ready for the weekend

2 stacks of clothes

a sleeping bag

one pair of shoes

a little hat

one paper print ticket of national express

ah and lets not forget a toothbrush

a chill-box bag with snacks and sips

I think I’m ready for the weekend. 

 

Advertisements

speaking for the world

She crept upon the blanket crust of this new world, subduing her emotions because she knew that this crystal world was too hard to hear her. It shone bright, reflecting kindness and intellect in plates plastered in the power of positive thought. The warmth of the ground beneath her warmed the soles of her feet and the blood that beat through her heart. This, was the new world where kindness met cruel and created compassionate chaos. Where wars only worried themselves with difference and so the only peace was in blindness, muteness, indifference. Where wisdom was a weapon that often turned upon ones self; the blade turned inward into the sharp edges of self-reflection. This, is a world broken and always breaking, always looking for fast answers and simple solutions. This new world is an old world, already arthritic so that changes make it quake in resistance, and all we do- is take more minerals from it, when we should be nurturing it, feeding and filling it with the nutrients and minerals it needs of love. Tread softly, it has been through much, and let this world heal.

writing practice

They sat in a cold corner beneath the gutter grill, on tall barstool tables.  It was away from the heater and closer to the back-exit of the pub, but it was the only seats left on that unusually crowded week-night. Just as well, though; the table fit exactly the four of them there.

Bill and Martha spoke amongst themselves, Martha showing him a message she had received from a common friend they shared, breaking into fits of laughter now and then. Sarah busied herself picking at her nails, and very frequently taking sips of her too-strong drink hoping it would take the edge off. Unsure where to look, or what to say. She wished she didn’t over-think things all the time, always feeling out of place in any social situations. She looked at Jeremy, who sat soundly besides her staring contently into space, she wished she could be more like him, calm and relaxed, undeterred by the chaotic twitter of conversation and the busy party of people that surrounded them. As if it were that difficult she told herself, taking another long sip of the drink, face grimacing in its bitterness. Its not, just relax, just be yourself. She reminded herself to sit up properly, her posture often falling into a slouch as the weight of negative thoughts pressed against her shoulders, pushing them forward.  

Another attempt at a 1000

This is another attempt at another thousand words. I think, though, it should not be the number of words, but what those words say, that matters. The reason for my being unable to reach a thousand words in a sitting is because I have no story to tell; I have no goal to strive for. If I did, then it would only be a matter of writing out the story, bringing the meaning in my mind to a meaning on paper; a means to communicate the images and ideas. Let me stop reflecting now, and just begin, creating something that is a product of my imagination and painted with the truths taken from my true experiences. This is an imaginary two dimensional life in writing, developed into a four dimensional experience as I use all of my ability as a writer to write it, in honesty and with the right pace, from the right angles (not necessarily right- angles), acknowledging the right senses and placing them with the right thoughts. Stories are songs, and let me take the time to make each note belong within the melody I wish to create. Words are the musical instruments, I am the maestro, this is my world, here, on this page. And it can become anything it all. 

pre breakfast poem

a static room

the rumble of a bus collides

with creaking cream carpet

the grumble of the water boiler besides

and something undecipherable

below, in front, the itunes icon jumps

a rabbit for attention

below, inside, I feel my heart stops

breathing in this moment gently

wriggling toes warm in socks

above, in front, a seagull yellow box of light

a heavy comfortable feeling

this blanket of gravity that surrounds me

I almost close my eyes

and then this calmness breaks

below, an empty stomach speaks

obi wan reminds me it is time for breakfast

Bom Dia

stitch trip

Suddenly something seems to have happened
They laughed at the moon as it was falling over them!
They caught up with their shadows and walked on the sky
pulling off their gravity like sweaters dripping in sweat
I have the key but not the lock
I have something to tell you
Everybody seems to be staring in one direction!
…Opposite directions!
they walk towards and away and collide 
their faces squashed against one another like meat-pies
Something must be done!
we must return to the flesh before wound
scrape it off and away please bare
would you care to expose your naked soul to the world?
caution as you move forward in a story with no beginning
careful as you step onto fragments that aren’t there
if you could, would you jump?
faces staring at fingernails clotted in mud
scraping dirt searching for lost ones
We have lost the way 
A cage of wisdom and rats eating minds
screaming the infestations of your dreams
Voices without words reaching millions 
Let the bitterness pass
We have noT lost the way
The melancholic melody of a violin plays us out
as we fade into the dreams of our lives

And we sat on the rooftop burning our

And we sat on the rooftop burning our toes and frying our minds, sweat like water falling onto the patio pebbles, watching the sun rise and creep from one edge of the horizon to the next. The twinkle of the ice-cream truck a melody  that necklaces around surrounding streets. I think I left a little bit of my mind behind, I saw it there- stuck behind the reflection of a blurry mirror. It blinked at me and I blinked back before it turned into a smudge monster dancing on my face. I tried to peel it off but it seemed to be a part of my anatomy, so I carried on, choosing to sleep it off and leave insanity beneath a bedroom pillow.

grave poem

and here we are today

our soles standing above sealed souls beneath a summer’s breeze

be silent and be still

for a moment

let this time freeze

and listen

do you hear the ghosts ever whispering their wisps of wilting memories?

trailing a gravel path of time, the friction of gravity against ground grinding it into grains and crumbs carried by crows so that nothing remains

let time compress itself in lines, rhymes of wisdom, a book of static histories

all absorbed into a drop of ink a sea of melody sung within a song and sent away within that summer’s breeze to creep upon us like insects crawling on our skin that make us move to send us flying with the wind and dancing like our feet are on fire.

and to these sealed souls I will say: Allow us to see

That we are endless and yet, already gone

our time a mere atom in this sea of history