Alistair's Poems + Stories

Poor Edward

2012-01-08T07:14:00.000-08:00

Edward woke to the sound of his alarm but his eyes wouldn't open straight away. Like most nights he had stayed up beyond a reasonable hour and was now feeling it. His alarm was still buzzing but he struggled to find the energy to move. Eventually it stopped but he knew he would be having the same problem again in 9 minutes. He went though the same mantra in his head ‘just one more day’ and rolled to his side ready for the call to battle, the whistle that would signal him to charge over the top and into another day. The bell that tolled his doom.

The alarm sounded and he hit it straight away. The thought on his mind? The same as always. Her.

He sat on the side of his bed and surveyed his empire. Ash covering the floor, plates stacked high held together with the cement of dried food. Clothes to the other side of the bed, unwashed but likely to be reused. He checked his phone, 2 messages, neither of them from her.

Edward rolled back on his bed and lit a cigarette. He needed to do something. Make something of himself. When he met her he had been on the cusp of a solid writing career, nothing spectacular but at least something to put him on the ladder, a few articles here and there. She had liked that about him. The promise of potential. While they were together he had sat in bed and typed while she read a book next to him, occasionally quoting something in French from one of her poets. He had liked this. Thought himself an artist.

It didn’t last.

She had grown bored of his way of life and was moving on to bigger things. She had become focused on her career as so many did in their mid twenties. She worked in the city and it had changed her. The little romantic gestures that she had loved were gradually being outweighed by glitzy and what Edward thought to be pretentious nights out with work friends. He didn’t like to talk about work, especially the kind of work she was in. Eventually he resented the money she was earning and grew bitter towards her. That was the beginning of the end.

She moved out several months after and Edward began to slip between the cracks. He finished his cigarette and considered the mess. He stumbled over an ash tray as he walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Nothing but a can of beer. He opened it, lit another cigarette and lay on his bed.

He went online and checked her profiles on all the sites. Happy pictures with work friends on expensive holidays. He had messaged her several times but she never responded. The last message was left there; he couldn’t bring himself to delete it.

‘Great to hear from you, life is great thanks. The new flat is really nice and much closer to work. Hope you start writing again, I always liked that about you. Take care x’

That was four months before and the truth is he had stopped writing when it started to go wrong between them, and he had nothing but white noise and her face in his head now. It was all he had and she had taken it with her along with everything else. He had not left his flat in days and he felt like the walls were closing in on him. He picked up a book amongst the mess and read a few lines. Rimbaud. He didn’t speak French but when he read the pages he saw her, her deep brown eyes, her smile. His eyes filled with tears. He put the book down, then picked it up and threw it in the bin.

Edward text a few people to see if they were around. He thought that if he left the house his flat may seem less like a tomb. No answer. He went to the shop and got a bottle of whiskey. Returned and ran a bath. He put on some melancholic music and got in, whiskey bottle clutched in his hand, packet of cigarettes on the toilet next to him. The album finished and he stayed in the bath, in silence finishing the whiskey or the cigarettes, whichever came first.

When he towelled off he felt very light headed. He sat at his desk and looked at the pictures of her he had still kept there out of some torment. He ran his finger across the surface of the desk and it was caked in dust. Dead skin. Fragments of both of them locked together. He hadn’t thought of this before and placed his face against it, trying to breath in something of her. When he lifted his head he realised that he was crying. The bottle was empty.

He took a belt and hooked it to the top of his bedroom door. Edward sat on his bed and looked at it. Was this to be it? He couldn’t see any way he could turn this around. It was her. Always her. She was his test on this earth and he had failed. He walked over to the bin and pulled out the book, he needed one last look at those eyes, hear her voice and see her smile. The words unintelligible to him but she was in all of them. He lit the last cigarette in the pack and sat on the bed, reading words that seemed almost holy to him, he placed the book over his face dreaming of better times. When he pulled it away it was damp.

He closed his bedroom, door.

Poor Edward was doomed.

The Woman and her Sorrow

2011-06-20T12:58:00.000-07:00

She stands on the bus holding her child

to her chest.

She rocks back and forth with its motion.

She can't hide her sadness, her sorrow.

The scars she endures are buried deep,

burned in her eyes.

Her heart hidden from all bears no resemblance

to the girl she was.

The woman she thought she'd be.

Her heart that she has offered to too many

unwilling recipients.

Unworthy ones.

For this moment as the bus rattles through the

familiar streets she she allows her mind to wander.

To dream.

She closes her eyes.

She feels warmth on her face.

Her ears fill with the bustle of a busy town.

They hear unfamiliar and exotic voices.

She walks the streets and she feels important.

Her name is known. Respected.

She turns down a small side street and into

a vibrant cafe.

Jazz pours out of the door.

