One day i was sat on a bus.
Idly looking out of the window
a huge woman with a beard and
a winter coat sat opposite.
This i thought was strange as
it was the height of summer.
As i scanned her appearance i noticed
a small rodent, like a ferret in her sleeve.
I looked up at her hairy face and
her eyes met mine.
She jolted forward.
So close i could feel her breath on
my face and shouted.
"DONT YOU DARE LOOK AT MY ANIMAL!!!"
I waited until the next stop and slipped
off the bus.
From my journey i took this motto
Never trust women with Beards
Wednesday, 16 April 2008
Thursday, 10 April 2008
Grim Bones and the Cursed Fiddle
It was another lonely day for Grim Bones. He was walking near the old marsh, it was dank and smelly. These things aside it was peaceful; no one ever came round these boggy fields which was fine by Grim. People didn’t much like him because he looked so different. He had a ‘way’ about him they would say. So this left Grim here, alone. He would occupy himself with all manner of things. Sticks, stones and of course the Hanging Tree. He did sometimes get bored though. Today was one of these days. He decided to venture a bit further out into the marsh. It was here he made a great discovery. Poking out from the surface of the swampy clumps of grass was a case. It was brown and beaten. The golden clasp was caked with mud, but to Grims eyes it shone brighter than the sun.
He skipped across the stones until he was within touching distance of the case. He carefully pulled it out, noticing it wasn’t the briefcase shape he was expecting. This heightened his excitement. He dashed quickly back to the Hanging Tree where he spent most of his time. Shaking at the idea of what may lie inside the case.
He flicked the clasp and pulled open the lid. He was stunned at what he found inside. He reached in and dragged out a fiddle, and underneath a bow, both still remarkably dry. ‘What a miracle’ Grim thought.
Of course Grim had no idea how to play it; he had never had any formal education at all. But Grim was lucky also, he did have some friends. Unconventional friends though they may have been. You see, the Hanging Tree still has some residents. The ghosts of many of the people who died by the branch of the tree still remained. One of whom, who was the stroke of luck, was a famed concert violinist called Niccoló. Niccoló had been hung in 1699 for the murder of his wife. This aside, he had always been very nice to Grim. He proved this by offering to teach Grim how to play the fiddle he had found.
The lessons were gruelling; Niccoló was very demanding and would only stand for the best. Grim persevered and became very good, very quickly. This was mainly due to the fact Grim Bones was always lonely and ghosts had nothing but time. Grim excelled so fast that within a year he was almost as good as Niccoló himself. Something which irked the dead master.
Grim ignored Niccolós grumpiness and played on; in just another half year he had surpassed the great Niccoló and began to practise alone. Without really thinking he began edging closer to town. His playing had become so good, it seemed his feet wanted other people to hear. With every pull of his bow, his steps carried him closer to civilisation. The one day it happened. Grim had been playing behind the barber shop when a man, after receiving a shave, came around the back. Grim stopped playing immediately. There was a face off. They both just stared at each other until the man bellowed.
“Well Boy…Play something you strange looking fellow!”
Grim didn’t know what to do. His brain was telling him to run as fast as he could, get out of there to the safety of the marsh and the tree. But something kept him there, urging him to play. And play he did. He drew the bow back and flew into the music; he got carried away with it and didn’t stop until his hands hurt. He used every flourish and trick he knew. Only after the performance was over did he look back to the man. The man however was not standing. He was slumped on the floor bleeding from his eyes and clutching at his throat. This only surprised Grim in it wasn’t what he expected to see. Being someone who mingled with ghosts regularly he wasn’t easily fazed. However he did decide to get away before the man who did this came back, or worse, he got the blame for the dead mans condition.
As he ran away he noticed a poster for a talent competition. The site of the poster excited him; he was hungry for another audience so he signed his name on the bottom and dashed off.
For two days he spoke of nothing else to the ghosts of the Hanging Tree. They were all very proud of him apart from Niccoló, who was not so secretly jealous of Grims attention. Grim and the other ghosts ignored Niccoló, he was always a little grumpy and no one ever knew why.
