Odes and Ideas

live

2017-12-24T14:39:00.000+00:00

never seen a boy so alive
feet like drum sticks chopping
hitting from hi-hats, to cymbal,
bass, snaring, trying not to crash

never seen a boy live so quick
leaping line to line trying to survive
from the spectre on his shadow,
until his foot hits the live rail,

never seen a live boy scream
get a medic, this is hectic;
hit electric, he essentric,
he is live, pulsating

never seen a mother crying; waiting
she hears the words 'please remain calm',
spoken by a man sworn to do no harm,
spat and overlapping like Louis Vuitton

never seen a boy live with one eye,
the other is black fried charcoal
crying ashy tears down his cheek
like a midnight bolt of lightning

never seen a boy on TV live
with his eye focused on the lens
and the lens focused on his eye;
heart leaping trying to survive

never seen a boy; I've seen half a boy,
half a man now, living, but torn in two,
but which is you? the wide eye or
the half live; the running blind fry

never seen a live boy live a life alive
when all he does is trying to survive
every day the chase continues to thrive
from the spectre on his half-shadow

never see;
close your eye;
don't survive;
live
live
live

Abuser

2017-12-18T21:31:00.000+00:00

he was a young man - shades on, shirt open,
half smile, leaning forward with a strong grip,
hard knuckles holding his motorcycle helmet.

now he is an old man - in the shade, undershirt,
false smile, leaning forward with a wrinkled hand,
bruised knuckles holding an empty pint glass.

it wasn't his fault he'd tell himself

there was no war for him to wage
until he found a liquid rage within him
and his mind and muscles burned

he'd raise a fist and a crowd could cower
he'd raise a fist and his wife would shudder
now he raises a fist, but has to swing

it wasn't his fault he'd tell himself

they say the ladies loved him and so did he
when he wasn't looking in the mirror,
in the short frame, where he was framed

he'd see his reflection taking shots
and after a fierce firefight she left him
and she left him without a son

it wasn't his fault he'd tell himself

he fought and tried to find a way and found
liquid courage got him through the day
until he was black out behind a bike shed

his name blurred by hers carved in the wall
the cold ground and their old school fades
to tubes in his arm, laying in a hospital bed

it wasn't his fault he'd tell himself

Hail-fellow

2017-12-18T19:43:00.002+00:00

passing a passer-by and feeling numb?
with your chin up, eyes up, thumbs up, and wave,
just smile; it is a good rule of thumb
a lamb to laughter, a stitch in time saves,
in stitches, birds of a feather (unheard)
it is just a parting shot in the dark;
inaccuracies are, frankly, prefered.
about face; save face and face the music
say good morning, say good day, say good night
and give the cold shoulder the cold shoulder,
yes, a rose is a rose is a rose, but
the buck stops here don't pass the buck, spread cheer,
even if you are ice or vice versa,
"Oh! have a good, great, fab, happy day, Sir!"

Be Happy

2017-12-03T00:52:00.001+00:00

One or two 500mg tablets at a time, up to four times in 24 hours. Safe to take during pregnancy and while breastfeeding. Now in a syrup or powder for children and infants.

The baby is crying, again. Time to be happy: paint on a smile, follow the shrill of moaning gums, dab dummy twice into the powder mix and feed. Those eyes have never shined so bright. Get some rest, you have to be up in four hours to be happy.

‘Kyle, please just sit down. I can’t talk to you yet. It is nothing to worry about, it will be okay – trust me. We just need to sit down – Kyle, sit. Thank you. Here, it is time. Be happy. Have two. Kyle, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but I didn’t want to upset you – I don’t think we should see each other anymore. You make me feel trapped. Goodbye, Kyle, don’t forget to smile’.

The low winter sun waned in the grey sky. The dark clouds gathered and a shadow cast o’er the cemetery danced gently. They, slowly, lowered the coffin into the ground. Tears pricked at their eyes. The rope passed carefully through their shaking hands. They couldn’t keep it in, not a second longer. Just one snorted and the whole family burst out, roared out, spat out laughing. Thud.

‘Fuck the pills, man. You don’t need them – it is a con. People were happy before them, people’ll be happy after. I haven’t taken them for five months, now, man, and look at me, I’m all good, man. They wake up, swallow up to four pills a day and the upshot? A pick me up isn’t good enough to get up in the morning. If you want a real high, you have to try this, man, a deluxe synthetic liquid. Yeah, man, just pull up your sleeve and tie this around your arm – tighter – there you go, man, now this won’t hurt, it just looks sharp. Hold still’.

‘She had a smile on her face, loved every second of it’.

It is like a thousand voices screaming at once inside your head, except they’re not in your head and they’re not screaming. The swirling swollen noise is in front of you, a crowd of talking, ticking people. They’re loud and beaming and bewildering. Eager on every word. It is impossible to tell what they’re thinking, how can you trust a smile?

I’m getting nervous; focus. Chin up, smile, talk clearly – eyes open, chin up – remember the light on you looking down makes you look bald. Your left side is your good side, so right foot back. Does she have a camera? That flash is obnoxious, I’d better stand on the opposite side to her. Okay, I’m ready – be happy.

What a fantastic crowd, this is my moment to shine, my opportunity to be heard. Look at them all looking at me, listening to me, me showing off my good side in front of the camera, I think she just smiled at me. I think she likes me.

one pill, two pills,

three pills, four

only four in a day,

but what if I need more?

cheeks are burning

and feeling warm

or insides burning,

a thunderstorm

black tears

on the bathroom floor

one pill, two pills,

three pills, four

five pills, six pills,

seven pills, more

I hate it when the alarm rings.

No good things come of an alarm, I’ve made sure of it. I’d rather count the minutes tick by when roasting a chicken than setting the oven timer. Retinal reminders are on silent.

Car alarm. You got to get up and move or lose your car.

Fire alarm. You got to get up and move or burn to death.

Alarm clock. You got to get up and move or get arrested.

After I woke up, I picked up and updated the e-paper. Today’s headline reads: New Be Happy public reminder, an alarm will sound twice daily.

‘It is more important than ever, kids, to be happy. The suicide epidemic plagues our nation and it leaves nothing to doubt, the greatest threat we all face is ourselves. How much can you really trust yourself when you aren’t happy? Twice a day on the alarm, stay alive and be happy’.

25% off happiness this Friday.

‘She’s gone’, he grinned.

‘Can you believe it? I read today in the news, not our – the e-paper at the office; can you believe it? So, basically, right, are you listening? Focus. I’m only going to say this once, focus. Picture this: you go to the cinema, a film plays, a tragedy, people are crying to your left and to your right. You’re crying, weeping. Sobbing! Can you imagine? People went to the cinema, paid money for a ticket, to be miserable. How sad. We’re so lucky to be alive now, its nice to think things got so much better so quickly, too. How lucky’.

Day 4. My hands are pale and shaking. I need to keep drinking water because my mouth and throat are always dry. Today, I have really started to notice the negative effects of life without happiness. There have been longs stretches of time where I felt completely empty, there was no joy at all. It is difficult to explain, it is like being in water so long, it becomes natural. You step out and you want to jump back in – any sane man would, I’m obviously not. So, I, metaphorically, stand, out of the water, cold and alone and shivering, desperate to plummet beneath the surface.

The alarm just rang and a pang of guilt shuddered through me. Another two pills to add to the collection. We are at 18 now and I can really feel it. I really, desperately, want to be happy. I could swallow all of them right now if we weren’t only allowed four a day. After the experiment is over, I’ll need to hand over my excess happiness: too risky otherwise.

Hold on, there is a knock at the door. Looks like a van outside.

Don’t worry, be happy – twice a day.

Life is great. We are happy every day. Everyone is kind, smiling and generous to one another. I feel a real sense of community and respect for our culture when the alarm sounds and we all act together to make our world, our life and each other’s lives happier. It fills my heart with joy.

The alarm rang, but there are no pills in the dispenser. I hit the override button, but still nothing. I tried to call through to the help desk, but the line was engaged.

By the time I arrived at the corner shop, the shelves were barren and all the happiness was gone. The streets were empty. Doors were locked. Blinds closed. I felt the need to run and hide away, so I did. I ran back to my house, I closed the door and locked it. I shut the blinds and fell into my sofa.

I still feel happy. This is fine, everything will be fine. It must be a fault with the neighbourhood’s system, if we all just sit in and wait alone, we’ll be fine.

Alone, it isn’t safe to be alone, not without happiness. Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself there, it would be crazy to think happiness just disappears in an instant, I’ve been happy for nearly my whole life. There is nothing to worry about, I’m sure it is like a vaccine, my body knows what it is doing to fight off misery. Besides, I know myself, I know I would never, could never feel sad and be another number of the epidemic.

No, not me, it would never happen to me.

a joyous boyish voyage - an anthology

2017-08-30T06:23:00.000+01:00

The wanderlust lyric
Look over at the horizon, see the

shadow haunting me. See it stalk behind

three miles; crossing forests, swamps and sea.

I can not turn back. My path is defined.

Will it follow me like this forever?

And where shall we find? Are we journey-bound

like blood to a hound, treading wherever

boots tread – or will it tread me underground?

More running from my demon won’t solve this,

but for now, running will do. But one stride

from the edge is a stride for the abyss.

Oh, if I could stride skylines by your side

without afearing the death in your eyes

to wander into the splendid sunrise.

paranoia

she broke the ice with a kiss;

while she left me alone to sleep
and dream aside his ash-filled pipe
but it's all in my head, it's all in my slumber
a giggle, a gasp and she fingers his chest,
he tears through her dress onto caress
her captivating beauty, not letting me go,
burning forth from me uncontrolled,
jealousy, churning, darkness by the sea
swimming amid a sick alibi
choking I cannot wake

Mind & Matter

Grey hairs betray me, hitting the warm floor.