Her date is inside waiting.

Her heart flutters with anticipation.

She scans the room for the one who she loves,

the one who loves her.

The bus jolts through a gear and her baby

starts crying.

She quietens him down with a deep sigh,

she closes her eyes.

All she can hear is the talk of the bus.

There is no warmth of her face here,

no one knows her.

Her travels, her dreams are done for the day.

She looks down at the wet stain her child's tears

have left on her coat.

She knows she will cry tonight.

Rant in the Key of Regret

2011-01-17T13:05:00.000-08:00

Too much time has passed in my life without achievement. Sometimes this becomes all too much. I lose faith. I’m tired of being guided by voices only I can hear. There is so much noise in this world it is easy for voices to get lost. Mine did, for a while. I thought for a long time things were serious, I had to focus. I was wrong.

Father time has too much interest in seeing me grow up and Mother Nature cursed me with her bad side. Walking in the dark for so long took its toll. The Wilderness. I was trapped in the dark. I regret letting things slip by me. I was blind...now I see through that amazing grace. Failure was something I thought I was ready for. I wasn’t. I don’t even know the meaning of the word. I can’t do any worse than doing nothing.

The moments of waiting are behind me. I regret waiting this long before starting the long journey of finding my voice. If I have to shout I will. If I have to scream I will. Ready for failure, ready for loss.

Being born at 25 with nothing is late...but it’s not the end.

My Notebook

2011-01-17T12:53:00.001-08:00

My notebook hangs heavy in my pocket,

the one thing that knows all of my lies.

The one thing that hears my confessions,

my secrets,

my dreams.

All the things I should have said and couldn’t muster nerve to.

I haven’t said anything to it lately.

My silent friend,

now my worst enemy.

It needs my stories, my confessions.

Without them it is my worst enemy.

Its pages taunt me.

I remove it from my pocket and open it,

blank lines staring my at me with murderous intent.

I look at them and offer all I can,

an apology to its pages.

The lack of attention.

I close it, hold its leather to my face,

The smell that reminds me of better times.

I close it and slip it back into my pocket.

I can’t face it today.

The Journey

2011-01-04T04:01:00.000-08:00

It took me a long time to get here.

Just to stand here with you is the end

To a journey I can’t begin to explain.

Looking at you, holding your hand,

Which you lightly squeeze I know

I don’t need to explain.

My breath is light and sharp.

Your secret name haunts

My lips.

Dreams

2011-01-04T03:59:00.000-08:00

You won’t see me.

My head is down and my eyes are fixed to

the floor following a point where my

Dreams live.

I’ll keep walking with them just in front of me

And hope I don’t bump into anyone.

If I do, I am sorry.

I can’t usually see where I’m going because

My dreams are worth following

and sometimes forget that things

happen outside of them.

If I distract you from your dreams

Why don’t you join me and

Follow mine for a while.

You are welcome

Forever

2011-01-04T03:56:00.000-08:00

I think I am ready to let go of the pain

Of what we were,

And embrace the joy of you.

Your Brilliance.

No one will ever know what we lost,

the twilight sadness of something

we once had,

now dimmed forever.

I was given a moment of what being complete

felt like,

I was too close to the sun and my wings began

to melt.

The day I knew it was over was the worst,

Much worse than the weeks that followed and

Then the end.

I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the

Forever I promised.

It is was promise I never intended to break.

I hope someone will keep it.

The Man

2009-01-21T05:45:00.000-08:00

The mans collected loves gather
around him in judgement.
Their sentences laced with talk of better boys,
more interesting times.
The depth of the man's thought is irrelevant in this congregation.

In a world that gives people like him no helping hand,
this room will surely be the death of him.
In a room full of nothing but broken pride.
Of moments passed and wasted.
Most of all, a room that is unforgiving.

Every member of this party fully aware that
they are superior to The Man in the only
way that matters most
...they said no.

We are told that there are many important
events throughout this little life of ours,
and yet the most important,
being able to achieve a persons affection
is paramount

Not just any person of course.

That one person that gives your
life meaning for that small space in time,
dwarves every other thing.

With time of course this rejection will fade,
as all things do with time.
However the feeling only fades
nearly in perfect synchronicity with
the next person entering your life.
They also hold that kill switch to their chest.

In waiting.

To Kill the man again

You

2009-01-21T05:44:00.000-08:00

It’s you.
Always will be.
The one who kills
me every time you leave.
The one who holds my
very existence in the palm of your hand.

It can’t be anyone else.
Ever.
It pains me to know that
someone so young
can feel like this.
So lost, unloved.

It’s not your fault.
How could it be?
Any man with sense would
love you the way I do.

If they only knew
Who you were.