The day finally came and Grim packed up his fiddle and made his way into town. All of the ghosts gathered round Grim to wish him good luck. Niccoló stayed on the highest branch with his back to proceedings. When Grim finally got into town he was due on the stage in five minutes. The other performers ignored Grim, as people usually did, but today it didn’t matter. Grim knew his talent and soon everyone else would as well.
The Time Came.
The applause stifled when Grim came out.
“Look at him mummy!”
“What is he doing here?”
Grim ignored all of the voices. This time he would show them, it would be he crowning glory and he would make sure to look at the crowd while he played so he could see their surprised faces.
The first notes sound.
Grim began to float on his music. Soaring. He sinks deep into his sound. He must have been playing for nearly a minute before he remembered to look up at the crowd, see their excited faces. But when he does finally look up, he doesn’t see excitement. The crowd are all clutching at their throats while blood seeps from their eyes. It seems to last a life time before he stops playing. Once he does stop, the crowd stop choking and gagging, their eyes dry up and slowly they begin to revert back to normal as if nothing had happened. As they wipe the last remnants of blood from their eyes they all look up at Grim.
“WITCH!”
“SORCERER!”
“DEEEEEMMMMOOOOOONNNN!”
The crowd all begin to scream at Grim while slowly rising to their feet and moving towards him. His period as an ice statue ended. He bolted out of the theatre and didn’t look back until he was back at the Hanging Tree. He climbed up to his favourite branch and began to sob. He didn’t get too long however as his sobs were interrupted by Niccoló sounding as out of breath as a ghost can.
“I’m so sorry Grim, so sorry” he looked Grim dead in the eye.
“I never should have let you go, but I wanted to pay them back, all those who punished me when it wasn’t my fault, I took the long drop an innocent man, and I guess now in death I have become guilty.”
Grim was confused. He didn’t really understand what Niccoló meant.
“Innocent Niccoló? Guilty? I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’ll tell you my pupil. It’s all about that fiddle, it’s cursed. I know this because it was mine, I made it. I knew from the first moment I played it, it was cursed. You see I made that instrument in hatred. I had been first chair in the orchestra for ten years, and then all of a sudden I was denied any seat at all. I wanted to show them so much, so I crafted a new instrument, born of my loathing for everyone who deprived of me what I wanted. Once it was completed my poor wife was the first to hear its deadly crescendo. When I saw her laying their like they do when they hear it, I knew the fiddle was evil. So I brought it out here to the marsh lands. I thought no one ever came out here so it would be safe. Just as I took it to a far point of the marsh, the mob caught up with me.”
“They thought you meant to kill your wife?” Grim asked, almost knowing the answer.
“Yes, they did. They got hold of me, hearing me shout madness of a cursed fiddle and dragged me to the Hanging Tree, where I was hung all those years ago. After what seems like a thousand lifetimes on this tree I grew bitter, I wanted to show all of those who had condemned me. I wanted revenge. So when you brought the fiddle back here I saw my chance, and now I’m guilty of murder, I deserved my sentence.”
At this Niccoló began to cry hysterically. Grim has trouble trying to get his attention, as you can’t exactly tap a ghost on the shoulder. When Niccolós sobs finally died down Grim told him that he had stopped before the crowd had met their end. How he had seen the evil working in the fiddle and stopped playing. Niccoló was ecstatic. He flew all around the Tree. His celebration was cut short however when Grim reminded him that he was owed a favour for the fact he could no longer go into town. Niccoló felt bad at this news.
Grim Bones didn’t really mind. The people in town didn’t much like him anyway, and he could play his fiddle as much as he liked because all of his friends were already dead. Niccoló did repay Grim the favour he owed him also.
But that is another story.
He skipped across the stones until he was within touching distance of the case. He carefully pulled it out, noticing it wasn’t the briefcase shape he was expecting. This heightened his excitement. He dashed quickly back to the Hanging Tree where he spent most of his time. Shaking at the idea of what may lie inside the case.