Shall I begin to shave away the rest,

would it not be until my roots are sore

and I am balding before we know best?

Tourniquet tied around my life too tight,

perhaps my veins will pop under the stress,

bleed this poison over my skin tonight

into the cracks and heal, but I digress,

my arm attacked by a single needle,

victory tubes connecting to blister

packs full of deadly venom by treadle.

A pound self-shaving station at Lister

asks if I will handle the blade myself,

and ceasefire against my terminal health.

a Buried lyric
I lie alone in darkness,
shrouded with black sand and fishing rope.
I watched you walk away and forget about me.
You let go of me, but I’m still
held down. I will fight until my last sharp breath.
I will struggle as the ropes soak
and the sand bows down into my breast.
God, hold back the tide.
I can not get up, but I will not stay down.
Heaven hear me, I won’t wash into the nothing.

In an ocean of darkness,
one moonlit woman with cold dilated eyes
lies with me as if a word would change the tide.
Take my hand, she told me.
Those were your words on our last summer’s day.
We bathed in light and laughed
until our cheeks burned and eyes cried.
Oh, I am not proud.
All is lost now, the waves are taking over.
I always said you took my breath away.

I’m trapped by darkness,
leave me to time and tide, I don’t care anymore.
I’d feel my legs begin to buckle if they weren’t numb.
Take my hand, she tells me,
I can see you starting to break, open your eyes,
light up the sky and I’ll keep you alive.
I force my hand out, up into hers.
I feel her slipping away, come back to me!
I cannot hold on.
Don’t leave me in the dark, show me the way.

a broken yew tree
find me

below a blue wind
orange sky
bare branches:
green leaves and red berries –

picked at by the crows – scattered,
shaken to the ground.
Eye-white hourglass
trunk has been
hollowed
out
a small cave
within the terrible giant.

Inside

breathless and beatless
hear the echo of life; charred
bark, rings of ash and room for two

stay awhile, only
a little walk
from the butterflies
and sundial

look above the painted petals
smeared about the hazel canvas
trace the thick wooden spines,
reach up, feel for the groove

touch: scored date,
initials, a name,
relations-

-no
don’t get up,
please,

stay awhile

Due but two
In the waves, in the waves, I am alone
but two, all but two. First me, second you.
Your moon, your moon the birthing blue
a stain, stained due up on the typhoon
its due, its due, awed without a clue.
Us; two, you’re immune, I see right through.
I-silver and you in blue-moon, blue-you.
Blue-you? I wave and so do you, but blue.

Standing Stones

She whistles through thistles whilst under the bleeding sun,
and when I called her name, my fingertips went numb.
From the chalk plateau, her damning hail moans,
dragging a salty tempest over the alkaline grassland.

Amid standing stones, a birthstone-blue star
looks at me suspiciously, as I came to hold the hand

of a captor haunting me; she dances on top a barrow,
I fall down to my knees and sit solus in solace.

Last light leaves the monolith, the ground begins to chill,
her hushing susurrations will keep us hand in hand
and we will dance forever under the swollen sky,
until the stars are dying and the wind has said goodbye.

At Last Sung
Black grass whistled, blades slicing side to side carving the white sky behind
like broken charcoal scratched into the horizon dancing atop white-hot embers
the skyline only broken by a one-legged piano, toppled to its side and burning;
the flames carve between each key, black and white and red spitting out strings
they engulf the crippled form, when a crack of thunder beats the heavy humid air
- a loud pulse ripples through the sky, a warning shot that heaven may tear in two
and the earth will crumble into dust anchored into damnation below the God-fury.
Over the hill, under the looming torment, a dozen, a hundred, a thousand bodies lay
still and cold and pale, rotting gently. Their rib cages rattle, shaking left and right,
bones audibly cracking and snapping in the desperate struggle to break out before
it is too late and the long sharp swift blade, sprouting from a pole held by bone;
white and clean, wrapped in loose black silk; slowly sweeps across the land
overloaded by Father's wrathful outburst, blazoned into the earth and scorn into
the field of dead; the piano slumps to its belly, losing the last leg and a note moans,
the rib cages groan and with the final pluck of muscle snapping, a thousand chests
burst open and unleash a dainty dreary mass of sun-white shinning silhouettes
turning the sky black by contrast and the void-grass blacker still, blind to the eye.
Death's long reach harvests the golden grain, loading the shimmering outlines
of man into the jaws, crushing against the gate, piling up. The metal bars of the gate
bend, threatening to bust, under the weight. The heavens open and the tears of every
angels weep; sodden the earth - a rainbow shines, puddles grow, droplets splash
about a dove's feather, eye-white, in wet soot, bare branches and crisp brown leaves.
A man, rope about his waist and a large drum hanging from his side, walks -
stick in hand, toward the white field. Death looms closer, creeping under the storm.
A woman, holding the neck of a guitar slung over her shoulder, walks -
fist clenched, toward the white field. Death looms closer, creeping forward still.
A child kneels into the dirt, lifts the soft - still warm - feather from the wet soot
scoring lines of black across a crisp brown leaf, like ink drying into paper,
symbols, notations and scrawl scribe across the charred veins of the leaf, then rolling
into a scroll of sheet music, sealed by thumb and finger; held to the quick beating
at a chest, toward the white field. Death arrives and sees a wall of three figures
like shepherds of light standing guard against the growling wolf of darkness.

Death pulled a fiddle
and plucked out a riddle
to query a mortal in song

The man starting drumming
the woman was strumming
the boy and the field of dead
were all humming to the song
of the sky and the hymn
of the earth and the clouds
clashed loud and the angels all
sung to the dead leaf's scrawl

Bones clinched loud
silk swayed in the wind
each string screamed out
as the field was thinned

Together they played
and together they sung
until the field was empty
and a new day had begun.

No walking stick

There's a green bag by a black and white umbrella,

held by an old looking fella in his left hand,

he is moving with purpose, marching proudly

back and forth, patrolling the safe station platforms.

There are ladies laughing, up in arms, observing overtly

the old man in sight on stage for their X Factor-freak-show.

Then a middle finger flicks past a barrel to trigger

a chain reaction of a bright white camera flash to a startled mass.

Wearing a Yellow Hi Vis, eating pie with thumb and finger

between lunch and dinner - this other guy's not getting any thinner,

but he is waiting, with a return ticket to the capital;

for labour under the moonlight at the construction site.

From the darkness in a high vis harness,

a mighty meaty, awfully sweaty, hot and heavy

figure uncertainly steps forward and into a

shining bright, focused-tight flashlight.

Camera, action.

The train is on time spitting gas one minute away,

their freak is falling to the tracks. Piss leaking

all over the rock and roll soldier, of an era immersed

with engine grime, dry blood and cooking grease.

A sharp pebble in his eye, but the guy was half blind before

the cackles cease and the ladies look down at the freak

who tries to stand with his umbrella, but breaks it.

He holds up an empty hand and no one takes it.

Rich white trash see a train coming about to crash.

Then the massive yellow body boldly steps forward

with wet sticky fingers that slide into the palm

of the fragile old man and burns the muscles in his arm.

Two Ds, three Es, an F and a pass

he’ll never be more than working class,

with second-hand jeans showing his arse,

but he holds a distinction in the master class of decency.

Just six more months of marching after, but one medal down,

after saluting his five foot, seventeen stone saviour.

He looks him up and down through a bloodshot eye,

inspired by why his brothers chose to die.

Forward
I could forgive

you if you

said sorry, but I

will not forget.

I will not

be mad,

I will not

be sad.

I won’t

fight the lad

or pretend

to be glad;

I will look

forward

and I will

walk.

Climb
I drove through the day, drove until I was far away
saw the sunlight bleeding over head
crayon red scratched silver sky
left all teardrops in a fire, burning while I drove far away

last light slips behind groves, meadows, humankind
beneath a black sky haunting over head
charcoal carved out the silver sky
eyes open all night, dry, looking out for humankind

quick fast love affair, done by dawn without a care
snaking roads worm through lonely hills
spearhead peak held up the sky
I trudge through bog, car parked somewhere without a care

knee bent, thigh burn, stepping, climbing to the sun
tired so soon but just begun
glasses mist, breath short, high
walking boots grounded in dry roots to the sun

downs a dizzy doom to stiffen, slop steeped into cliff
I could turn around now
hand cups grey rock and elbow gets up
only upward scrambled on the cliff

up, up, farther still, lost a breath and I feel
exhausted and ready to give in
so high up people look like shrimp
I close my eyes, I take a breath, I feel

two wings on the air, below me, above their prey
resting slumbered between two rocks
nestled into a shallow grave
a sheep stepped from a cloud and I pray

show Yourself to me, don't be a hapless dream
wished up by a shepherd
strayed far from the flock
a dark cloud looms as a hapless nightmare

dry rocks and firm ground keep me level
headed in the right direction
the peak draws in closer still
distant lake sits between hills, water level

calm, the wind picks up
the cloud swirl
the sky grows dark
the wind picks up
the cloud swells
the sky grows dark
the wind picks up

the path down is dry for the time being
yet the peak is within my reach
my aches long retreat
but press on with every fibre of my being

a cold droplet runs down my cheek
spills from my chin into the soil
the thirsty earth readies, swallows
a fire chases down my cheek

up, once more, up and over the rock
stand to see a shelf of green
another spire begins to tower up
a pool of blue sits in the shadow of the rock

I'd thought I'd finished, but half way up
knee bent, thigh burn, mind empty, mind churn
as darken skies begin to weep
I trudge in soil deep, but up

but up, but up, but no way down
fistfuls of plants torn from scalp
slip, sliding, tumbling
one way down

dust self, check self, myself steady
hand shake, knee weak, I'm not ready

knee floor, hands floor, crawled through a moor
soaked, beaten, hadn't eaten

doubt self, lose self, myself careless
hands slam, knuckles burn, eyes cry

I cry, I feel. Wind claws a tear from my
cheek and tosses it over my shoulder.

