I’ve been told,
repeatedly,
by you,
that I don’t know who you are anymore!
Then you said yes,
yes I know!
and that I’ve told myself that,
many times before!
Monthly Archives: January 2016
Magic Stick
The stick, without a doubt, was unique, magical, no longer was it lost amongst the woodlands fallen, a delightfully crooked stick had tickled my fancy, held my attention without ceremony.
Waiting for me to notice it, call it to my hand; to grasp it, hold it aloft my busy dome, with childish influence.
The stick imprinted its distress and aged decay onto the palm of my soft, puffy hand; in the colours of the earth and leaf.
This staff, or a wand, some kind of weapon of my calling, or just an old warped walking stick, was to defend myself against the unknown, in shadow, as I sometimes danced staccato through woods and hedge way.
Unscathed, my unspectacular home door, now unlocked, into my actual security. I leave the stick outside, importantly, in the back garden, propping up the garage of course.
Now, somehow, my stick has gone, from too much time being forgotten, time stretched so thin, washed out, into an unnecessarily detailed painting of an adult realm, crumbled into invisibility, to earth, maybe it has travelled back to its place where I first owned it… maybe.
New Old Woodlandia
Earlier, you found yourself at an edge of woodland; you stood at its beginning or its end, you couldn’t begin to tell.
Impatiently, the trees blurred together, all around you, trees branches holding others that spun ever wilder, entwining into an eye-shattering carousel.
In the loop, you do not know or fear the time it takes for the motion to slow, winding down, tired, the branches let go, clumsily flicking leaves at each other, like young children; engaged in dance, then distracted, but always pure and in play.
You, look around you with your peripheral vision desensitised, you were somewhere else, just left of wherever’s’ centre; you could breathe deeply, consistently as one; with a carpet of mimicking leaves.
Now, feeling so spongy underfoot, you’re subtly falling and rising, falling and rising in exact time with your steady pulse; you were now at the heart of everything.
The First Flight of the Flightless Bird
Dren is a bird of that he knows and that is all.
He has no wings and his beak is useless and small.
What makes him a bird is his willingness to fly,
He dreams only this before it’s his turn to die.
As he looks to the heavens he sees robotic flight,
He reads up on his finding for endless days and a night.
Dren takes a test and now a pilot he can be sure,
This is a remedy to his miserable life of before.
As the plane goes up he remembers he’s a bird and sings
Then he opens his hatch and shits on my belongings.
The Lost Astronaut Poem to Self
Have you ever felt your insides boiling in the heat of a Morning Martian sun?
Because, here you can explode immediately so I advise you to please not come.
There is a planet, just one along that’s a little cooler, with water a plenty.
But, I warn you now you won’t be welcome; you’ll be ripped open before some bastard counts to twenty.
So I advise you to stay at home or better still go somewhere else!
If you stumble across their alternate selves, remain very cautious; in another universe, man + man, still = nauseous.
The Evil Wallpaper and the Stuffy Room
I cannot speak in this room, my tongue is sewn to my inner mouth like an old rolled up, tatty, old gym mat, left tied in a locked and forgotten storage room. I am now reduced to a baby regarding my quality of speech, no-one, not even myself will understand my dialect now.
Subsequently, my eyes are like CCTV cameras, tirelessly scanning people I will never know. Such resources require feeding before I again starve myself from predictable individual markets of specialised code. Right now I do not want to buy into anything, other than some much need for some personal inanimate objects, or Mother Nature’s pleasantries.
Then, surprisingly, a section of room clears, I notice someone familiar to me; they sit directly opposite as if waiting in a crowded underground station for a train that will never arrive.
Immediately, faces and limbs move blurrily around them like a meaty aura, descaling time, they somehow cut a somewhat dominant figure with a slouching posture; sitting in an otherwise frenetic sequence of scribbled picture flick images.
All the while, a hideous wallpaper pastes the background; unnaturally large and repetitive design of supposedly beautiful coloured flowers. Seemingly this Rorschach of entangled petals also emits a pungent scent from hells garden, choking our airways ever so slowly. Or, a ladies offensive perfume that loiters excessively as she struts passed on death-defying stilts with a cocktail.
Slowly the wallpapers flowers grow, entwine and weave, swallowing all that stands near it, suffocating the lost and forgotten drones that are top-heavy while on the edge of walls made from verbalised, exhaled breath; an endless wordy fever swells the room into sickness.
Then a sudden refreshingly pure breeze blows playfully, it caresses my moist cheek, my unacquainted companion acknowledges the very same, welcomed oxygen. As I raise my right hand to my drying face, I notice at precisely the same moment they do the very same, it is as unnerving as it is welcoming.
It is then we leave the room together.
I Eat Let.ers 