He flicked the clasp and pulled open the lid. He was stunned at what he found inside. He reached in and dragged out a fiddle, and underneath a bow, both still remarkably dry. ‘What a miracle’ Grim thought.
Of course Grim had no idea how to play it; he had never had any formal education at all. But Grim was lucky also, he did have some friends. Unconventional friends though they may have been. You see, the Hanging Tree still has some residents. The ghosts of many of the people who died by the branch of the tree still remained. One of whom, who was the stroke of luck, was a famed concert violinist called Niccoló. Niccoló had been hung in 1699 for the murder of his wife. This aside, he had always been very nice to Grim. He proved this by offering to teach Grim how to play the fiddle he had found.
The lessons were gruelling; Niccoló was very demanding and would only stand for the best. Grim persevered and became very good, very quickly. This was mainly due to the fact Grim Bones was always lonely and ghosts had nothing but time. Grim excelled so fast that within a year he was almost as good as Niccoló himself. Something which irked the dead master.
Grim ignored Niccolós grumpiness and played on; in just another half year he had surpassed the great Niccoló and began to practise alone. Without really thinking he began edging closer to town. His playing had become so good, it seemed his feet wanted other people to hear. With every pull of his bow, his steps carried him closer to civilisation. The one day it happened. Grim had been playing behind the barber shop when a man, after receiving a shave, came around the back. Grim stopped playing immediately. There was a face off. They both just stared at each other until the man bellowed.
“Well Boy…Play something you strange looking fellow!”
Grim didn’t know what to do. His brain was telling him to run as fast as he could, get out of there to the safety of the marsh and the tree. But something kept him there, urging him to play. And play he did. He drew the bow back and flew into the music; he got carried away with it and didn’t stop until his hands hurt. He used every flourish and trick he knew. Only after the performance was over did he look back to the man. The man however was not standing. He was slumped on the floor bleeding from his eyes and clutching at his throat. This only surprised Grim in it wasn’t what he expected to see. Being someone who mingled with ghosts regularly he wasn’t easily fazed. However he did decide to get away before the man who did this came back, or worse, he got the blame for the dead mans condition.
As he ran away he noticed a poster for a talent competition. The site of the poster excited him; he was hungry for another audience so he signed his name on the bottom and dashed off.
For two days he spoke of nothing else to the ghosts of the Hanging Tree. They were all very proud of him apart from Niccoló, who was not so secretly jealous of Grims attention. Grim and the other ghosts ignored Niccoló, he was always a little grumpy and no one ever knew why.
The day finally came and Grim packed up his fiddle and made his way into town. All of the ghosts gathered round Grim to wish him good luck. Niccoló stayed on the highest branch with his back to proceedings. When Grim finally got into town he was due on the stage in five minutes. The other performers ignored Grim, as people usually did, but today it didn’t matter. Grim knew his talent and soon everyone else would as well.
The Time Came.
The applause stifled when Grim came out.
“Look at him mummy!”
“What is he doing here?”
Grim ignored all of the voices. This time he would show them, it would be he crowning glory and he would make sure to look at the crowd while he played so he could see their surprised faces.
The first notes sound.
Grim began to float on his music. Soaring. He sinks deep into his sound. He must have been playing for nearly a minute before he remembered to look up at the crowd, see their excited faces. But when he does finally look up, he doesn’t see excitement. The crowd are all clutching at their throats while blood seeps from their eyes. It seems to last a life time before he stops playing. Once he does stop, the crowd stop choking and gagging, their eyes dry up and slowly they begin to revert back to normal as if nothing had happened. As they wipe the last remnants of blood from their eyes they all look up at Grim.
“WITCH!”
“SORCERER!”
“DEEEEEMMMMOOOOOONNNN!”
The crowd all begin to scream at Grim while slowly rising to their feet and moving towards him. His period as an ice statue ended. He bolted out of the theatre and didn’t look back until he was back at the Hanging Tree. He climbed up to his favourite branch and began to sob. He didn’t get too long however as his sobs were interrupted by Niccoló sounding as out of breath as a ghost can.