I stand in the day, dark clouds blown away
feel a gentle sunlight on the air
a warmth blossoms
all the raindrops burn away

up, up, farther still, still lost, but now I feel
exhausted and ready to give up
so high up cars look like shrimp
I close my eyes, I take a breath, I feel

a fast gale closing in, I roll up, over, over

saw sunlight bleeding through the mist
wrays blurred behind a pile of rocks
then stones atop, then pebbles peaking over

peaked.

Binary star
piercing white, blinding,
we're unwinding inside,
unfurling your wings and
I'm finding a feather
amid my fingertips;
spinning white iris about
a burning red pupil;
an angel and a devil.

spinning silk; whirling,
a princess in the ballroom
all soft and gentle
brushing a claw across
her naked spine;
giggling; my fur tickling
her velvet, creased;
beauty and the beast

twirling beauty; reeling,
rippling on the dancefloor
rocking and swaying
her cheek pressing on mine
a smooth touch, light kiss
shes wearing my coat
and all I can see
is just you and me.

2AM
Fistfuls of sand
running between
my knuckles.
Talking in circles
over the low hum of an engine
ears numb to the world
fingertips itching
a smile flinching
talking in circles
soft words surfing by
eyes shinning
lips parting
talking
closer
in circles
your breath
on mine.
A naked man runs past
and takes your breath away.
Two clumps of sand
patter at my shoes;
grit in our soles.

When you're on my mind, life is poetry
Waking, I hear beats from a broke drummer,
pull the window shut, locked in woefully
to this dream, fighting to return to slumber.
When you're on my mind, life is poetry:
we slow dance aflame atop a candle,
a bottle to my lips is our first kiss,
the stretched plastic carrier bag handles
on my knuckles are your soft fingertips.
I am never kicking through grass alone
watching buds soar as we canter along
a blooming daisy patch, and, we fall prone.
When you're amid petals, life is a song:
my heart is a drum, but I wake screaming,
my heart is beatless to know I's dreaming.

Awake, but weary-eyed glancing over
to your photograph waiting on the side,
a floored shirt, grass-stained sleeve, becomes a blur,
empty bottles in a plastic bag; tied.
I sit up alone and thumb your image
pondering on how, if, to start this affair
but when I demand: these thoughts are finished;
my dreams without you turn into nightmares.
So, I rest my head and I close my eyes.
A tiny chain in my chest tugs me to
your gravity well, I'm falling to fly
for there to be a way to be with you.
This is the saddest joy I've ever known;
when you're on my mind, I am still alone.

Ticked and crossed
No new texts. No missed call.
Not a like or a friend request.
No message on my Facebook wall.
No letters forwarded to my address.
No new followers, nor snaps.
No tagged photos or untagged, even.
No DMs, Skypes or Whatsapps.
No e-mails save spam to believe in.
Now I type, then I send and then
Nothing, I see ✔read, but no reply.

Fight or Flight

You need time to think on it

and I know that I’ve made a mistake

if love is ending this way

when it was supposed to be great but

it just takes and it takes and it takes

and it takes

there’s not much left anyway

so I lie awake and I break and I ache

and I ache.

There’s a timer counting down

I should make an escape

if love keeps ending this way

when it was supposed to be great but

it just ticks and it ticks and it ticks

and it ticks

there’s not much time anyway

so I run late from the hate and I wait

and I wait.

If there’s a chance I could turn round

as if running was my only mistake

if love keeps ending this way

when it was supposed to be great and

we just talk and we talk and we talk

and we talk

there’s not much left to say

so we lie awake and we break ‘cos we made

a mistake.

Riverling
If love was a river, the bed was dry.
Optimistic, I built a dam - gotta play it cool,
right?

When I looked into your eyes and saw you
a small trickle of water appeared, a puddle,
really.

I got my feet wet and paddled, then waded
the river was up to my thighs and I panicked,
truly.

On the otherside of the dam, the banks were dry
there was no way I could drown over here,
phew.

Water sprayed through a small hole in the dam
it shot out, but was easy enough to plug, until
another.

and then it burst through, "I love you"
"I love you too", you snapped back,
instantly.

I saw you meant it in your eyes
the dam was gone and the river flowed,
fast.

Summer blues
Woo~

like rain in the summer in the city
mascara running fast
but the girl lookin' pretty

the streets are alive in the dark of the night
the girl's actin' tough like
she'll give you a fight

take her by the waist and whistle a taxi
let's take a backseat down a backstreet
dry your eyes, dear, they're nothing but waxy

~ooh

breaking down on the side of the road
suddenly I feel miles from home
and you laugh at me as I start to stutter

uh-uh, excuse me sir,
what's the smoke coming from
the front of your car?

the radio plays and the engine buckles;
an hour ago, you were hating and raging,
now I can't hear the guy as you chuckle

woosh!

there's a spark and a light in your eyes
a flush in your cheeks
and your hand's on my thigh

I'd push this motor mile after mile
sell my soul to have you home in a flash,
crack open a bottle and a button and a smile

like the sun on your cheeks and the shine in your specs
drinking and spinning, getting closer, then next
to and fro and throw down to have seeee~

~tish,

but we stroll down the lane in the pouring rain
we're tight under dark clouds.
Another cab? Let's grab a train.

we know
we know

we'll never be alone
to ponder by a pond
and think on falling in
cos we have we, like
an armband on a baby

that every stride to
is to together in toe
and if one of us trips
both of us fall unless
the other stands tall

I got you getting me
all the world to see
but all I'm looking for
is on my side, smiling
agreeing to be my bride

we know
we do

Do us part
It doesn't mend the crack in the mirror,
when I am split in two down the middle,
it doesn't plaster over the hole in the drywall,
or suture up the edges of my knuckles,
but it is enough.

There is no divine revelation in its wake,
no undying answer to the hole in my chest,
there is no cure waiting for me by it,
nor a purpose for the precious time left,
but it is enough.

I'm bleeding out and calling out for you,
there is no response, save the echo from afar,
in my desperation, I hex this situation,
retreat into the corner of my mind,
but it is enough.

In that quiet moment, you're with me,
we're in the dark, slumped into a corner,
your tourniquet-arms tied about my torso,
we both know it won't kill the bleeding,
but it is enough to dull the pain.

The wanderlust reprise
Look over at our horizon, see the

shadows dancing far. Watch and sway

in silence; save the beat of the birds.

This route is chosen. Our paths a way.

Will we follow it like this forever?

And where shall we find? Are we journey-bound

like blood to a hound, treading wherever

boots tread – or will we tread 'til we're underground?

Let's run and skip and dance and dream,

all the while, saying I do. For one stride

from the edge is a stride for the abyss.

Oh, I will stride skylines by your side
without afearing the birth in your eyes
to wander into the splendid sunrise.

Rattletrap

2017-08-26T09:06:00.001+01:00

Frank Rooney had been the manager of the Shop & Save for thirty-eight years, and he wasn't retiring anytime soon. He had seen many faces come and go, customers and colleagues alike, but in all his time he had never met anyone quite as detestable as the lead salesman, Gilbert Smith, who only got the job because his uncle is the new district manager.
    ‘Smell ya later, Gramps’, Gilbert would quip in passing. Yesterday, Frank had found a sachet of hair dye taped to the outside of his locker. The day before, a brochure for a retirement village was under the front wiper of Frank’s waxed 1965 Black Chevy.
    Last night when Frank was handing over to Gilbert for the night shift, he heard, ‘Fall into a grave already’, as he clocked out. Frank turned and stared at Gilbert, slouched into the doorway; Frank closed his wrinkled fist, but he held his tongue and his fingers fell loose. One of them would have to go, and Frank wasn’t retiring anytime soon.