Talent

2009-01-21T05:42:00.001-08:00

I always believed it was talent
That guided us.
What separated the great
From the good and the poor alike

This I now know is not the case.
Talent is a spark.
A spark on its own
Will not catch flame.

The flame comes from the gut.
The fuel that burns
Isn’t god given.
It has to be pursued at every opportunity.

So all one really needs
Is the guts to try.
If they have enough,
It can fuel whatever they want.

Vertigo

2009-01-14T09:08:00.001-08:00

I feel trapped, covered in dust.
For too long now I have squandered what
Little talent has been given me on this earth.

I have a skill for appreciation,
Not for innovation.

None the less something compels me
To tell stories.
Pass the words I can muster onto
People who maybe will not listen.

For all life seems to be is a series of
Repetitive events relayed
To people who couldn’t care but will
Act otherwise.

Around we go as we die
Of vertigo

Hell Is Other People

2009-01-14T09:07:00.000-08:00

What is it in this life that people
Find happiness in?

The smiles I see as I walk through a town
So swallowed up in self love, and self preservation
Do not lend themselves to the smiles
That people show the world.

They paint the portrait of demons with angel faces,
Waiting to cast me aside when my purpose is served.

They are innocent in nothing,
Honesty is not a word spoken.

When I see the nightlife of the city come creeping from
The gutters and nests they hide in during the day,
I see them for what they are,

Liars,
Sycophants,
Counterfeit lovers,
Convenience friends.

Words once spoken now resonate in my being,

Hell is other people.

Stranger than life

2009-01-14T08:56:00.000-08:00

Time, ticking slowly by
Houses burn in a cascade of piety
moments passing obstuctedby the glare of distraction,
hope pulled through the shadowscaked with dust.

A stranger walks, head hung low.
treading carelessly through the ashes of a world
where he has lived without anyone knowing.
he catches the last speck of light as the sungoes out.

Now everyone can share his dark.

Grim Bones and the Ghost of Sad Mans Creek

2008-10-31T01:58:00.000-07:00

It was a cool and dusty evening by the Hanging Tree. Grim Bones had gone for a walk as he usually did around this time. One of the Ghosts of the tree had told him that he was best going east, away from the town. This was because he was still hated by the townsfolk when he nearly killed them with the cursed fiddle.

Grim took this advice and went east, away from the sun, and quickly found the light disappearing all around him. To most this would be terrifying. But Grim had grown up living in the shadows and was not deterred by the dark. He walked lost in his own thoughts until he heard the sound of a river. This was strange as Grim had never seen a river. He followed the sound and found that it was a very small river indeed. He jumped over it from side to side following its trail.

After a particularly big jump Grim caught something out of the corner of his eye. He turned quickly. Nothing was there but he was sure he saw something.

“Maybe one of the towns’ people has followed me” Grim said to himself with a shiver.

He began to follow the stream a little quicker but realised that he must have got turned around because he didn’t know which was he was going, the sun was completely down and the toe nail moon was giving off very little light. He decided to follow the river a bit more and then settle down for the night.

Grim was very upset. Roger, the ghost of a teacher who lived in the Hanging Tree had told Grim to always mind his surroundings.

“You don’t want to get lost do you now little man” Roger would say with a stern look
“N-no sir” Grim replied honestly. Grim always wondered why Roger called him little man, he was unquestionably small, but a man? Grim was not so sure. All he knew was there was a reason Roger didn’t want him getting lost. And Grim had to admit, it was very frightening.

The stream seemed to get wider, to a point where Grim Bones was unable to jump over it anymore. He kept following. A figure moved behind him. Grim spun around; this time positive there was someone there.

“Hello...Anyone there?” Grim Bones could feel his voice quivering.

Nothing.

Grim was backing away slowly when he began to hear a soft sobbing. Grim moved towards the sound, assuming that anything making that sound couldn’t be out to do him harm.

“Hello…I don’t want to hurt you…is anyone there?”
“Over here” a deep mans voice echoed from the dark. This put Grim at ease. If it was someone from the town then it was better that it was not a child. The children hated Grim.

Grim moved towards the voice and began to see a shape in the dark. It was a man, a large man indeed. He was sitting near the bank of what had now become a river.

“What is wrong?” Grim asked in his softest voice.
“I am all alone, I’m always alone” The man said through his clasped fingers.
“Why are you so far away from town?”
“I’m not far away from town, look, the lights are just over there” The man pointed, and then covered his face again.

This took Grim by surprise. The stream must have turned while he followed it, and then became the river running through town. Grim should have known this. Roger had taught him all about rivers and streams. He knew that the old marsh was flooded sometimes and that was from the river. Grim was pleased with his knowledge but most of all he was glad he had met the man sooner rather than later. The last thing he needed was to follow the river into town.

