When I walk on the pavements that knit together my small town, I occasionally hover, fleetingly and quite randomly above the colourless concrete.
Recently, I stood still behind a tree and measured approximately one centimetre of nothing between my feet and the inevitable, and for those seconds I did not wonder how, all I asked was… why? Until, my feet felt firmly on the ground.
Man A to Man B, “I think I’m in trouble!”
“I don’t want to know,” say’s Man B in his bubble.
Man A in a panic, “I can’t make a decision!”
“Really” Says Man B, with a dry tone of derision.
Man A in his anger, “You look just like me; my double!”
Man B in his shield, “You’re beginning to crumble,
and the difference Man A is I’m fine in my shield”
Man A replies, “You look sad being alone in a field,
I’m gonna burst your bubble, you’re coming with me,
II teach you to man up, live your life and be happy.”
Man B had now gone and Man A was just a man,
He walked into his field, thinking plan after plan after plan.
Jon White was alone in his bed sleeping; his only support was his new memory foamed mattress. At 3.05 he awoke with urgency, needing the bathroom. He hadn’t yet seen, encountered, the heart pulsating shock, which was; the dark figure standing, facing the opposing wall.
A totem in the blackness, she stood in the centre of the room; silent, motionless with no acknowledgement of her surroundings. Jon’s only thought was for the sweet blessed relief he would feel in the bathroom.
He grabbed his duvet and purposefully flung it away from his tepid body. Now, exposed to the arctic impression of the bedroom, the atmosphere in the room sent Jon’s skin temperature to plummet; tightening around his bony adolescent frame like an invasion. With his skin no longer flexible and encasing, Jon not only felt the harsh cold but increasingly ill, only once before had he felt this sick; when he was witness to his father’s death.
In a shimmering sea lies creation,
a wrecked city, a lost at sea population.
Provisionally, some strangers are made king,
so long as the shore-wind that follows does sing.
Now I can daydream considerably longer,
as I become the tide, I arrive stronger.
In a lost world, without soil or land,
many sandcastles are formed without their sand.
Then I see an overhead sign in neon magenta,
The Last Salty Sea-dogs Drop-in Centre.
A merman’s place but as man-made as a moat,
now is the time if on dry ground I shall float.
And to scribble from the teeth of a shark,
keep your mouth shut and leave before dark!
As the lighthouse
blinks its eye,
the seabirds laugh;
as soon as coastal rocks
dive backwoods to the sea,
when boats below
do collide, harmlessly,
into themselves.
And as long as
the shore-wind blows
its crystal salt kisses
to nightwalkers lips,
scattering diamonds
along coastal paths,
the pebbles,
pulled by the moons lost drink
clap their celebration.
All the while,
glimpses of
an alternative life;
noticeable by chattering
at every opening of a door.
Everything,
near-bye,
chased by a yellowed light;
bathing and outlining
loyal machines as
they click;
to temperatures
of their original setting.
Somewhere
the tired,
the travelled,
stare at waters old,
new, then old,
from cliff-faces resting.
Before deeper into night
arrives a more peaceful light
and so the lighthouse
shuts its eye.
You chose a beautiful stone; held its smoothness, smothering it entirely for
safe keeping, your lucky stone.
Then one day you skimmed it across an ocean. Never did it stop, that little
stone, not for one second, for it was unable to sink for fear of never being
found again.
Alone, it skimmed, alongside container ships and fishermen, over dancing
shoals, around islands, deemed lost.
It played with sea monsters, memorised the coordinates to shipwrecks and
lost aircraft.
The little stone also survived the greatest storms and skipped through
waters as flat as a mirror.
Only then did it pause for reflection. Then on it went, to find a perfect beach to
settle on.
On the beach, it rested, hopeful for another hand, your hand,
the Holiday Stone.
You’re shallow breather,
and your thoughts are without tongue.
Once, your eventual sigh blew the leaves off a tree,
then you said,
‘It was just a breeze!’
Rain,
a sister to her brother
mercury,
tapping on my windows
like tiny bombs,
with a message that’s simple,
‘It’s raining!’
Naturally, I understand,
as clearly as the water itself,
for silent prehistoric rain
gains no respect.
I could just make out the rotating horses, hear them; braying in the fire, leaping above an abusive smoke.
It seemed that despite the ever loosening grip on their painted reigns, the deafening funfair did not cease to roar upon it, with hellish flames.
Accompanied then by sounds of yesterday’s children, I witnessed the horses escape to the fields of evergreen.
I and them, together, they then turned and shared my shock of a fairground fire; hungry for what remained of their vintage carousel.
A dog raises his head and barks while a man drops his head and shouts.
The dog barks and lifts its head as the man continues to shout.
Near-bye, a waiting car, its engine revs in frustration, the man shouts at
the car.
The dog continues to bark at the man, at the car, at itself.
Then, across the road, a woman, from her house, opens a window, and she
shouts from afar.
The man looks at the woman and shouts while the car engine revs that little bit
louder.
When a child is heard crying, the car then screams with revs while the
dog proceeds to bark at everything.
The woman in the houses’ phone rings. Her ringtone replicates the
the sound of a barking dog.
She answers her phone and says, “Hello?” Suddenly a temporary silence
deafens the neighbourhood; shortly before everybody feels the drum of
mysterious aeroplanes.
I Eat Let.ers 