This morning was seemingly like any other, but his head was groggy and there was a heaviness to everything. Frank ironed his green apron, pressing the hot iron down into it’s smug, spotty face. In the shower, he rang the neck of the sponge. After preparing his morning bowl of cereal, he carelessly knocked the carton onto the floor; milk pumped out and bled across the cold tiles and seeped into his floor rug. He stabbed at the sizzling bacon, fat spitting out and burning. He sliced the sandwich, savouring the moment.
    The entire apartment was only just bigger than his reserved parking space at work. On his day off, Frank could prepare his Bran Flakes, brush his teeth, iron his shirts and hang them up on a rack, without leaving his bed.
    It turned 6 o’clock. Frank packed his case: a fresh and folded green apron, a hearty lunch wrapped in tin foil, a spare pair of spectacles in a small black wallet, his name badge and yellow ‘be happy’ pin beside it. He tucked his grey shirt in, tightened his belt until the leather stretched about his gut. Frank checked his phone; no messages, no missed calls.
    Recently, the twenty-five-minute drive to and from work, his lunch break and Thursdays when Gilbert had a day off, were Frank’s only true moments of peace. He could not relax at home anymore.
    Frank looked over his Chevy, ran his finger across the paint work and inspected it. Then, he circled around the car, past the licence plate that read ‘R00-N5Y’, and then back round to the driver’s side. Frank pulled the door shut, leaned back into the driver’s seat and rested his fingertips on the steering wheel. The engine kicked into gear and purred. Frank took a deep breath and then pulled out onto the high street.
    There was a smile brimming on Frank’s face. He had one hand on the wheel, the other on the stick. The ride was bumpy, Frank was saddled in on the edge of his seat, his tip toes poking at the pedals, ready for any buck; poised like a sprinter ready to dash.
    Up the road, the lights turned green. A fox-orange 2017 Nissan Rogue Sport sped past, through the oncoming lane, past Frank and an old, slow Ford he was stuck behind. The lights would change back any moment and this Ford, some crappy rattletrap, wasn’t making it on time.
    Frank looked up the oncoming lane, looking for his moment to strike. There was a break in the traffic, Frank pulled out left, hammered his foot down and stood up in his seat with the excitement! He roared past the Ford, sliding in front as the green lights flicked to amber. He sped up a little, but then the amber flicked to red.
    He stomped on the breaks, they screeched. Frank heard a metallic pop, then the Chevy’s engine murmured a weeping, breathless hiss. The brakes fell slack; Frank reigned in the handbrake. The wheels burned against the tarmac, two black streaks stained the road, through the red lines and into the middle of the intersection. The Chevy stopped, traffic flying in from the left and right.
    His eyes shut, his hands fluttering around, his heart dropped out his chest and onto the driver’s seat.
    A furious car horn blared out. Rubber squealed. Voices swore. The oncoming traffic made their way around Frank sitting in his steaming Chevy on the crossroad. Frank turned the keys, pleading with the ignition. It revved and revved, then hissed. He sheepishly pressed on his hazard lights; the Ford behind him, before the red light, did the same.
    Late-fifties, about the same age as Frank, balding, in sports shorts, a tank top and a large slapped-on smile; the driver stepped out of the Ford and bounced over to the Chevy on his toes, raising a palm to oncoming traffic. Frank saw a teenage boy sitting in the passenger seat, reading a book.
    ‘Car trouble?’ muffled with a knock at the window, Frank wound it down, ‘You gave us quite a fright there, are you alright?’
    ‘I’m fine’, said Frank, he let the handbrake off, opened his car door and fixed a hand to his steering wheel – looking over to the corner of the road. The lights changed and Frank started marching, tick tick tick, in time with the hazard lights flicking.
    ‘Let me give you a hand’, said the man with a smile, who walked round to the back and pushed.
    ‘Mind the paint work’, Frank called out,
    ‘Yes, sir’,
    ‘No, seriously’, Frank stopped and turned about, ‘look, I don’t need your help – go back to your family, leave me alone’.
    ‘What kind of example would I be setting for my boys then? Let me help you to the curb’.
    Frank gritted his teeth and pushed. He looked back over at the man’s Ford, the teenager’s eyes were fixed into the crease of a novel; he turned a page, glancing up for just a brief moment. They slowly wheeled over to the corner of the street.
    ‘Thanks, you can go now’, said Frank,
    ‘You’re welcome, the name’s George; you?’
    ‘I’ve got to get to work, can’t stay and chat’,
    ‘It doesn’t look like you’re going anywhere’, said George, sniffing, ‘what is your name?’
    ‘She’ll be fine’, Frank paused, ‘Francis, call me Frank’,
    ‘Nice to meet you, Frank’, George offered a hand, ‘you got cover for this?’ Reluctantly, Frank shook his hand.
    ‘I’ll be able to fix her up’.
    ‘Sure, sure, Frank’, George nodded, ‘I’ll call you a tow, I know a guy; you’re not pushing this to the nearest garage by yourself’, Frank stared at him, ‘if that is alright with you, Frank?’
    ‘I suppose it is okay. Thank you. I don’t know garages in this part of town, I was driving to work’, Frank confessed and George smiled bright.

He wasn’t quite sure how things turned out this way, watching his Chevy in the hands of a grease monkey get smaller and smaller through the dusty round window of a bumbling Ford. Frank now regretted feigning humility and taking the backseat, beside a young boy in a booster seat, Frank shifted about the crushed quavers in his chair.
    George had offered to drive him to work. It took a lot to say yes. When Frank got in the car, George introduced his two sons, the grumpy Harry and the little Peter. Harry didn’t look up from his copy of Catcher in the Rye, whereas, little Peter didn’t take his eyes off Frank for an instant.
    ‘You listening to this?’ George elbowed Harry, who grunted back. George’s eyes bounced between the road and his fingers at the radio, carefully pressing a rehearsed sequence of buttons. Then, the radio played:
    I heard you on the wireless back in fifty-two. Lying awake intent at tuning in on you.
    ‘The Buggles, 1979’, Frank smiled.
    ‘You know it?’ George asked,
    ‘Know it? This was the first record I ever bought with my first pay cheque. Still got it somewhere, under my bed maybe’. Frank bobbed his head and mouthed the words. Frank saw Harry mouthing the words, too. Little Peter patted his hands up and down with the drum beat.
    The back window was rattling, ruining the song. The back seats stank of sugar and crisp, with faint gas fumes bubbling under the surface. Should the wind turn, this Ford might fall in two. Though Peter paid no mind, he brought a small red rattle to his mouth and dribbled all over it. Peter’s eyes creased with a smile as he caught Frank looking.
    ‘You got kids, Frank?’ George asked,
    ‘Yeah, two’, Frank lied, ‘they grow up so fast’.
    ‘You’re telling me, my oldest is nearly thirty’.
    ‘Thirty-eight this year’, added Frank, dismissively.
    ‘Next left?’ asked George,
    ‘Erm’, Frank began, ‘you can drop me just here, I don’t mind a little walk over to the office block; some fresh air will do me good after the morning I’ve had, I wouldn’t want Wendy – the receptionist – to see me all hot-headed’,
    ‘You got it, Frank’, George chuckled.
    Frank stepped out of the car in front of the pet shop, Em-Paw-Ium. He waved and little Peter waved back, like his father. Harry turned a page and the Ford pooted off; with a sharp double-honk.
    Apply within, supervisor needed; as Frank walked by. Adopt a puppy today; Frank fell into the two deep eyes of the poster-puppy. Two for one on litter trays; seems fair, Frank thought. Subscribe for your weekly luxury pet food.
    His landlord didn’t allow pets, but Frank always had a soft spot for dogs. His grandad would drive him out into the woods with their German Shepherd, they’d walk her all across, from the lake to the Scout’s cabin.
    Frank walked down the little alley to get round the back of Shop & Save. There was a torn poster on the wall, damp leaflets stuck to the pavement like chewing gum, and broken glass scattered about. Frank paused, took a breath and swept his hair back. He glanced at his wristwatch and grumbled.
    Frank looked up and there he was, Gilbert, standing with the back door ajar, leaning against it, his weight rocking the door gently on its hinges.
    ‘Oh, you’ve done it this time’, Gilbert said, tapping his watch, ‘did you miss the bus or wet the bed? Don’t be embarrassed, it is natural at your age’, he smirked.
    ‘Listen here’, Frank jolted forward and took Gilbert by the collar, ‘enough is enough’. Gilbert’s eyes flared open and he let go of the door. Frank tightened his grip. The door creaked open, slowly, revealing Gilbert’s uncle standing on the other side. He wore a heavy, black suit over a pressed, white shirt and a black tie; a yellow ‘be happy’ pin fixed on his blazer’s breast pocket.
    ‘Mister Rooney’, he said.
    ‘Mister Smith, Sir’, Frank replied, startled and letting go of Gilbert, ‘I didn’t know we had a meeting this morning, I would have brought some coffee’.
    ‘It would be cold by now, old-timer’, interjected Gilbert,
    ‘I’m not here for a meeting, I was called in by the night team. You’ve got rats, Frank. This isn’t up to code, we could be shut down for something like this and it has happened on your watch’,
    ‘Which is, evidently, running late’, added Gilbert. Then, his uncle smacked Gilbert across the ear, ‘Hey!’ he squealed,
    ‘It was on your watch, too’, said Mr Smith, ‘both of you have twenty-four hours to get this place back into shape or you’re both fired’.
    The district manager barged past both of them, walked across the brick pavement and got into a fox-ginger 2017 Nissan Rogue Sport, parked in Frank’s reserved spot. Its engine cackled as he whipped out of sight.
    Frank plummeted into the office chair, it spins gently, and he squeezed his brow. The cash register was on the side, half way through being counted, at least seven hundred dollars just sitting there; Frank could fix his Chevy up and spend the weekend out of the city on that green.
    Gilbert paced by, lingering.
    ‘Rats?’ Frank asked,
    ‘Jackson spotted it by the fruit, then a customer saw it’, Gilbert shrugged, ‘the team is in the staff room waiting on you’.
    ‘How did your uncle find out?’
    ‘I called him’,
    ‘Why would you do that?’
    ‘What else was I suppose to do?’
    ‘You call me, you should have called me’.

The four shift workers sat in the staff room, as Frank entered and Gilbert followed quietly behind. There was Jackson who had just finished his night shift, packing up at his locker. Then there was a very tired Daisy, her slick red hair pulled back into a pony-tail. Donovan, he was a thin, frail teenager – he usually only worked a few hours over the weekend, but he had time off college. Finally, there was sweet, old Vanessa, who worked the pharmacy.
    ‘Right everyone’, Frank said, ‘little problem last night and we may need to shut the store down for a couple hours today, but don’t mention it to customers and...’, Frank paused as he looked at his employees. Vanessa was listening intently, but Daisy hadn’t looked up from her Samsung, and Donovan was whispering over to Jackson.
    ‘Your attention, please’,
    ‘I’m listening’, Donovan said, ‘I’m listening good’. Daisy didn’t look up from her phone. Frank switched his focus between them, back and forth.
    ‘Listen!’ he rocketed. The room shook. Everyone jolted. ‘You’re on the clock. Listen to me. Daisy get off your phone or I’ll be snapping it in two. Donovan, lie again and you’re finished. Jackson, go home; now’.

