New Old Woodlandia

Flash Fiction, poetry, Uncategorized, Words, , , , , , ,

 

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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

poems, poetry, Words, , , , ,

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

poetry, Uncategorized, Words, , , , , ,

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

creative writing, Flash Fiction, poetry, Words, , , , , ,

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.

 

Slightly Derelict House

creative writing, poetry, Uncategorized, , , , , , , ,

The half-life – existing in Ordinary Street.  In a home that’s regressing, decaying at your own apprehensive feet. The curtains, undrawn, mournful in unique shades of burnt. I continuously prolong to stand; outside, be curious, where nothing can be learnt.

All that remains is allergic and weathered, bleached by an encompassing light, a colourless nothing fading from every passers sight. The welcome gate has long since gone, dissolved by powers of apathy, crumbling everything, no longer strong.

Carried on a gust, is a child’s drawing of their favourite haunted house, daring you to walk up the path like that famous miming mouse.  Someone is sealed inside their novelty box. Merely do they exist, inert, in one of their cellblocks.

This was this once the warmest family home. Mum and dad, the kids, each sitting on their styled floral throne, around the television like decent and normal folk, laughing like gas leaks at dad’s latest bad joke.

If you care too much now, then you are very strange. You can’t spare the spare time and so creeps something random, unimportant, and you’ll be fine, so walk on regardless in your very British sunshine.

Wintering

poetry, Uncategorized, Words, , , , , ,

Branches bare

Black and white print

Cloud covered blanket

Adds shadow over tint

 

The frozen ground

Unpliable and plastic

Threatening, overhead

Dropping white static

 

The Sun feels its age

Winter owns this place

The warmth of my body

Versus the freeze of outer-space

 

I shiver in a fit

I breathe as a dragon

Red/Blue and swollen dead

I’m wintering, a cold cannon

 

 

Night and Day

poetry, Uncategorized, Words, , , , , ,

The day is the same as the night,

Except at night there’s less natural light.

And so the night is the same as the day,

But the day lends itself away.

 

Then if the day is the same as the night,

The night hides the obvious from sight.

Only the moon outstays its welcome,

Hanging there as a forgotten kite.

 

Not can be said of the moon and the sun,

The moon controls the night and tides for fun.

The sun is the day and directly cannot be seen,

Improves your mood and raises self-esteem.

 

Without these forces then where would you be?

Are you a tree hugger or drawn to the sea?

Do you have a connection? Receive power from the moon?

Will you run to the sun, be a shadow by noon?

 

Frog In Fog

creative writing, poetry, Uncategorized, Words, , , ,

Do as I do said a frog in the fog,

and he flopped into a pond.

How lucky was he,

for he couldn’t look beyond.

Do as I do said the frog in the fog,

and he leapt out to dry.

How lucky was he,

for he didn’t even try.

Do as I do said the frog in the fog,

and he swallowed a fly.

How lucky was he,

for his word is no lie.

Do as I do said the frog to a toad,

suddenly some lights; dazzled, he froze.

The toad belched, you’re in the damn road!

The frog in the fog, so it goes.