“What is your name? Mine’s Grim Bones” Grim offered his hand.
“Grim Bones is a strange name, mine is Vincent” Vincent extended his hand but it went through Grim’s.
“You’re dead” Grim Bones said with clear certainty. Unfazed by the mans deceased nature.
“Yes I am…how come you are not scared?”
“All of my friends are dead; I live in the Hanging Tree”
“You mean that creepy old thing that people used to be executed on?”
“That’s the one” Grim loved his home and always spoke about it with pride.
“I used to be really scared of that tree when I was young, me and the other kids used to dare each other to go near it. We thought it was haunted” Vincent gave a little laugh “I guess I know that it was now”
“How did you die?” Grim asked abruptly knowing that the ghosts always got annoyed when he asked blunt questions.
Vincent gave a startled look. “I drowned in the river” Vincent hung his head.
“That’s terrible” Grim replied, he didn’t like the idea of drowning at all.
“It wasn’t so bad, I wanted to” Vincent muttered.
“Wanted too!? Why would you ever want to do that!?” Grim responded a little louder than he wanted to.
“I found out that my wife was with another man” Vincent said and began to cry again.
“So you killed yourself... Why?” Grim bones asked innocently. Of matters ghostly Grim bones was as smart as they came, however when it came of matters of the heart, he really didn’t have a clue.
“I was upset…she was everything to me, without her I couldn’t go on” Vincent was fighting back the tears. “I came out to the mouth of the river and put some bricks and stones in my pockets and coat then jumped in. The water was so cold I couldn’t hold myself up for long. I sank down. Then I remember standing near to where we are now looking down at my body. I was found by a hunting party, they took my body away. Every once in a while the local children come here like I did to the Hanging Tree. They dare each other to splash in Sad Mans Creek. They named it that after me I guess. They say that if they splash in the water for more than five seconds the Sad Man will pop out and try and get them.” Vincent was walking around in circles. “That is all I am now, a Sad Man…not even that, I am a Sad Ghost.

Grim Bones felt sorry for Vincent. He knew what it was like to be all alone. He tried to think of something that could help Vincent. Ghosts cannot stray far from where they die, so Vincent couldn’t come and live at the Hanging Tree with him, so what could he do? Then it jumped into Grim’s head. An idea. Niccoló had once told him that if a ghost could resolve their living business then they could move on. All of the ghosts at the Hanging Tree had died many many years ago, when people were still hung, so they had no chance of resolving their business, but maybe Vincent hadn’t died that long ago. The only problem was the after time ghosts lost their sense of time. They would always answer the same way when asked how long they were dead for. ‘A few months’. Grim needed to find out how long ago Vincent had died, and that meant going into town.

Grim thought about the situation and decided it was best to go while it was still dark. He would break into the library and look at the old newspaper clippings. He assured Vincent that he would be back soon, hopefully with a way to help him.

He followed the river and the lights of the town. When he arrived he moved through the back alleys as not to be seen. There were a few people around, mostly drunk and Grim figured the time to be about 3am. When he found the library he was pleased to find a window open in the back. He clambered in through it and into the library. Grim thought that the library was very creepy. Roger had told him that libraries were the best places in the world, but all Grim could think was that someone would catch him, and he would be done for.

He found the archives and began to search through the papers. By the time he found the news article the sun was beginning to come up. It was sixty years old.

Local Man Dies with Broken Heart
A man was found today by a hunting group. He was floating face down in the creek. Vincent Chester is believed to have died in the early hours of this morning. An investigation into his death has revealed that he had committed suicide. It is believed that he had discovered infidelities in his family and could not go on. A funeral service will be held at the Chapel on Sunday, his family say all comers are welcome to celebrate the life of a man who ‘brought light to everyone he met’.

That was it. Vincent had died sixty years ago. Grim began to wonder if Vincent’s wife may still be alive. Vincent had said that her name was Charlotte. Grim found the marriage register; she was young when they got married. The archive said that she was twenty when he died. He went over to the town register and looked through the deaths. There was no record of Charlotte Chester dying or leaving town. She must still be alive. Grim was ecstatic. When morning came he would go to her house and get her to visit Vincent.

“OI YOU!” a large man bellowed across the library.

Grim realised that he was the morning security guard. He looked around and knew the best exit was the way he came in. He backed up slowly keeping his eyes on the guard.

“I know you don’t I you little creep…you’re the one who tried to kill everyone in town, wait till the folks realize I’ve caught you” the guard said, his face red with anger.
“I didn’t mean to kill anyone, it was an accident, and I stopped before anyone was hurt”
“Sure, sure, tell it to the sheriff, he might think differently” the guard was advancing slowly.