Frank slumped back into the office chair, idle as life seeped out of him, and he waited on the line for someone, anyone, to deal with this.
    Daisy came to the office. ‘Sorry, Frank’, she said, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you’,
    ‘Just do a good job’, Frank forced a smile and Daisy skipped off.
    Gilbert fetched the till and took it out the front. A moment later, he returned to the office, clocked out and quipped, ‘smell ya later, Gramps’,
    ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’ Frank demanded,
    ‘Call the exterminator, job done’,
    ‘An exterminator walking around the shop, that will drive sales’.
    ‘You. You will have to close, Frankie’,
    ‘Don’t you care at all?’
    ‘Do you really think my own uncle will fire me?’
    ‘I don’t know, do you?’ asked Frank, but he didn’t expect an answer and he didn’t get one, but Gilbert clocked back in.
    Frank was ready for the shift. He put down the office phone and frowned. He put on his apron, his name badge and yellow ‘be happy’ pin. In the mirror, he forced a smile – tried to make his eyes wrinkle, too, like little Peter’s did.

On the shop floor, it was a quick start to the day, but Frank and Gilbert patrolled with a watchful eye. Gilbert slurped on a fruit shake in one hand and a cappuccino in the other. Frank paced up and down each aisle, one at a time. He carefully checked for any droppings and listening out for any faint squeaks.
    ‘Excuse me’, a customer pulled Gilbert aside,
    ‘Oh, hello, my name is Gil, how many I help you today?’
    ‘I’m looking for diapers, can you point me in the right direction?’
    ‘Certainly, the man to ask is young Frank over there’, Gilbert said, pointing, ‘he can recommend the best texture’.
    Then outside, a white van with ‘Squeaky Clean’ printed on the side pulled up. Frank raced out through a crowd of people, Gilbert followed shortly after.
    ‘Subtle service, huh?’ said Gilbert as Frank knocked on the driver’s side glass and told him to head round the back, pointing wildly.

‘Now, these pads are really, really sticky’, said the Squeaky Clean van man to Frank and the team. Donovan put up his hand,
    ‘You’re not in school, Don’, said Gilbert,
    ‘Sorry’, said Donovan, ‘could it stick a car to the floor?’
    ‘No’, said the Squeaky Clean man, ‘they are only sticky on one side, so it would just spin with the wheel – any other questions? No question is too stupid’.
    Donovan raised his hand again,
    ‘Let’s not test that theory, Don’, added Gilbert.
    ‘I have a question’, said Frank, ‘how long will we need to close the store for?’
    ‘You can’t have customers on the shop floor with these out. These will ruin a nice pair of shoes and no one wants to buy carrots with a rat squirming at their feet’,
    ‘So, how long?’
    ‘As long as it takes’.
    Gilbert locked the front door and stuck an A4 sheet of paper, with ‘Gone Fishin’ written on it, to the glass. He walked back over to the main checkout, leaving a cluster of confused customers behind him. Daisy sat on the side and Donovan was watching Frank and the Squeaky Clean man walk about the store laying down the sticky pads.
    The day was long and tedious. Gilbert took a nap in the staff room. Daisy braided her hair and Donovan was on duty turning customers away but taking any pharmacy orders over to Vanessa on behalf of regulars.
    Frank sat back in the office, like a cold man in a fishing boat, all alone in the middle of a storm. The Squeaky Clean van man had left after checking above the ceiling tiles and finding droppings on the walkways between Shop & Save and Em-Paw-Ium; he blamed it on the pet shop.
    Frank tapped his fingers on the table, watching the CCTV and counting the seconds tick by. Every ten minutes, he swept across the shop, checking every pad. Nothing yet. Then, he’d return to the office.

A sudden, tiny, piercing cry.
    Frank looked about, unsure where it came from. It was a squeak like a baby in pain. Frank stood up and began to search the office. It was like a kitten with an injured paw. Frank stepped out of the office and began to look round for pads. It was like the noise a German Shepherd makes when it pulls the leash out of your hand and crashes into a ditch, whimpering, in pain. It sounded like a boy’s cry having watched Grandad end the suffering hound’s life.
    There it was, not a rat at all, but a small, white mouse. It was no bigger than Frank’s thumb. Its feet were stuck on one of the pads, it struggled and struggled. Tufts of white fur on its chest knotted up and stuck down.
    Frank slumped to his knees, ‘Oh, you poor thing’, he was crushed. There was an enormous weight in his chest, ready to burst through his rib cage.
    The little mouse didn’t take its eyes off Frank, its eyes creased as it tried to rear its head up away from the glue, finding no success. The little mouse began to cry. It swelled. The crying pierced Frank’s heart.
    ‘Oh, God!’
    The cry became a scream. Absolute terror. This tiny boombox-mouse, like interference blowing out the speaker.
    ‘It will be okay’, Frank rushed to the phone, ‘come on, come on’,
    ‘Squeaky clean service, how many I direct your call?’
    ‘We don’t have rats, it is a little mouse, you need to send your driver back and get it free’,
    ‘Hello, Sir? Who is calling?’
    ‘Shop & Save; it is just a mouse! Just a mouse! Turn your van around and get back here’. If time could crawl, like an injured dog through dry branches and loose soil, it chose this moment to do it. Gilbert turned the corner to the office.
    ‘Frank’, like an elongated noise, stretched out in slow motion, ‘we caught a rat out on the floo-oo-or’. All time slowed right down. Gilbert’s eyes looked to Frank, who was on the phone staring at the floor, then his gaze followed Frank’s and saw the small, tiny, white mouse at his feet.
    Gilbert’s knee was up, above his waist, ‘Rat!’ his heel, shaking and sudden, dragged down. The bottom of Gilbert’s boot fell upon the tiny mouse and crushed it.
    Then, everything was fast. Too fast.
    ‘Ahh’, Gilbert yelled, ‘Jesus!’ he stomped and stomped, the pad stuck to his boot. Red and white splattered out. His foot fell down, splatter. Gilbert threw his leg in the air and kicked. The small white corpse was trapped to the underside of his boot.
    Gilbert fell off balance and brought his foot down again. The small skull popping. Gilbert squealed, he fell backwards onto his bum, kicking his leg out and out. A chunk of tail kicked off and spat into Frank’s face.
    The phone fell onto the desk, ‘Hello? Sir? Are you still there?’ Frank was still, watching, awe-struck. It was all too much. Frank’s eyes glossed over. His stomach began to boil. A mounting rage, like a thunder storm stuck inside a Pepsi can, splintered the air.
    Frank stood up, brought up his knee and stomped down on Gilbert.
    ‘Why’, Frank stomped, ‘would’, he stomped harder, ‘you’, he missed, his foot sliding as it struck a small puddle of blood and guts on the floor, ‘kill’, he cried, ‘it?’
    Gilbert, under the torrent of Frank’s fury, sobered himself from the shock and adrenaline. He reached up and tucked a fist into the knot of Frank’s stomach. Frank bellied over onto his side.
    ‘It is just a mouse’, Gilbert gasped, shaking, standing up over Frank, ‘it is just a mouse’. His shoulders flared and his chest pumped. Gilbert drew himself out of the office and fell back into the wall. He wrestled with his laces and then pulled his shoe off, tossing it and the dead mouse through the other doorway, and into the staff room’s bin.
    ‘I didn’t mean to hit you so hard, Frank’, said Gilbert, ‘I’m sorry’. Frank picked himself up and rested against the wall, his legs stretched out on the tiled floor. The mouse was like spilt milk.
    ‘I shouldn’t have kicked you’, grumbled Frank, coughing.
    ‘You’re not going to tell my uncle, are you?’
    ‘No’,
    ‘You’re not going to quit, are you?’
    ‘No’.
    ‘What are you going to do, Frank?’
    Frank pulled on the table and rose to his feet. He went and fetched the mop, leaving it by Gilbert. He sat back at the desk and picked up the phone, ‘If you could send your van back, we need to be rid of these pads and open up’. Then, Frank put it down. The room was silent for all but Gilbert’s panting.
    ‘One day’, Frank began, ‘when you’re drunk and miserable and struggling to connect with kids you don’t love, I will be retired, living out in the sticks. I will be happy. I’ll raise a pup, listen to records and take long walks through the woods. I will be happy and have peace every minute of every day.
    ‘I won’t need to bother with any sticky pads or stupid teens or stepped on mice. I won’t need to drive to get away from it all because I’ll be there, where I want to be, when I’m retired.
    ‘What am I going to do? I am going to do what I have always done; get by. Get by when your flat is cramped, but the rent is cheap. Get by when your boss’ nephew gives you stick, ‘cause this job is all that you ever had and all that you ever needed to get by. Get by when an innocent life, who did no wrong by anyone is stamped out for no reason - ‘cause this is the life I was given. So, I will get by.
    ‘I’ll retire and I’ll be happy, away from it all, forever, got by’.

we know

2017-08-22T01:18:00.001+01:00

we know

we'll never be alone
to ponder by a pond
and think on falling in
cos we have we, like
an armband on a baby

that every stride to
is to together in toe
and if one of us trips
both of us fall unless
the other stands tall

I got you getting me
all the world to see
but all I'm looking for
is on my side, smiling
agreeing to be my bride

we know
we do

Riverling

2017-08-22T01:03:00.001+01:00

If love was a river, the bed was dry.
Optimistic, I built a dam - gotta play it cool,
right?

When I looked into your eyes and saw you
a small trickle of water appeared, a puddle,
really.

I got my feet wet and paddled, then waded
the river was up to my thighs and I panicked,
truly.

On the otherside of the dam, the banks were dry
there was no way I could drown over here,
phew.

Water sprayed through a small hole in the dam
it shot out, but was easy enough to plug, until
another.

and then it burst through, "I love you"
"I love you too", you snapped back,
instantly.