“I’m so sorry Grim, so sorry” he looked Grim dead in the eye.
“I never should have let you go, but I wanted to pay them back, all those who punished me when it wasn’t my fault, I took the long drop an innocent man, and I guess now in death I have become guilty.”
Grim was confused. He didn’t really understand what Niccoló meant.
“Innocent Niccoló? Guilty? I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’ll tell you my pupil. It’s all about that fiddle, it’s cursed. I know this because it was mine, I made it. I knew from the first moment I played it, it was cursed. You see I made that instrument in hatred. I had been first chair in the orchestra for ten years, and then all of a sudden I was denied any seat at all. I wanted to show them so much, so I crafted a new instrument, born of my loathing for everyone who deprived of me what I wanted. Once it was completed my poor wife was the first to hear its deadly crescendo. When I saw her laying their like they do when they hear it, I knew the fiddle was evil. So I brought it out here to the marsh lands. I thought no one ever came out here so it would be safe. Just as I took it to a far point of the marsh, the mob caught up with me.”
“They thought you meant to kill your wife?” Grim asked, almost knowing the answer.
“Yes, they did. They got hold of me, hearing me shout madness of a cursed fiddle and dragged me to the Hanging Tree, where I was hung all those years ago. After what seems like a thousand lifetimes on this tree I grew bitter, I wanted to show all of those who had condemned me. I wanted revenge. So when you brought the fiddle back here I saw my chance, and now I’m guilty of murder, I deserved my sentence.”
At this Niccoló began to cry hysterically. Grim has trouble trying to get his attention, as you can’t exactly tap a ghost on the shoulder. When Niccolós sobs finally died down Grim told him that he had stopped before the crowd had met their end. How he had seen the evil working in the fiddle and stopped playing. Niccoló was ecstatic. He flew all around the Tree. His celebration was cut short however when Grim reminded him that he was owed a favour for the fact he could no longer go into town. Niccoló felt bad at this news.
Grim Bones didn’t really mind. The people in town didn’t much like him anyway, and he could play his fiddle as much as he liked because all of his friends were already dead. Niccoló did repay Grim the favour he owed him also.
But that is another story.
The Beard
The beard is gone. Quite a task and one that has left a big hole in my life. It seemed that I changed with every millimetre of hair that grew on my face. I once believed that having a beard was the one thing missing. Silly though it may sound, I had an empty feeling, and struggled to find ways to fill it. For a short time the beard worked its magic, I was free and most definitely easy with the words I wrote. However many other things suffered because of the beard. But I might as well start at the begging.
The process of growing it had taken me the best part of ten years. It started when I was young and culminated while I was travelling. I had always wanted one but puberty had been a slow arrival for me and was denied the privilege of good facial hair until I was 25. The torture as I watched my friends’ groom, chop and clip their perfectly kept facial hair was unbearable. Then the dark stubble appeared. I kept shaving. I heard once that the more one shaved the quicker hair would grow back. I had been shaving aggressively for 8 years and it finally it seemed there was a pay off.
This gave me confidence. I was not bad looking, had always been average with women but felt I had something missing. My writing, if you can call it that was poor, and no one paid any heed to it. My skills in other areas were no different to anyone else. I needed something and now I had it. I’d been planning on travelling for a long time and it seemed a perfect time to get away. Starting in France I would chase the sun east through to Asia. I booked, said my goodbyes and left. The people I was bidding goodbye to didn’t know I was actually saying goodbye to my average self. Upon my glorious return I would be sporting the best facial hair around.
My travels taught me a lot about life, the way people work and I started to write pages upon pages a day. No subject was beyond my reach, philosophy (of which I wrote several thesis’ on) religion and politics were all paints at the tip of my brush. The process of growing the beard was something that after time I forgot. It no longer seemed to matter that I had a bushy beard, it was far more important the things I was getting down onto paper. I was genuinely of the faith that I could change the world with my ideas, and various people whom I met along the way were of the same belief. The minute any person begins to believe that they will have an important mark on the world a terrific burden of pressure comes with it. The things I was writing caused me to feel like Atlas astride two mountains with the whole world on my shoulders.