Grim had no choice now, he sprinting as fast as his small legs could carry him towards the window. He could hear the guard pounding towards him. He jumped up to the window and began to scrabble through. The guard grabbed his leg. Grim could feel the guard’s warm breath on his back. Grim threw out a kick and the guard recoiled. It gave Grim enough time to squeeze through the window and run as quickly as he could back along the river. By the time he got back to Vincent he was out of breath.

“She…she…..she’s still alive…I saw it….she’s alive” Grim panted.

Vincent dropped to his knees, covered his face with his hands and cried. At least it looked to Grim that he was crying. But when Vincent removed his hands he was laughing. He was happy.

“She is still alive! I can’t believe it.” Vincent said and punched the air in celebration.
“I was seen by a guard in the library, there is no way I can go back to town now, and they will get me for sure” Grim said while kicking a stone around the floor.
“It’s ok, as long as she is still alive that is enough for me; I still love her more than anything in the world.”

Grim smiled at Vincent and told him that he would have to be getting back to the Hanging Tree; the ghosts would be worried about him. Vincent agreed but made Grim promise that he would come back and visit him. Grim promised and headed back to the Tree.

When he got back all of the ghosts appeared and surrounded Grim.

“Where have you been?”
“We were worried sick”
“You can’t go off in the middle of the night and not come back without telling anyone”
“I’m sorry…but I have a lot to tell you” Grim ushered the ghosts to a stone where he could sit down.

Once Grim was done explaining his story he felt tired. He needed sleep desperately but Roger and Niccoló wouldn’t let the subject drop.

“It seems such a shame that Vincent is out there all alone, and he can’t pass on” Roger said in his thoughtful way. “I just wish there was something we could do.”

Roger looked at Niccoló who was facing the floor, avoiding eye contact.

“What is wrong Niccoló?” Roger asked.
“Nothing…I’m just thinking we should help Vincent.”
“How can we do that? Grim cannot risk going back to town now, the people will most certainly catch him and we are stuck at the Tree” Roger stated desperately.

The matter was hopeless. It didn’t seem fair that Vincent would have to spend the rest of his death alone.

“I might be able to help” said Niccoló

Grim and Roger both looked at Niccoló. They just stared, not knowing what to say.

“I am very old as you both know, over 300 years old according to Grim. I have been able to leave the Hanging Tree for some time now. Not for long, I start to get weak if I’m too far away and I fear that if I drift too far I will lose my way. I have never gone as far as the town but I think I can make it. I can go to Charlotte and tell her where Vincent is.”
“But if you do that you might get lost?” Grim asked
“Possibly Grim yes. I don’t know of any other ghosts who have been able to leave the place of there death. All I know is when I’m far from the tree I begin to get weak and fade.”
“Then you can’t do it, I will go to her myself, it doesn’t matter if I get caught.” Grim said even though going to town was the last thing he wanted to do.
“No Grim, I have been alive and dead for a long time now, I am ready to go. I have already put you in danger with the fiddle and I feel terrible for it, I owe it to you to keep you from danger.”
“No Niccoló, you don’t owe me this, I need you” Grim felt his eyes filling up.

Niccoló place his hollow hand over Grim’s shoulder. “You will be ok Grim, I have seen you grow well, and the other ghosts here will always take care of you. I will go now and tell Charlotte. Good bye old friend”
“No Niccoló, don’t go!” Grim hurried after Niccoló but he had already vanished. Grim worried that this would be the last time he saw his friend.

Grim was distraught. He ran to Vincent to see if Niccoló went there first. But it was only Vincent he found by the river. Grim explained to Vincent what had happened and what Niccoló was going to try and do.

They sat there for what seemed like a lifetime. Grim couldn’t believe that he was never going to see his friend again. Niccoló had become like a father to him, and now he was feeling all alone.

Just at that moment a woman’s voice came from behind them.

“Vincent…?”

Vincent and Grim turned to face the voice.

“CHARLOTTE!” Vincent shouted running towards a frail old woman.
“VINCENT” Charlotte moved as quickly as she could manage towards him.
“I can’t believe you are here. Have you been waiting here all this time?” Charlotte spoke through a veil of tears.
“I have my love, I made a mistake, I should have let you explain” Vincent said as his translucent hand passed through Charlottes hair.
“It was my fault, I was young, I didn’t realise how much I loved you until you were gone, and I have missed you every day since. I never remarried, I hated myself everyday. You still look like I remember you, you haven’t aged a day.”
“You are still the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on my love” Vincent held his frame around Charlotte, unable to touch her.

At that moment Vincent began to pass from sight. Slowly fading, growing more difficult to see.

“Don’t go, I want you to stay, I have waited so long to see you again” Charlotte pleaded.
“It will be fine my love” Vincent spoke, almost invisible to the human eye. “I will wait for you like I have always waited for you.”