I saw you meant it in your eyes
the dam was gone and the river flowed,
fast.

River Love - Angus Stone

Heading north to San Francisco
Wild horses in my head
See you looking out the window
She'll bring roses when I'm dead

Do I love her for the beauty?
Do I love her, she makes me smile?
Do I love her cuz it's my duty?
But we'll never feel alone

Summer Blues

2017-08-08T18:55:00.001+01:00

Woo~

like rain in the summer in the city
mascara running fast
but the girl lookin' pretty

the streets are alive in the dark of the night
the girl's actin' tough like
she'll give you a fight

take her by the waist and whistle a taxi
let's take a backseat down a backstreet
dry your eyes, dear, they're nothing but waxy

~ooh

breaking down on the side of the road
suddenly I feel miles from home
and you laugh at me as I start to stutter

uh-uh, excuse me sir,
what's the smoke coming from
the front of your car?

the radio plays and the engine buckles;
an hour ago, you were hating and raging,
now I can't hear the guy as you chuckle

woosh!

there's a spark and a light in your eyes
a flush in your cheeks
and your hand's on my thigh

I'd push this motor mile after mile
sell my soul to have you home in a flash,
crack open a bottle and a button and a smile

like the sun on your cheeks and the shine in your specs
drinking and spinning, getting closer, then next
to and fro and throw down to have seeee~

~tish,

but we stroll down the lane in the pouring rain
we're tight under dark clouds.
Another cab? Let's grab a train.

She said

2017-08-08T13:17:00.000+01:00

I just got in from being out,
drinks, thank you and farewell.
All the remaining pieces gone,
incinerated. Anyway,
it was horrible. And it has
upset me more than I had thought.
It's all over. Finished. Complete.
Everyone is moving forward
and growing up. What happens now?

So, yes, I'm emotional now.
And yes, I went out. Got real drunk.
Got hit on a few dozen times.
All harmless, ego-boosting fun.
And today was the day of the
debacle in my drunken state.
I decided it best to write
pen to paper to explain it.
It seemed a really good idea.

I am not sure what exactly
I want to say to you. Not sure
how I want you to respond, but
we always end up going over
the same shit and feelings.
So here I am, in honesty.
You were my first real boyfriend.
I convinced myself I loved you,
in fact, I loved that you loved me.

You were always kind, generous
and thoughtful and then I struggled
to remember why we were worth
longing hardship. I needed space.
Breaking up with you was the best
thing I have ever done ever.
I have learnt so much about me.
I am great at it all now and
real crazy shit, I've done it all.

Not pining for you far away;
not pining over anyone.
That doesn't mean I regret you.
You were my first. You made me feel
special and safe and loved. But I
don't think I ever truly loved
you, and my second helped me see.
Now I have met him and I think
it was love at first sight, honest.

We just clicked. And I don't love him
because he loves me. I love him
because I never want to let
go of him. I am not saying
this to hurt you, I don't want to
hurt. I am just saying the truth
I hope it helps us both move on.
We are old news. This is crazy.
We are both adults. Let's grow up.

Be civil, pleasant, but far,
please stay far, far away from me.
Let's not ruin it anymore.
The memories we have survive
they are special and I don't want
to marr them with fresh crap, fresh you.
You helped me get here. I'm grateful.
I'm drunk, was this was a bad idea?
But I've done it now. I've explained.

Fight or Flight

2017-08-08T12:31:00.001+01:00

You need time to think on it

and I know that I’ve made a mistake

if love is ending this way

when it was supposed to be great but

it just takes and it takes and it takes

and it takes

there’s not much left anyway

so I lie awake and I break and I ache

and I ache.

There’s a timer counting down

I should make an escape

if love keeps ending this way

when it was supposed to be great but

it just ticks and it ticks and it ticks

and it ticks

there’s not much time anyway

so I run late from the hate and I wait

and I wait.

If there’s a chance I could turn round

as if running was my only mistake

if love keeps ending this way

when it was supposed to be great and

we just talk and we talk and we talk

and we talk

there’s not much left to say

so we lie awake and we break ‘cos we made

a mistake.

Do us part

2017-08-02T00:40:00.002+01:00

It doesn't mend the crack in the mirror,
when I am split in two down the middle,
it doesn't plaster over the hole in the drywall,
or suture up the edges of my knuckles,
but it is enough.

There is no divine revelation in its wake,
no undying answer to the hole in my chest,
there is no cure waiting for me by it,
nor a purpose for the precious time left,
but it is enough.

I'm bleeding out and calling out for you,
there is no response, save the echo from afar,
in my desperation, I hex this situation,
retreat into the corner of my mind,
but it is enough.

In that quiet moment, you're with me,
we're in the dark, slumped into a corner,
your tourniquet-arms tied about my torso,
we both know it won't kill the bleeding,
but it is enough to dull the pain.

Hourglass

2017-07-31T18:30:00.000+01:00

It was morning, yet no sun had risen in the sky. The world was a void. Darkness had layered over darkness and shadows had swallowed the Earth; no fires bled their orange glow, no streetlights flickered on, no iPhones illuminated. It was dark, colourless, dark. To a waking man in London, the world looked asleep.

At 7 am, the alarm clock rang and Jeremy woke up. He squeezed his eyelids shut and buried his face back into the warm pillow. Then, with a stretched out arm, he felt for the snooze button, but knocked the alarm clock to the floor. It screamed out, impatiently.

Jeremy sighed, rolled himself over grumpily and searched for the blaring alarm. He found it, clicked it and killed it. He found himself sitting up, rubbing his eyes - the blasted thing did its job well. He couldn't look around. It was dark, really dark. Pitch black; Jeremy was blind, he thought. Squinting and blinking did nothing; it was pretty freaky.

Getting up, a little unstable, he cracked his neck and then pulled his shoulder blades back, clicking his spine. Carefully, Jeremy closed his eyes and then reopened them and on the second inspection, the room was nothing. It was not dim, it was nothing. There were no outlines of shapes or shades of grey - just an absolute, terrifying, darkness. It was rather pleasing, Jeremy smiled - an enigma.

The newly dumbfounded state shook Jeremy's heavy eyes awake. 'This is strange', he pondered to himself, staring into the black; he began to calculate. In the darkness, something emerged. Patterns from the nothing, like wisps of snow blown from a mountain peak. A ghost, perchance. A phantom, more likely. No, it was him, Jeremy, only a shadow looking back at him; thinking too. His mind playing tricks on him, but then he thought, 'This is too dark', and his shadow agreed.

There stood there together and decided on some careful, quiet movement. They got to the edge of his bed and leaned down in search for the fallen clock. He pulled at the carpet, his fingers spidered across the floor until his shadow found it and passed it over. The clock didn't illuminate; broken, they figured.

Then, with all their might, Jeremy stood up. Everything felt slightly off balance, the lack of light was disorientating. A hand forward was his sight, his fingers pressed out towards the wall he knew was there and stepped to it, but fell short. He stepped forward again and his knuckles found it. Palm flat against the cold wall, they railed his hand towards where the light switch should be; he traced his fingers across the embossed wallpaper until they grappled the corner of a plastic square. Together, nodding to reassure one another, they flicked the switch. It clacked, but no light appeared.

With bare feet scanning the floor like a blind man's walking stick for yesterday's clothes, Jeremy awkwardly tried to dress. It had been a long time since Jeremy had dressed in total darkness, there had to be a time before, surely. Legs holes and arm holes are hard to tell apart in the dark. Ankles shouldn't go where wrists were intended. He became a knot and toppled, laughing at himself. It began as a guffaw, then a nasal chuckle; then, determination. Jeremy stood, striking his leg through his trousers and pulling them up about his waist. He stood tall, like Superman, chest high and a cape flapping in the breeze.

'The bulb is just blown?' he had intended to make a statement. He shrugged and left his room. Cold air snapped at Jeremy, on the landing, there was this great wailing sound, like a hole in an aeroplane - but nothing to see. Quickly, he raced towards the horrendous tempest. Jeremy tripped and stumbled into the window sill, pulling the glass shut. There was a great storm outside, freezing cold and loud like a surging tsunami.

Above him, in the void, two glaring ghost-eyes painted themselves across Jeremy's mind eye. His shadow flinched. Staring back into the eyes was like staring up at the stars. Both marvellous and terrifying. A dream concrete. His imagination was standing beside him and the deepest corners of his mind out to play about. The eyes growled, its teeth emerged beneath them. Like a mammoth, angry wolf - its face emerged from the darkness.

Jeremy's shadow shrunk. Squished into a boy. 'We're just alone in the dark', Jeremy hadn't even convinced his pronouns. The wolf's growling grew deep and fierce. In the fury, a word emerged: blind. Blind? Jeremy thought, is that what this is: blindness? He wasn't convinced. While his blind experience was nominal, and really this could be what blind people were all about, he didn't feel blind - despite his utter lack of sight.

'We need light', Jeremy said, 'I agree'.

In the kitchen, the floor tiles were ice and Jeremy's toes had forgotten socks. Rolling from toe to heel, never leaving any patch of skin down long enough for the frostbite to settle in. Jeremy crouched down at the sink and fumbled in the cupboard beneath it, he knew there was a torch in there somewhere. Spray cans wobbled, plastic packets scattered and cardboard boxes knocked over. Then, ah! At last, a torch! He clicked it on. Darkness shone out.

'Dead', Jeremy said, 'or...' enough was enough, they had to know. Am I blind? he thought, not certain if his shadow knew the answer. He shrugged, the way that shadows do. The low, terrible growl followed into the room. The canine's sharp teeth, giant like table legs, closed in around Jeremy; he stood in the jaws.