Before I realised it I had been away for three years and I looked like a wise hermit who had just come down from his cave to discover humanity. I had been sending all of my work back home while I was away but my rucksack was still brimming with pages. When I got off the plane I was greeted like a returning hero. Comments flew forth about my beard and the work I had been sending back. A local paper was there comparing me to Ghandi in my quest to discover the depths of humanity and save the world from the grip of capitalism, war and strife. I thought all of this was a bit far fetched. Yes, what I was writing was of importance but Ghandi, everyone seemed to be a little over excited. Of course my beard helped me to look worldly and intelligent. Almost like it was a statement of difference in itself.
My works were published by the volume. I was thrown up on a pedestal with the likes of Nietzsche, Plato and Erik Hoffer. All of these I didn’t necessarily agree with, but still, the notoriety was nice. Finally I was above average, exceptional even. Magazines made me pose in Dali Lama type poses, all emphasising my beard as the icon of my knowledge.
As time went by the meetings, hearing and in some cases audiences became tiresome. People stopped seeing me. I was just potential salvation, cure to the ills of this world, and I feel in most cases, a clever man with a big beard. I couldn’t escape. I stopped talking to women for fear of what the tabloids would say. I had black out curtains on my bathroom windows so I could shit in peace (if these people actually believed I used the toilet at all). My every action carried with it the world’s conscience. I was tired. Beaten into submission. What could I do, Time magazine had just placed my face second most notable image, behind Bob Dylan and in front of Jesus Christ (something my mother would have loved). I decided that travels had cured my emptiness before, it could do it again. I went far, I found myself in Nepal, high in the mountains. The once celebrated hermit returned to his fictional habitat.
Right, I thought. I was away from everyone, but I sure as hell didn’t want to live up a mountain my whole life, so what can I do. It was then I caught the reflection of myself.
The Beard. Of course.
The thing I once searched for in my quest for deliverance would now deliver me. All of the images of my face were matted with thick black hair. Clean shaven and dyed hair, possibly contact lenses and I would be free. Maybe I could reinvent myself as a writer of pulp fiction, talk of whores, gangsters and rich living. I could even knock out a few worthless poems, easy to do and no real heart can go into something so short. It was decided.
The beard is gone. Quite a task and one that has left a big hole in my life. You see I did everything I said I would. Became a clean shaven man once more, dyed my hair to an auburn ginger colour that was at best neutral, my only lavish detail was green contact lenses as I had always wanted green eyes. I lived in America; a place I figure even an icon of our time could get lost in. A lot of my money, untraceable was still at my disposal so I was once more a writer. But I wasn’t. I couldn’t write a word. I could not create worlds of whores, gangsters and rich living. They were things I couldn’t connect with, even when I tried so hard to think my head hurt I couldn’t see anyone with a Tommy gun. My headaches got very bad, too much thinking. I went into the bathroom and took out some aspirin. When I looked back at myself I realised my folly.
With my beard gone, I was my average self again. No different to anyone else. I nearly broke down in tears. Everything had come full circle. I was back to where I started. Yes, I was a rich man, but I could tell no one about it, once more I was underappreciated. There was only one thing for it.
The Beard Is Back.
The process of growing it had taken me the best part of ten years. It started when I was young and culminated while I was travelling. I had always wanted one but puberty had been a slow arrival for me and was denied the privilege of good facial hair until I was 25. The torture as I watched my friends’ groom, chop and clip their perfectly kept facial hair was unbearable. Then the dark stubble appeared. I kept shaving. I heard once that the more one shaved the quicker hair would grow back. I had been shaving aggressively for 8 years and it finally it seemed there was a pay off.
This gave me confidence. I was not bad looking, had always been average with women but felt I had something missing. My writing, if you can call it that was poor, and no one paid any heed to it. My skills in other areas were no different to anyone else. I needed something and now I had it. I’d been planning on travelling for a long time and it seemed a perfect time to get away. Starting in France I would chase the sun east through to Asia. I booked, said my goodbyes and left. The people I was bidding goodbye to didn’t know I was actually saying goodbye to my average self. Upon my glorious return I would be sporting the best facial hair around.