Charlotte gave a smile to Vincent, eyes glassy from her tears as he faded completely from sight.

Charlotte hugged Grim Bones hard. It was the first time anyone had touched him. He felt warm and loved. But he was still sad that he had lost two of his friends. Then Vincent’s voice spoke from invisible eternity.

“Grim…Grim I haven’t got long…thank you for everything. Grim….Niccoló is here. He says he is very proud of you”
“Tha….” The words choked in Grim Bones throat.

He was happy that Niccoló had been given a second chance. He was happy for Charlotte and Vincent. And as he and Charlotte hugged, he was happy to have a real life friend.

The End of the world

2008-06-18T04:48:00.000-07:00

I awoke around mid-day. White light. Agony.

I buried my head deep into the pillow, unfortunately this gave no reprieve to the pain. My mouth was dry, I could almost chew what little spit remained there. I made a move to gradually sit up, which took all of my conviction. I looked around the room to see bodies strew everywhere, lifeless. I struggled to my feet and moved passed this room of the dead that surrounded me.

Blank.

What was happening?

I couldn’t piece together the sequence of events.

I padded to the bathroom and sat down, realised I didn’t need to go to the toilet. I closed the lid, put on the light which revealed a sunken eyed figure lurking in the mirror. I gazed into his eyes for what seemed like a lifetime. He was unmoving, judging. I broke his stare when I become conscious of the sweat that was all over me, I needed to vomit, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, I placed my head between my knees hoping for this horror to end.

I must have fell asleep because when I awoke my head was throbbing and someone was beating at the door. I flushed for courtesies sake and ran the tap even though I had nothing to clean. When I unlocked the door an unfamiliar figure burst in before I had chance to move away from the door. I cursed and moved through the now open gap, avoiding the gaze of the monster who had just troubled me. I moved down the hallway and went to the kitchen where signs off life greeted me.

“You should have seen yourself last night!”
“Me? You were the one shouting at anything wearing a skirt!!”
“Bollocks! you weren’t even looking for a skirt, anything would do!””

I couldn’t gather what the conversation was about, I just needed water. I ran the tap for a while waiting for the water to get cold, filled my glass that was soiled with a dark stain and then splashed the running tap water on my face. After I had drank far too much and felt sick all over again I moved towards the noise.

I found two of my friends gripping cider bottles and arguing over the nights events. At this point memory, although faded, corrected my confusion.

We had thrown a party, more accurately, I had thrown one. This was my house and these people, my friends, were still enjoying themselves. When my figure emerged in the doorway the two people in conversation greeted me with what could only be seen as jeers, but you haven’t got my friends.

“Jesus, look at you”
“I'm surprised you woke up at all after last night”
“You look awful”

I smiled, laughed and shrugged as if to say everything is fine, it was a good night. Although I could barely remember a moment of the evening, I knew my part was to play along with all the apparent debauchery that had gone on. I decided to enter the conversation.

“So boys” I took a moment to shudder at my opening line, why was I speaking like this? It didn’t feel like me to say this, yet I did. This couldn’t be my life.

“So boys” I repeated “Did I make a dick of myself last night?”
“No more than usual, but there will definitely be some pictures of you on the internet that you wont be proud of”
“Like what?” I asked, even though I didn’t care about the answer, my mind was elsewhere.
“Well, how about you with a yard of ale hanging from your mouth and then throwing up in the garden”
“Or” the second person chimed “you all over Robbie’s girlfriend”

I felt a well of disappointment wash over me. These people were definitely talking about me, flashes of my actions passed through my mind. But all of them seemed more like an out of body experience than actually me. I always felt I was worth more, but what the tape of my memory was playing was not worthy of that at all, not a fragment. I feigned laughter and returned to my room, forgetting the sea of limbs sprawled everywhere. My chest felt tight, like I was trapped in a room with no chance of freedom. In fact, I was trapped in a room with no chance of freedom. This was supposed to be my room, my sanctuary. I got into my bed hoping that the worst was behind me.

When I came too my room was empty. My headache was gone. I got up, dressed in a fresh set of clothes, realising I should probably have a shower. Regardless I went to get some more water; the kitchen was silent, no banter, no noise. The stillness was strange, the ill ease I felt at all the activity and presence earlier in the day had left me. I now wanted someone to be here. I felt desperate, the same shortness of breath I had felt earlier returned, but this time anxiety was joining in. I walked from room to room to discover nothing.

Empty.

The events couldn’t process in my mind. I still had the feeling of too much company on my mind. Yet here I was searching for any sign of life. I needed someone where no one was to be found.

I sat down amongst the rubble of the previous night and felt hollow, unconnected. Everyone had gone away into their lives, their own activities and I remined, no different from the cigarette butts and disposed cans that surrounded me. I phoned several numbers in my phone, no one answered. They must have had their fill. A good night lives long in the memory but someone left behind is nothing more than a footnote.