At the back of the stove was a box of matches. Jeremy took it, pulled a match and held the box, still, in his hand. He was shaking a little. Okay, a lot. The shadow stepped forward, 'let me', it was easier that way. It's cold, black hands took the match and the box from Jeremy's numb fingers. It struck a match of perfect flame. The wood hissed a little under the heat. The shadow stood there with a match lit in his hand. A flame? Certainly. Light? Not even moonlight-through-storm-clouds dim.

'Shit, I'm blind', they said. This was the worst possible news and the most boring conclusion. Netflix was an audio book experience from now on. If only that evening on wikipedia learning braille had stuck, too, he'd be a step ahead of the curve. 'Shit', he will never get to see a woman naked, ever again. He'd be terrible at darts, they concluded. Professional golf was out of the question. Formula 1, goodbye.

Is this how it happens, they thought, you just wake up one morning - no warning - just kaput. Like getting the petrol light flashing up or a hole appearing in your favourite pair of socks. Just like that? Gone. There were no eye-related injuries of late. No mishaps with spoons or experimental contact lens. Why us? He thought, I suppose it could happen to anyone, why not me? Jeremy never took particularly good care of his eyes - he always avoided washing them, never brushed them or filed them. They must have become unruly, like tooth decay. An eye cavity, perhaps.

He truly, at his core, wasn't sure, but he couldn't Google it, which frustrated him. He should phone his parents, maybe, hi mum, dad - I'm blind now. How's your morning?

Should he call an ambulance? Is this an emergency, could his eyes still be saved?

He rang. The line was cut off - some overflow computer picked up the line and explained that the line was very busy right now and no one could respond. It wittled off some safety advice and what not, Jeremy stopped paying attention. That was odd. He could sue the emergency services, maybe, they should always pick up - he'd seen the adverts, this was definately an accident that wasn't his fault. Maybe work was to blame, or anyone rich really. If you're going to be blind, be blind-rich and blind-drunk for the rest of your days, Jeremy figured.

Outside was a strange alien world, he didn't have any sunglasses or long walking sticks to hint to others that he was blind, like a fashion statement. So, Jeremy pulled a zombie - arms out, reaching for brains. He got into the character of it, walking down his driveway with his legs stiff and groaning a little, for fun.

You couldn't miss it, like sunlight, a dazzling, blinding star shone down the road. It looked like a star in the same way a huge blurry something looks like anything distant and bright. It was golden and has grains of light, like sand drifting on the wind, coming off it. There were small wisps of yellow thread and silk, flapping off it in the wind. But once Jeremy had laid his eyes on it, and boy it stung and burned out his retina when he did, the world fell quiet - like the storms stopped, the footsteps became silent and all was peaceful.

His shadow? Gone like a squirrel in a nuclear blast radius.

Jeremy approached the light. Wait.

Wait, wait, wait, he thought. He sat down on the concrete road, about ten metres from the light. He folded his arms, 'if this is the end', he called out, 'you'll have to drag me, I'm not walking into the light at the end of tunnel'. It was uncomfortable, little rocks were scattered across the road, bits of broken glass too. But Jeremy was as stubborn as he was not blind.

His eyes adjusted, slow like a donkey pulling a train carriage.

It was an hourglass, tall like a street light and as wide as two cars side-by-side. The glass was absolutely clear, spotless and reflected only the void. It was flawless and perfect. Jeremy didn't know what perfection was, but looking at this, he knew - he could see it. Inside, illuminus, golden sand fell through the centre. It was like all the light in the world, by some divine order had been pressed into this crystalline, crafted glass curve. The top and base were black onyx slabs.

Jeremy stood and rushed over to it. He felt a compulsion, if it was Death, he would've given his life to be closer to it. The hourglass was warm and Jeremy embraced it. It was joy. He felt the glow shroud him. When he pulled his hand away, he shone too. The heat was smouldering, like forcing your hand into a fire, but it did not burn him. There was no pain. It was a comfortable and pleasant heat.

In the distance, footsteps approached. Just one set at first, but then two, three, four sets. Suddenly a dozen people, shadows oblitorated, stood about the hourglass.

'Get back, don't touch it', Jeremy cried out. The people glared over, shielding their eyes from it. 'It will blind you, kill you!' he screamed urgently, flapping his arms as he danced about the hourglass, urging them away. This was his and his alone. It was precious, no one was allowed to ruin it.

One person from the growing crowd stepped forward, 'that is not right. You can't have it', the words were followed by an echo of grunts and agreements. 'It doesn't belong to you' - 'Yeah!' they growing mass interrupted itself. They surrounded Jeremy and his hourglass like a pack of wolves. The flared their teeth and snarled, circling, stepping inward.

Jeremy shot at anyone who stepped in, pressing them back. He was light on his feet, he felt the light burning inside him. The crowd stepped at him and snap. They retreated, uneasy. The shining light burned in Jeremy's chest, it spread over his body, he felt it in his loins, he felt it in his toes and the tips of his fingers.

He felt cold. Jeremy turned and someone had broken from the crowd and laid their hand on the hourglass. They shone. Jeremy was empty and heard the wind picking up. He fell back, repulsed, into the crowd like a wounded litter among the wolves.

That was it, his moment over. Someone else had it now. They shone, a little brighter than Jeremy did, maybe. There was this foul, sour taste pasted across Jeremy's tongue. He took one final look at the wondrous hourglass. He couldn't help the smile across his face. He could be blind, he shrugged, not much else was worth seeing after that.

The trek into the darkness was lone and tiresome. Roads and streets turned to field and hills and bogs and forests. Jeremy looked down at the palm of his hand, where he knew it was in the void, it wasn't numb anymore. When he focused and thought back, he could remember that warmth, that light, that dazzling brillance.

Now he was shadow in shadow again. He looked up and out onto the horizon, miles and miles from the city, he blinked. A small, golden light reflected off his iris.

Ticked & Cross

2017-07-31T16:57:00.002+01:00

No new texts. No missed call.
Not a like or a friend request.
No message on my Facebook wall.
No letters forwarded to my address.
No new followers, nor snaps.
No tagged photos or untagged, even.
No DMs, Skypes or Whatsapps.
No e-mails save spam to believe in.
Now I type, then I send and then
Nothing, I see ✔read, but no reply.

Due but two

2017-07-09T11:35:00.001+01:00

Do you hear that howling up at the moon,
rising of winds from the coming typhoon?
Don’t smirk in the dark, look at the lagoon
art work waters up like a lost balloon.
Drop the spork, we’re eating out of the spoon -
knee jerk hard work - late in the afternoon.
Spark! There’s an Arc after whistle and tune
from stark of a nymph we built our cocoon.
Pop out the cork, pour me a glass and swoon.
New bench mark of self sloshing blues commune,
cars undocking with roads engulfed too soon,
winter’s bark breaks the roof, no soul immune.
White shark teeth at the hull, grab the harpoon
on deck berserk wolves growl at the blue-moon.

Blue-moon, blue-moon. Two by two. Two by two.
Bat, Bat, Cat, Cat, Rat, Rat, Gnat, Gnat, slug, slug
Ewe, Ewe, Cockatoo, Cockatoo, slug, slug!
No not you, no not you. Stomp, stomp – just two.

Just two. Just two. My-moon, blue-moon. Just Two.
Two guppies, two puppies, two germs, two worms,
Fowls, owls, larks, lynxs, voles, stags, deer, frogs and hogs.
I suppose birds fly, fish swim and men drown.

But two, all but two. First me, second you.

Your moon is far beneath the birthing blue
a stain on typhoon flaws which paid our due
from lagoon to lungs from Jew to Hindu
like a water balloon onto ground crew
an odd slick spoon we awed without a clue
until this afternoon when a canoe
wouldn’t do the tune justice because boo!
Build a cocoon and keep two, form a queue.
Don’t swoon or applaud the new bow of hue;
arrowed our commune. Outlaw by review,
scale you soon, blue-god, by the blind statue.
Us two, we’re immune, we will see this through
with a harpoon in the eye like shampoo.
I-silver and you in blue-moon, blue-you.

Blue-you? I wave and so do you, but blue.

Binary Star

2017-07-08T22:09:00.002+01:00

piercing white, blinding,
we're unwinding inside,
unfurling your wings and
I'm finding a feather
amid my fingertips;
spinning white iris about
a burning red pupil;
an angel and a devil.

spinning silk; whirling,
a princess in the ballroom
all soft and gentle
brushing a claw across
her naked spine;
giggling; my fur tickling
her velvet, creased;
beauty and the beast

twirling beauty; reeling,
rippling on the dancefloor
rocking and swaying
her cheek pressing on mine
a smooth touch, light kiss
shes wearing my coat
and all I can see
is just you and me.

A Novel Project [Part 5] A rambling reflection on writing and ideas

2017-07-02T11:22:00.002+01:00

Well, shit. Novels take a lot of time to write and forever more than that to think about. I find myself constantly revising the draft version in my head and twisting the cogs of plot and character and sequence and style every time I come to write another word.

Poetry is a short punch of writing. The short story is a small idea which can be shaped and polished over a few days. How on earth does one keep perspective chisseling out the Colossus of Rhodes? There are so many variables to try and get absolutely perfect. Which begs the question, should it be perfect? Or does the first draft even need to be?

It would seem like an awful waste of time to write out an entire novel and then decide to change elements of it and require re-writing the whole thing.

Every time I think the story over, I add another layer of complexity to it. Which in turn, only means there are more working parts to consider and think over and add other lays to.

It is time to strip away the layers and ask myself: what is the story I want to tell? What is the most bare bones version of that story?

Once I can answer those two questions I can write it.

So, what story do I want to tell?

