’t ask for one more taste.
just one more drop,
you’ll have to stop…
great errors made in haste.

Instant Bereavement

What would you like?
All I can make is tea.
What shall I say – all
I can think is lines of words.
I’ll wash the dishes. You just
sit there and have a drink
while I tidy up this mess –
It saves me having to think.
Did I actually sleep six hours?
Has all that time passed by
like Christmas Eve, and morning
has arrived sudden but awaited.
Fed up with my company
am I now – I can’t think why.
I could go out, I could sleep,
drink, write, cry, die.

The Inner Within

I’ve been as fas as I can go,
but only with myself.

through the physics of love
and mental breakdown;
depression and petulance;
I have been within.

I cannot believe a love for me
possessed by someone else.
it cannot be and shall not see
the light of my heart.
I’ve been as close as I dare go
to that fickle flame,
and only I will feel its cold…

Sourgrapes

what shall I do?
whatever it is,
it won’t involve you.
whereever I go,
away from here
where you can’t know,
YOU’LL STILL BE THERE.

whatever I chance,
are you threatened
by my independance?
I’LL STILL BE LOVING YOU.

there’s me and thee
and me and myself.
YET IN DEATH WITH YOU I DIE.

10 BEARS

through the doors of bedrooms
you can hear my songs.
if you listen close enough
you can hear my heart.
I fill pages of books
with thoughts about you,
still I live off your looks,
my tongue set alight.
through the folds in my jeans
you touch where I feel,
as cootchie as ten bears,
my god, I could hug you!
but you must love me
from your heart
before you can tear me apart.

Go Home To Mother

even his long-time love
who said she’d never desert him
has failed him.
where is she now the line has cleared?
the warmth is cut like ice, for
she is cruel and cold – he’s bitter.
this flaxon haired – and bonny-built
lad has saved one hundred pages
in his diary for her.
she shows no emotion.
all pinafore strings are severed,
cut with blades of frozen sweat,
he falls apart from long-time lover:
he could always go home to mother.

Headache

morning sweetness!
I woke today
with you on my mind.
while hot and bothered
I felt your arms
as I showered.
hot and horny I
thanked my stars
I had woken without
you on my pillow,
and I hadn’t been raised
on “Ask The Family”
or you might have slept
with me in my bed
and there could have been
a hot-crossed bun
in the oven by now.

I’ll Phone You

I’ll phone you from work –
I’ll feel safer there.
my brain will be on,
have been exercised
and I’ll be amongst
fellow people and machines
that will rush together
to support my mass
if I fall from the chair
when I hear you speak.
I’ll stay late and I’ll phone
where I’m safe and sound;
where you’ll be a voice
like the others thru’ the day.

Charming,sensitive

you like talking
and the sound of your voice.
I like listening and playing your accent.
you give what you want
and I take what I need.
now smell the curries and valium
and mountains of cream in my teas.
how I’d love to cry
but there’s nothing to cry for;
and I grow everytime
in a charming, sensitive way.

Modelling

I could have been a model,
so I haven’t been told:
I do not have a neck
which could commercially
be sold.
it’s been said
that I have not the head
with correct structure,
the bones are scaffolded,
my skin is folded,
the cheeks are tucked:
my modelling career is
not very promising.

Glass Box In Vision – Part 3

I wilt and I thin
For glassier days,
Of insects on the playground.
Sun scorched tarmac
Warm to my heart,
My golden childhood crowned.

The valleys of grey
Beckon me on
To the snow and deep stiring streams.
But gone are the days
Of daisy flood hills
Left in the oakend and ashen dreams.

This power of attorney lays down my life,
Thus, my life I must lay down too.
Gone,

Show Biz Superstar

Show Biz Superstar cover
A selection from “Show Biz Superstar”
by Scott Hill.
Originally 81 works spanning August 1988 – August 1990
Executive producer: Bobby Bristol for Scottsburg Productions 1990
Artwork by Alma Weldon and Scott.
Published by SCH copyright on all titles 6th September 1990

East India

East India cover
A selection of East Indian overtones.
East India was published in 1987 by Scott Hill.
Copyright S.C Hill 1987, Patent S.C Hill 1991

Ruth

Ruth

Ruth was published in “Seven Sisters”, February 1987
Copyright S.C Hill 1987, Patent S.C Hill 30th June 1991

Safe Sex

she’s dead,
dead good
in bed,
on her head;
in the air;
thru’ the hair,
envy her there.
find me often
dancing in her
underwear,
wearing in her
bright new pair
of shoes.

About the poetry

The poetry collections on this web site represent the work during Scott Hill’s most prolific period – through the late eighties and very early nineties. Scott’s pen ran dry around 1993, but that’s hardly surprising as it was around then that he had his first requited relationships: with people and with music. There was just no longer any need for pen and paper when Scott could chew the ears off his friends, and make new friends through dance.

Scott misses writing. Long before the web presented a new creative outlet, Scott was able to not only communicate but do so in a way that allowed him to design, engineer and produce. But as much as Scott misses writing, he prefers chewing the cud and laughing with his friends. Maybe one day if his friends stop listening, the pen and paper will be there for him.

Best Before End Of

I’ve this spinning top inside me
Spinning far too fast.
It sparks in all directions,
Each spark hits home a truth,
I can no longer handle,
And bearance is a memory.
Blinkered, blind and bottled,
Where is tomorrow when
There’s nothing inbetween,
No understanding, no wanting.
Too much is wrong but
My resistance is gone.
A breeding ground for more
Of less, self denying, self consuming.

Don’t Waste It On A Lover

your precious love –
take it out on friends and others.
reclaim what you wasted
and reapply
to friends and significant others.
there is no other.
no matter what guise,
under the influence
of fluid or gin,
no other like mother.
don’t waste it
on a lover.