It was at this moment I saw to my left hand a half empty bottle of whiskey. And on a shelf to my right was a packet of headache tablets. This made sense. Why go on in the moment, I was unhappy with company. Unhappier still on my own.

For hours I stared at the floor, faces moved and played with my eyes in the carpet. I moved to the stereo and put on a song that made me both happy and sad. I emptied the tablets into my hand and looked at my ruin, my salvation. I moved them into my mouth with a steady hand. For once their was no doubt. Only ease, control.

The whiskey followed. Too late now anyway.

I was not worried.

Of all the last things I was to do in my life I made a playlist of songs. Sat down and listened to song after song as I became drowsy. In what will now be my lasting memory the stereo played.

All I want in life is a little bit of…

The End.

Waiting For The Bus

2008-06-17T08:31:00.000-07:00

Like every day I wait for the bus…Something that has to be done and yet is the bright spark of my day.

Every morning that I wait for the bus she is there. I was hit by her brilliance the moment I saw her, this happens often and is nothing too surprising. As time went by she began to notice me and we started talking. I couldn’t take my eyes from her.

Everything she was I loved. She had short brown hair, too short by some opinions.

Her fingernails were short yet the only thing more fascinating to me was the air that would come from her mouth on a cold morning.

Now I don’t know where she goes everyday and I don’t know her name, it never seemed like information I needed. I hope for the same reasons she never asked me. But as time goes on I SEE that to her I’m just a way to pass the time.

I never let this get me down.

She talked often of other boys in a way that a puppet master would shake and jolt toys in his control. Each time she describes the one she loves this week I fall apart, pieces of me that will never be found. In time people will ask why I am so faded and I will answer that I am fine but a girl many years ago took the main parts of my puzzle.

Light conversation spills out easily like a dripping tap never giving me enough water to drink from, but enough to know there is water there.

She tells me that she is leaving. Not the city or country, but just her job, a job that will take her on a different route. I felt lost.

Jack Frost has decided to lend me a hand. In the ice of the morning she pulls close to me as the conversation breaks. In that infinite second she can see everything I am. She knows that I think of her every day. She knows that if in the many words I speak I could only say be mine I could rest. She knows that I am struck down by love a little too easy and that gives me the sadness in my eyes.

As quickly as this infinite moment begins it is snatched away. Our carriage has arrived in a ploom of smoke that chokes my breathing nearly as much as that moment choked my heart.

As she smiles and moves away from me I can feel the moment, like the ones that have passed every work day for the past year slipping away. I am frantic. I need to say something in this moment, this vital moment. I move quickly to catch her as she turns quickly catching me by surprise.

I have seen your sorrow. I have spoken to you for so long and yet I never got close enough to see that you are missing. I am not the piece to your puzzle but someone will be.

It has taken me this long to see what’s inside.

And I pray that some day we will meet again.

Just look for me to the west of the sunrise.

And if the time is right, you’ll never know

Void

2008-06-17T08:30:00.002-07:00

As time goes by I realise

That I have nothing inside.

My pain, if it can be called that,

Is a representation of my

Hollowness.

Instead I hide behind a

Casual smile.

I can offer you nothing.

I am best serving at a distance,

Never get to close.

When you look into my eyes,

You see yourself.

Time has taught my eyes to be mirrors.

Time has taught me people will

Come and go,

My void is constant.

Time has taught me that.

Let Down

2008-06-17T08:30:00.001-07:00

A man will make choices when

Even his friends abandon him.

These choices will lead him

To a place far removed from anything

He thought himself capable of.

From this he will also feel

Freedom.

He will see gold lining on the

Clouds.

He will feel the wind as if

Pin pricks through his flesh.

Word will burn from the pages of

All the great texts.

But when it comes to it.

He has been let down,

And that is unshakable.

In His Kingdom

2008-06-17T08:28:00.000-07:00

I have walked with beasts,

Savage and cruel.

Felt their dead lifeless claws

Peel at my skin..

Ive travelled roads where

The cement is replaced by blood.

Almost drowned in a

Tide of waste.

I can hear their howls,

Cursing me day and night.

Poisenous words that

Only hinder, destroy.

Last of all I will see them die.

Each and every last one.

And I will then be housed with them,

In his kingdom.

Pass The Time

2008-04-16T01:03:00.000-07:00

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

Grim Bones and the Cursed Fiddle

2008-04-10T03:17:00.002-07:00

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.

The Beard

2008-04-10T03:17:00.001-07:00

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.

Unnamed

2008-04-10T02:46:00.002-07:00

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.