I want to explore the grit and awfulness of heroes in history. The strongest heroic warriors of the ancient world would rape women and burn villages to the ground. They would do monstrous things, consider Hercules who completed his labours as a pennace for murdering his wife and children.

What is the price of greatness? What is the moral cost of heroism?

I love the study of history for the complexity, the humanity and the mistakes of real people. The other factor in history is that everyone I'm reading about has died. It sounds morbid, but nothing humanises a person more than them dying.

I like character fiction. I like fantasy. This ramble is generating ideas. One thing I like in my stories are a large cast of characters, but I hate the glossary-lists, the diagrams and family trees you need to constantly refer to in order to know what is going on, who is talking and what their agenda is. I think that switching perspective on the chapter is what makes following it difficult.

I suppose creating a world, sections and slices of history; then dedicate books or parts to lifespans, or major historical events like a record of history. Secondary characters and minor characters would be characters from previous or future novels. Mysteries set up backward and forward across characters and confusion, misremembering of events and potentially reading the two sides of the same conversation across two different books. I really like the idea of that.

Ok. I'm back on track. The reason I'm posting this is to show that when you can't think of anything to write; just start writing and the writing will come.

5 word story.

2017-07-01T20:49:00.002+01:00

WANTED URGENTLY:
a strong rope.

2AM

2017-07-01T20:31:00.002+01:00

Fistfuls of sand
running between
my knuckles.
Talking in circles
over the low hum of an engine
ears numb to the world
fingertips itching
a smile flinching
soft words surfing by
eyes shinning
lips parting
closer
your breath
on mine.
A naked man runs past
and takes your breath away.
Two clumps of sand
patter at my shoes;
grit in our soles.

When you're on my mind, life is poetry [Second draft]

2017-06-30T13:19:00.000+01:00

Waking, I hear beats from a broke drummer,
pull the window shut, locked in woefully
to this dream, fighting to return to slumber.
When you're on my mind, life is poetry:
we slow dance aflame atop a candle,
a bottle to my lips is our first kiss,
the stretched plastic carrier bag handles
on my knuckles are your soft fingertips.
I am never kicking through grass alone
watching buds soar as we canter along
a blooming daisy patch, and, we fall prone.
When you're amid petals, life is a song:
my heart is a drum, but I wake screaming,
my heart is beatless to know I's dreaming.

Awake, but weary-eyed glancing over
to your photograph waiting on the side,
a floored shirt, grass-stained sleeve, becomes a blur,
empty bottles in a plastic bag; tied.
I sit up alone and thumb your image
pondering on how, if, to start this affair
but when I demand: these thoughts are finished;
my dreams without you turn into nightmares.
So, I rest my head and I close my eyes.
A tiny chain in my chest tugs me to
your gravity well, I'm falling to fly
for there to be a way to be with you.
This is the saddest joy I've ever known;
when you're on my mind, I am still alone.

with her on my mind, the world is poetry

2017-06-25T20:58:00.000+01:00

with her on my mind, the world is poetry
a bottle brought to my lips is a kiss from her
kicking through the straws of grass together
the carrier bag on my knuckles are her fingertips
but what right have I to think of her
without her validation, is it cute or creepy?
this is the saddest joy I've ever known
the loneliest love I've never shared
when I'm with her, resting in her eyes,
on her words, feeling, really feeling
a tiny chain in my chest tugging me toward her
in a gravity spiral, I'm falling for her
but in complete ignorance if she has a chain for me

maybe it is best if she doesn't
I can match and chat and meet another,
wandering fruit stalls in the market reaching for apples
and waiting to clash fingertips with the one
but as I idly swipe and type and walk and breathe
slowly, slower
girls more beautiful, sexier, shining bright
with minds ablaze with creativity and wonder
intelligence unyielding and smiles just like hers,
but they're not her and that is all that matters
it feels. She isn't the prettiest girl in the world,
she isn't perfect beyond perfection in every detail
yet with her on my mind, the world is poetry

The Journey

2017-06-25T16:37:00.002+01:00

I can climb a mountain on a spring morn,

touch clouds, look down on jets soaring under.

I have cracked jokes since the day I was born,

never mourned, or stomped by rolling thunder.

I’ve always been the calm before the storm

and fine idle, waiting for it to pass,

but looking in your eyes, all soft and warm

they stomp me and I transform into brass

from gold, see your lips and my brain is goo

I can’t even confess you’re beautiful,

how I long to lean in slow and kiss you

the words hot on my mind won’t form at all

and now, wordless, I walk toward your gaze

through the tempest’s bolts for a thousand, thousand days.

No Walking Stick - revised

2017-06-17T22:51:00.001+01:00

No Walking Stick

There's a green bag by a black and white umbrella,

held by an old looking fella in his left hand,

he is moving with purpose, marching proudly

back and forth, patrolling the safe station platforms.

There are ladies laughing, up in arms, observing overtly

the old man in sight on stage for their X Factor-freak-show.

Then a middle finger flicks past a barrel to trigger

a chain reaction of a bright white camera flash to a startled mass.

Wearing a Yellow Hi Vis, eating pie with thumb and finger

between lunch and dinner - he’s not getting any thinner,

but he is waiting, with a return ticket to the capital;

for labour under the moonlight at the construction site.

From the darkness in a high vis harness,

a mighty meaty, awfully sweaty, hot and heavy

figure uncertainly steps forward and into a

shining bright, focused-tight flashlight.

The train is on time spitting gas one minute away,

their freak is falling to the tracks. Piss leaking

all over the rock and roll soldier, of an era immersed

with engine grime, dry blood and cooking grease.

A sharp pebble in his eye, but the guy was half blind before

the cackles cease and the ladies look down at the freak

who tries to stand with his umbrella, but breaks it.

He holds up an empty hand and no one takes it.

Rich white trash see a train coming about to crash.

Then the massive yellow body boldly steps forward

with wet sticky fingers that slide into the palm

of the fragile old man and burns the muscles in his arm.

Two Ds, three Es, an F and a pass

he’ll never be more than working class,

with second-hand jeans showing his arse,

but he holds a distinction in the master class of decency.

Just six more months of marching after, but one medal down,

after saluting his five foot, seventeen stone saviour.

He looks him up and down through a bloodshot eye,

inspired by why his brothers chose to die.

A Novel Project [Part 4] Theme

2017-06-17T20:58:00.000+01:00

An immediate thanks to all who read my draft opening and sent me feedback, it was both encouraging and insightful to hear your responses.

This week I worked a bunch, which got in the way. I wrote a poem, which was a nice cognitive break and I read an old poem publicly, with a few last minute alterations - which was nerve-quaking and uplifting.

It is after all this, that I return to the Novel Project with fresh thoughts and a new invigorated perspective. A break from your writing and a refreshed pair of eyes are priceless, I find.

I have made two new decisions. Firstly, Roderick will no longer be the main character and will instead be the antagonist, his position will be replaced by a new knight to the order; Leomund, an idealistic new partner to Jason. Secondly, the theme is as important as the plot and without it, there is nothing to explore and all the tension, decisions and everything will be for nothing if an idea isn't explored and the main characters do not grow because of it.

The theme will be a spectrum of idealism vs pragmatism. Sir Jason, after his long years of service, has seen the worst of humanity, the Kingdom, rulers and the gods themselves - he is increasingly pragmatic, the world is broken down into material objective facts and numbers. His new partner, freshly sworn into the Lion Knights, is Leomund - an idealistic disciplined Knight, who has grown up on the stories of the heroic legend of the Lion Knights, their duty and romantic vision of the Kingdom, its people and those who govern it. Finally, Roderick, a man who put down his own father's rebellion serves through a worldview of ultimate pragmatism in the service for the greater good; when immaterial is stripped away, it becomes easy to justify any measure, any length, for the greater good.

The exploration of the theme will be the central character's story arc, beginning in a state of pragmatism, moving towards this great extreme and contrasted by Leomund's ideology, it is not until Jason is faced with the radical Roderick that he finds value in belief, hope, immaterial and romanticism.

Writing targets:

Plotting the story
Second Draft: Chapters 1-3
Backstories for three central characters

Side note; I have written a bunch of poems and I am considering putting together an anthology poetry by me. Perhaps, not sure, maybe, big maybe, probably won't - maybe will. And people say I'm indecisive.

Looking forward: I suppose I need a firm decision (ha) on my end goal here. Is it to submit this novel to publishers, to self-publish or just a proof of concept? Vanity publishing is a big no-no. For the time being, I will keep my options open and focus on writing a great story.

Idealistic Song of the Blog

Adelaide

2017-06-13T22:36:00.002+01:00

A tree laid
broken and splintered,
as an idol paid
so little so
idle aid
saw little
Adelaide
alone in the dark.
Carving,
as he made
bucket
and a spade
for sand castles,
then he wades
through waves
he was afraid
of the dark surf
had he faded
in black wash
a country unmade
castle swallowed.
No knights
to save little
Adelaide.
A boy to raid
in cotton,
a time to invade
bravely
weaponry homemade:
bucket
and a spade.
He marched,
a downgrade
fairy tale,
fled his trade
miles to his
solo crusade
so far from
selling lemonade.
In shadow
nightshade
black, cold
unafraid
purple eyes
he dare evade
firey nostrils
forbade
farther motion.
Dragon
hell fire
burning.
Perhaps betrayed
or a charade
as the cascade
of flame
displaced about him.
He reached out
plucked light
from the beast
before him.
The young man's
one-man parade
dragged
a bleeding jade
star dancing
expelling shade
for
lime laid
upon the darkness.
The flame flickered
as he made
his way to
Adelaide;
for a moment
they saw each other.
The flame was
washed away
by the black,
so there stood
little Adelaide
in the dark
not alone.