My travels taught me a lot about life, the way people work and I started to write pages upon pages a day. No subject was beyond my reach, philosophy (of which I wrote several thesis’ on) religion and politics were all paints at the tip of my brush. The process of growing the beard was something that after time I forgot. It no longer seemed to matter that I had a bushy beard, it was far more important the things I was getting down onto paper. I was genuinely of the faith that I could change the world with my ideas, and various people whom I met along the way were of the same belief. The minute any person begins to believe that they will have an important mark on the world a terrific burden of pressure comes with it. The things I was writing caused me to feel like Atlas astride two mountains with the whole world on my shoulders.
Before I realised it I had been away for three years and I looked like a wise hermit who had just come down from his cave to discover humanity. I had been sending all of my work back home while I was away but my rucksack was still brimming with pages. When I got off the plane I was greeted like a returning hero. Comments flew forth about my beard and the work I had been sending back. A local paper was there comparing me to Ghandi in my quest to discover the depths of humanity and save the world from the grip of capitalism, war and strife. I thought all of this was a bit far fetched. Yes, what I was writing was of importance but Ghandi, everyone seemed to be a little over excited. Of course my beard helped me to look worldly and intelligent. Almost like it was a statement of difference in itself.
My works were published by the volume. I was thrown up on a pedestal with the likes of Nietzsche, Plato and Erik Hoffer. All of these I didn’t necessarily agree with, but still, the notoriety was nice. Finally I was above average, exceptional even. Magazines made me pose in Dali Lama type poses, all emphasising my beard as the icon of my knowledge.
As time went by the meetings, hearing and in some cases audiences became tiresome. People stopped seeing me. I was just potential salvation, cure to the ills of this world, and I feel in most cases, a clever man with a big beard. I couldn’t escape. I stopped talking to women for fear of what the tabloids would say. I had black out curtains on my bathroom windows so I could shit in peace (if these people actually believed I used the toilet at all). My every action carried with it the world’s conscience. I was tired. Beaten into submission. What could I do, Time magazine had just placed my face second most notable image, behind Bob Dylan and in front of Jesus Christ (something my mother would have loved). I decided that travels had cured my emptiness before, it could do it again. I went far, I found myself in Nepal, high in the mountains. The once celebrated hermit returned to his fictional habitat.
Right, I thought. I was away from everyone, but I sure as hell didn’t want to live up a mountain my whole life, so what can I do. It was then I caught the reflection of myself.
The Beard. Of course.
The thing I once searched for in my quest for deliverance would now deliver me. All of the images of my face were matted with thick black hair. Clean shaven and dyed hair, possibly contact lenses and I would be free. Maybe I could reinvent myself as a writer of pulp fiction, talk of whores, gangsters and rich living. I could even knock out a few worthless poems, easy to do and no real heart can go into something so short. It was decided.
The beard is gone. Quite a task and one that has left a big hole in my life. You see I did everything I said I would. Became a clean shaven man once more, dyed my hair to an auburn ginger colour that was at best neutral, my only lavish detail was green contact lenses as I had always wanted green eyes. I lived in America; a place I figure even an icon of our time could get lost in. A lot of my money, untraceable was still at my disposal so I was once more a writer. But I wasn’t. I couldn’t write a word. I could not create worlds of whores, gangsters and rich living. They were things I couldn’t connect with, even when I tried so hard to think my head hurt I couldn’t see anyone with a Tommy gun. My headaches got very bad, too much thinking. I went into the bathroom and took out some aspirin. When I looked back at myself I realised my folly.
With my beard gone, I was my average self again. No different to anyone else. I nearly broke down in tears. Everything had come full circle. I was back to where I started. Yes, I was a rich man, but I could tell no one about it, once more I was underappreciated. There was only one thing for it.
The Beard Is Back.
Unnamed
The buildings have no names.
