Writing

Possibility

Back in the past
sat a young boy,
and though time moved fast
diligence was his joy.
Look at him today:
he’s not afraid,
dedication does pay;
success is his trade.

Wake up before the alarm,
a new day, a new way
to make it all happen:
possibility is a charm.
Mock my dream!
But let it be see:
I worked harder and
attitude was on my team.

Seasons

There’s a burning bush
down in Eden
(inside our mind,
igniting our hearts)
and snakes in apple trees
because temptation needs.

And who are we?
Lost wanders in jeans and tees?

See the leaves –
green and clean.
But autumn snaps!
(we do too)
And winter steals.
Spring doesn’t mind,
(time for growth)
and summer is but kind.

Who are we?
Wanders in jeans and tees?

We are weird and kind:
it’s a compliment, to your mind.
We crave to be touched
like the warm, gentle sunlight –
it kisses our skin without fight.

Are we?
Yes, it is us
in jeans and tees.

Statistic

When you played me that song
that’s when I first knew
the ending was coming too soon
(going to come?)
A paper bag filled with popcorn
and fingers smelling of salt;
dilated pupils.
I sat in class listening to
a god’s voice telling me about our minds –
a public session with a professional;
but the seat next to me empty
except for a cut in the blue cushioned seat
shaped curiously like a question mark
(or was it an exclamation?)
The sun hurt my eyes as I sat in the traffic
but I could still see the car in front.
It’s only when water filled my eyes I knew
(before I got glasses the tears
welled and I could see again through them).
Prescriptions from Prof. Dr. Dr’s…
I just wish they’d prescribe me some rest.

Heart </3 Break

I’m quitting the show
Ain’t my time to shine
Time to quicksand myself
Deep into my mind

No silence up in these fires
Can’t catch a break in these tides
Don’t know which way is up
But I know I’m going down

So mad at all these spectres
Don’t know if they’re mine
But they whisper me stories
And I can’t sleep at night

I’m afraid of that silence
But I need that constant buzz
So I just sit here ruminating
How nobody else hears these sounds

 

 

Skin Lane

The workbench wood winks at the rays
familiar with the feeling, and
the knives sit sharpened
waiting for duty.
And he stands silently, in 1967:
unblinking, dead-eyes reflect back,
but they’re unfamiliar,
so is that pang of confusion.

The workbench wood feels:
strange tongues of a different heat
and the knives, sharp as ever,
slowly sink into ash.
He only turns back in memory.
And nobody knows why.

Except one naive, chance encounter
with blonde locks and sapphire eyes.

An apology, unaccepted

It has been a few years now…
The roses have bloomed five or six times,
five or six times petals snapped off
in the winds, in the rains.
A few loved ones have passed;
a few scars have been gained.

Yet, here I wait, hopeful;
somewhat, perhaps.
A life unexamined
is a life not worth living,
yet still a life, surely?
I washed my hands of old times
and I know the dust is yet unsettled
On those ornaments of a grudge.

The dust sits thick and brown,
like my apology:
forgotten, but not quite lost.

Mendes 

He wants to hide with me 

in a tree-house of secrecy, 

cuddle into me 

and plant himself in my fertile soil.

He smells like wooden cologne 

and he holds me like he needs me:

up here we’re safe 

from shutters and flashes. 

It’s some kind of dream 

but I feel this like it’s real. 

Mendes, who are you? 

Why did you come? 

And why did we leave? 

A Scene 

Little Liam falls down the well 
Hits his head in some hell
Shakes it off and blames himself 
Now he sits on Hedone’s shelf 
A twist and tale, smoke for the screen 
Skinny jeans and kidney beans 
Acetone and Ritalin 
Falling short on Serotonin 
Little Liam lying low low 
So? SO?
Who gives a 
Cause Little Liam thinks he’s stuck
It’s all done with money 
The chopping and rolling of the honey 
And he’s in the making 
It’s easy once you’re used to faking

Self-deprecate

What is it we do
To ourselves late at night
As the coals simmer softly in the darkness?
The moon doesn’t exist for us,
There’s too much romance we’ve applied
To that ball of dust in the sky we’ve allied.
We’ve forgotten about the Romantics:
Wordsworth’s rainbows and Blake’s grain of sand.
But we have ourselves still –
We really do.
And we sit in the dark
In our own shadows
Within the shadow of something else.
That pain inside
We can’t quite understand.
All competing for a love we will never receive –
So it goes…
So we blend ourselves into the dark
Like the artist rubbing the charcoal on the page.
We ask questions we don’t understand
So any answer wouldn’t be noticed.
At the sight of a ray of light spilling through
A wooden blind
We see an opportunity to celebrate;
Celebrate not the light
But the unlit.
These tropes of light and dark!
Tiresias who saw all; Oedipus who did not.
Yet Oedipus saw, Tiresias did not.
So what is it then?
This grotesque Romanticism of smudging ourselves?
We’re splatters of one colour
On the same coloured canvas.
But we want to be noticed.
We still want to be seen.

Legs stop swingin’

And I made a rural pen,
And I stain’d the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs,
Every child may joy to hear.
– From ‘Introduction’, ‘Songs of Innocence’, William Blake

When legs stop swingin’
sitting on a high chair,
and the spontaneous bursts
of Crayola-coloured imaginings
fade into a soft grey despondency;
When no more glittering unicorns
appear in the fluffy flowing clouds,
and waking up becomes
the first effort of the day;
When I-love-you is replace
with love-you automatically spewed,
and fantasies of worlds inside the mind
become longings for the weekend;
When sandcastles on beaches
are ignored in favour of the Sunday Times,
And ice-cream truck sirens
become an invasive clamour;
When children cross over
and transition snuffs out their flames,
sadly this when life
their ethereal innocence claims.