Thursday, 29 November 2007

Retrospective Overdrive

Infatuated with the past
Constant, eternal, real
Change is a lie
Dwell within torment
Created by a polluted psyche
Memories crystal clear
Yesterday is today and every day
In plain sight and mind
A reality untrue to others
Get a grip, move on
But the past is set in stone
Like so many artefacts and bone
It cannot be changed; it will not be changed
Forever to haul this rugged cross.

Wednesday, 28 November 2007

A Moment to Myself

After a seemingly endless winter, I now sit bathing in the sun's radiance, with a gentle breeze brushing my bare arms and face. I rest on a softly sloping hill; the grass is a glass bottle green and the sky above a striking blue, with light wisps of hair. Directly in front of me stands a palace-like structure with towers and turrets, which looked oh-so ominous during the winter months, but now seems to relax in its own contented magnificence.

I hear birds twittering and calling to one another; playing among the trees behind me, and, similarly, the cry and laughter of children is faintly audible in the distance. The bustling traffic of the city seems so far away in comparison to the birds. The gentle breeze rustles through the leaves of trees and takes my attention away from the ambulance siren in the distance.

Peaceful. Tranquil. The words seem to imitate the sounds so close at hand. Nature's music sings to me, and only me, as I sit resting on this hill of grass.

The white wisps of hair disperse further, showing more of the blueness above. As I drink from my bottle of water, the cool liquid goes down my throat as though I am drinking the sky itself.

Reluctantly I get on my feet and head towards the palace of brick and stone. Gravel crunches and scrunches beneath my feet as I reach the door. But before I enter, I return my gaze to where I sat on the green hill and long to return. I glance up into the sky, and in the distance notice some dark grey clouds gathering, before turning to the door once more.

Sunday, 25 November 2007


Everyone has the potential to do something. There are those of us in this world who sit awake late at night thinking, "Is this all there is to life? A mundane 9-5 job, then slouching in front of the telly for the evening, then going to bed, only to repeat the whole cycle the next day?" There are those of us that occasionally ponder, "What if I'd taken that wacky course instead of Business Management...?"

Everyone has the potential to do something. Not everyone has the ambition, commitment or will to follow it through. In fact, it seems most people are quite content with the mediocrity of a dull job and the 2.4 children lifestyle. Personally, I use the tedious, drab and wearisome atmosphere of my work to spur myself on to escape it.

I can only hope I escape before it saps out my will and creativity.

She Sleeps

I think she's watching
But it's just my reflection
Opaque against the gloom

She rests, breathes deep and gentle
Eyes closed but not afraid
Dead to the world... but not to me

In my mind my hand penetrates glass
Softly brushing her cheek
She stirs, even smiles

Light fills my vision, scalding my eyes
I hear her scream, muffled through the glass
Like cotton wool in my ears

Regaining my sight just in time
Receiving a blow to my temple
Collapse into a heap on damp grass

Hauled to my feet I lash out
My fist interacting with flesh and bone
A dull thud suggests victory

That scream again, clearer now
Piercing my hazy vision
Flailing hands beat my face and chest

Again I lash out, pushing this time
She trips. Skull fractures. Blood spills.
All is still.

I crouch down; she lies motionless
This I did not intend
If I make a sound while I weep, I do not hear it

She sleeps, forever, by my hand.

Saturday, 24 November 2007

Understanding the Plain

So the milkman said to himself, "In what capacity do the pelicans need it?" He thought about this for a moment while awkwardly fumbling with his new black bird cage. It smelled slightly of cedar, maybe with a hint of varnish, catching the back of his throat. Where had this thought come from? He couldn't remember.
Standing in the long, gloomy hallway, he felt like a car in a scrapyard; mainly intact, but with scratched panels and cracks in the windows. Once again he thought of pelicans for a moment, before marching towards the nearest door, which was a reliable distance away. It may have been sixty feet, one hundred yards, or even a mile, yet his curt footsteps maintained their audacity, rhythmically pumping the corkboard floor.
The door was misshapen, as though a human jelly trifle had melted away the edges when entering. Somehow the door fit, even with its wobbly edges. "That surely can't be deepest oak," the milkman thought aloud, although no one was there to listen, and even if they were, they wouldn't have. He wrapped a gnarled knuckle on the rippled door and waited patiently. No sound emanated from within, so he tried again, with added fervour. Still nothing. He waited. His smile faded to a frown beneath his mushroom cloud eyebrows.
The black bird cage in his middle hand vibrated, much to his annoyance. Tutting and grumbling he placed it on the cork, before returning his attention to the door. In the failing light, the door looked almost embedded in the wall, as though part of some abstract wallpaper pattern. His veined fist pounded on the wood five times. He thought he heard someone stir within, or perhaps it was the damn bird cage again. A moment fleeted passed like a drunken snail. Yes, it was just the blasted bird cage. A rage began to flare up inside the old young man and he thrust his pink arm through the door. He should have been surprised at the ease in which this act happened, but instead he focused on the dark ooze pulsing from within his flesh. A sight most people would be disgusted at, the milkman merely smiled, as though slicing his forearm open was intended.
The door was tugged open from inside, momentarily knocking the milkman off balance as it pulled him forward. Once his eyes adjusted to the hazy gloom, he saw the owner of the house with the wibbly wobbly door; it was a dog, coloured magnolia, with a red tail. It was standing on its hind legs, and seemed fairly nimble. For a magnolia walking dog. The dog rolled its eyes after inspecting the bloodied hole in its door, and skipped across to the adjacent wall, where it flicked a switch. The lights spluttered into life and made the milkman shield his eyes.
"Look what you did to my door!" the dog lamented, with a softer voice than one would expect.
The milkman's smile returned as he realised what was happening. "It's the bird cage," he thought. His grin remained and widened, bearing his stained traintrack teeth. The walls were a dirty brown colour and the room smelled vaguely of vinegar and weather. Each wall had a portrait of an ornithological creature in distorted positions. In fact, he could swear each bird was a pelican.

Tuesday, 20 November 2007

First Post!

When the apple blossoms bloom in the windmills of your mind, I'll be your valentine.