The streets have no names.
The people have no names.
All these things lost
In a city.
Unnamed and drifting.
Drifting like ash left to float
As the fire dies down.
A fire that once fuelled the
Metropolitan life.
Now just a cinder.
Embers providing heat to an
Unnamed existence.
Nameless people gravitating towards
That last fading light
And heat.
In search of a feeling that can
Be named.
A feeling they believe can
Deliver them from
The dark.
Hope.
The streets have no names.
The people have no names.
All these things lost
In a city.
Unnamed and drifting.
Drifting like ash left to float
As the fire dies down.
A fire that once fuelled the
Metropolitan life.
Now just a cinder.
Embers providing heat to an
Unnamed existence.
Nameless people gravitating towards
That last fading light
And heat.
In search of a feeling that can
Be named.
A feeling they believe can
Deliver them from
The dark.
Hope.
Smoke
Smoke.
It seems to be all that fills me.
Smoke and a thousand
Dreams that I cling to
Without hope.
It seems to be all that fills me.
Smoke and a thousand
Dreams that I cling to
Without hope.
My Peace
Why do peoples words not
Make any sense.
I hear them talking but I don’t
Understand.
I feel lost in a sea of things I
Don’t comprehend.
And sometimes I just smile.
Glad of my ignorance.
Enjoying the moments
I know im not like them.
Taking solace in my darkness,
Not darkness,
That is there word.
It is more like my light.
My burning salvation.
My freedom from
The burdon of humanity.
My Peace
Make any sense.
I hear them talking but I don’t
Understand.
I feel lost in a sea of things I
Don’t comprehend.
And sometimes I just smile.
Glad of my ignorance.
Enjoying the moments
I know im not like them.
Taking solace in my darkness,
Not darkness,
That is there word.
It is more like my light.
My burning salvation.
My freedom from
The burdon of humanity.
My Peace
IT
It is back
I can feel its hand creep
Across my heart.
I didn’t think it was possible.
I believed once the light had touched me
The dark
Could not return.
I was wrong.
Now I tingle with its fury.
Burst with its rage.
I shake with fear before it takes me.
I know what it is capable of.
I have seen its horrors.
It can stop cars,
Walk through walls
And destroy your soul with
A look.
As its hold spreads through me
I am less kept by fear.
Fear is also its prisoner.
Its executioner.
A smile forms,
Now I have nothing to fear.
You Do.
It is here.
I can feel its hand creep
Across my heart.
I didn’t think it was possible.
I believed once the light had touched me
The dark
Could not return.
I was wrong.
Now I tingle with its fury.
Burst with its rage.
I shake with fear before it takes me.
I know what it is capable of.
I have seen its horrors.
It can stop cars,
Walk through walls
And destroy your soul with
A look.
As its hold spreads through me
I am less kept by fear.
Fear is also its prisoner.
Its executioner.
A smile forms,
Now I have nothing to fear.
You Do.
It is here.
I Am
I am fragments,
Pieces.
Everyone and no one.
I am the drunken father who
Beats his family.
I am the fat boy who cannot run
Fast enough.
I am the clown surrounded
By a laughing mob.
The old woman dying alone.
I am the reason
Wars start and end.
I am the news reader
And the mute.
The one who seeks solitude
In a crowd.
The one who smiles through
A veil of sadness.
And cries through the joys
Of life.
I am Jesus on the cross,
And Judas hanging from the tree.
Most of all,
I am no one
And everyone.
I am you,
And a ghost.
You’ll recognise my face
And never know me
Pieces.
Everyone and no one.
I am the drunken father who
Beats his family.
I am the fat boy who cannot run
Fast enough.
I am the clown surrounded
By a laughing mob.
The old woman dying alone.
I am the reason
Wars start and end.
I am the news reader
And the mute.
The one who seeks solitude
In a crowd.
The one who smiles through
A veil of sadness.
And cries through the joys
Of life.
I am Jesus on the cross,
And Judas hanging from the tree.
Most of all,
I am no one
And everyone.