Smoke

2008-04-10T02:46:00.001-07:00

Smoke.
It seems to be all that fills me.
Smoke and a thousand
Dreams that I cling to
Without hope.

My Peace

2008-04-10T02:45:00.001-07:00

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

IT

2008-04-10T02:44:00.000-07:00

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 Am

2008-04-10T02:43:00.000-07:00

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

Divine Inspiration

2008-04-10T02:41:00.001-07:00

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.

Comfort

2008-04-10T02:40:00.000-07:00

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.

Alone

2008-04-10T02:39:00.001-07:00

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.

A Journey Like Every Other

2008-04-10T02:38:00.000-07:00

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.

Heartbeat

2008-04-09T01:38:00.000-07:00

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.

From my window

2008-01-25T03:05:00.001-08:00

From my window
i hear no noise.
Voices don't carry this high,
and eyes dont climb
to where i sit.
The world moves as
if by direction.
Driving, walking running,
with a greater purpose.
That doesn't happen to me.
From my window everyday
is dreary,
doors opening, closing,
birds flying,
with each moment aging
without existing.
All the things i see from
my window
create a moving picture
of my life.
Each moment as disjointed as
the last,
passing landmarks of my being.
As i near the end

If i could say the words

2008-01-25T03:02:00.001-08:00

If i could say the words
you needed to hear
when you wanted them
i might have you here,
and not just the memory of
your face,
your touch.

If i could say the words
burned in my mind
i wouldn't be alone
trying to recall our conversations
forgotten by you
and everyone else.

Confession

2008-01-25T02:58:00.000-08:00

This is my confession
a testement to the horrors of humanity.
Words of one who has loved and lost
and one who has failed to act
one who watched desire and hope
slip away
leaving nothing but the ashes
of my memory

Some Morning Nightmare

2008-01-24T05:48:00.001-08:00

The train picks up speed as it leaves the station.
The parents get settled and the children create mayhem.
And old man looks in disgust as they nudge by his paper.
A strange figure sits alone, watching, a curious smile on plays on his lips.

The train jerks and rattles as it reaches maximum throttle.
A child falls and cries, the mother reassures.
One young couple laugh nervously.
How could anyone be comfortable?

The next station looms, people prepare to leave.
The train ignores the sign; it’s on its own mission now.
The crowd grows weary.
The train gets faster.

Lights flicker, another sudden jolt.
The children stop playing; look for safety in their parents coats.
The young couple are closer now, no smiles.
Why is this happening?

The train approaches an arc in the track.
Tears join the party.
Everyone united in one single fear.
Apart from him

The smile is still on his lips and he thinks

“Will I survive again?”

Ride The Bus

2008-01-24T05:47:00.001-08:00

The bus leaves and I remain,
No direction to go, no transport needed.
The people who ride the bus are lucky.
They have a purpose, if only for a short time.
The freedom given from the purchase of a ticket,
Is something overlooked by most people
To be moving in any direction for only a short time
Is a reprieve from the stillness.
When only thoughts have their way.

Loss

2008-01-24T05:44:00.001-08:00

The city lights spread out like
Pin pricks in the black.
A city as void as my soul
As my gaze.
A city so corrupt it can only know horror
Pain
Loss

11 Questions

2008-01-24T05:43:00.001-08:00

Can we find an order to it all?
Is there one to find?
Why do we give ourselves a purpose?
Is it just a way to pass the time?
Or is there a higher purpose?
Something other than gravity which holds us to this world,
That gives meaning to our most pointless tasks.
Are all our relations designed to be so fragile?
Does this challenge us, test us?
If we had nobody there wouldn’t be any problems.
But there wouldn’t be any purpose at all.
Are other people our purpose?
If this is true, why are all of our miseries brought on by other people.
The way someone acts, what someone says?
If joy can only be brought on by interaction, is disappointment also?
If we could seek joy in solitude, what problems could arise?

Boredom

2008-01-24T05:39:00.001-08:00

Words removed, a fresh start?
Is it that easy?
Changing what is deeply ingrained
The habit of a lifetime
Bordem absovled
Assimilated
Its hard when all the easy options are there before me
But are not usually the right ones
When doing something seems like a waste of time
And doing nothing is the only way to spend it
Maybe i am used to nothing
Inside am nothing

Watch Her While She Sleeps

2008-01-24T05:36:00.000-08:00

She Sleeps so soundly
I could watch her forever
Her breath draws me in Sets a rhythm for the night
The night is fleeting I never want it to end
The clock is ticking
Time knows the power it holds
To take away what i want most
The second hand mocks me I get lost, confused
I place my hand over her mouth
Her breathing stifled
Only the noise of the clock
Second hand ticking, mocking
Your chest stops moving
At peace
Time cannot touch you now
You will sleep for me
Forever