I am you,
And a ghost.
You’ll recognise my face
And never know me
Divine Inspiration
Does one need divine inspiration
To have faith in their
Ability.
William Blake knew he had something
When he saw angels toiling
The fields.
Van Gogh needed no other
Light when awash in another
Starry night.
Wilde needed no other praise
When with one line he
Could end someone’s night.
I don’t have these things.
And I don’t need them.
Ill make them up for
My autobiography.
To have faith in their
Ability.
William Blake knew he had something
When he saw angels toiling
The fields.
Van Gogh needed no other
Light when awash in another
Starry night.
Wilde needed no other praise
When with one line he
Could end someone’s night.
I don’t have these things.
And I don’t need them.
Ill make them up for
My autobiography.
Comfort
To be a writer isn’t to
Achieve short term admiration.
For that you need to go to a
Guitar or tell some good jokes.
No one will flock around
The grouchy person alone
In a darkened corner.
Sadly.
What they will miss however
Is the comfort to be realized
From complete self honesty.
Is there such a thing?
In short, yes.
It comes from writing for only
Yourself, with no intention
Of anyone else seeing.
Where all great love poetry is born.
Achieve short term admiration.
For that you need to go to a
Guitar or tell some good jokes.
No one will flock around
The grouchy person alone
In a darkened corner.
Sadly.
What they will miss however
Is the comfort to be realized
From complete self honesty.
Is there such a thing?
In short, yes.
It comes from writing for only
Yourself, with no intention
Of anyone else seeing.
Where all great love poetry is born.
Alone
We are born alone.
We grow in a crowd.
We learn to interact.
Some better than others.
We age.
We dance, we fuck.
We find love.
Try to understand.
We give up trying to
Understand.
We age.
We stop interacting.
We die alone.
We grow in a crowd.
We learn to interact.
Some better than others.
We age.
We dance, we fuck.
We find love.
Try to understand.
We give up trying to
Understand.
We age.
We stop interacting.
We die alone.
A Journey Like Every Other
I leave the security of the house.
Only a short walk
Ahead.
It is dark and there is a
Feeling in the air.
The fences rattle
The wind calls my name.
My heart falls in time
With my footfalls.
A car with its engine running
And lights on faces me.
The driver concealed
In the black.
A tapping from
And unknown origin
Unsettles me.
I’m almost there.
Trees with crooked fingers
Grasp at me.
Lurch towards me with
And unknown intention.
My door is in sight.
A crash breaks the nights
Veil of silence.
An alarm sounds.
Something malevolent is
Out tonight.
My key struggles with the door,
But I’m in.
Safe.
Sound.
For tonight.
Only a short walk
Ahead.
It is dark and there is a
Feeling in the air.
The fences rattle
The wind calls my name.
My heart falls in time
With my footfalls.
A car with its engine running
And lights on faces me.
The driver concealed
In the black.
A tapping from
And unknown origin
Unsettles me.
I’m almost there.
Trees with crooked fingers
Grasp at me.
Lurch towards me with
And unknown intention.
My door is in sight.
A crash breaks the nights
Veil of silence.
An alarm sounds.
Something malevolent is
Out tonight.
My key struggles with the door,
But I’m in.
Safe.
Sound.
For tonight.
Wednesday, 9 April 2008
Heartbeat
Her head laid on my chest
sets the rythmn of my love.
Every stutter and skip in my
beat gives away my secret.
The one only i keep.
I mask the sound.
The jokes flow, the coversation
ticks along.
Laughter and pointless words
hide my tell-tale heartbeat.
A sinister traitor lying in
wait, ready to take away
the only thing i cling to.
A heart drunk on misery.
Whispers in her ear.
sets the rythmn of my love.
Every stutter and skip in my
beat gives away my secret.
The one only i keep.
I mask the sound.
The jokes flow, the coversation
ticks along.
Laughter and pointless words
hide my tell-tale heartbeat.
A sinister traitor lying in
wait, ready to take away
the only thing i cling to.
A heart drunk on misery.
Whispers in her ear.
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