Beauty in the chaos

To catch your life in a dream or a swell.
Pulled by the lunar tide.
An electric blue that pushes through my veins.
This memory fuses and counteracts.
Seeped in the pressure and the pull of your eye.
Your storm that rages.
A beauty in such chaos.
Entering, as if on cue, your third act.
Gaining speed and precipitation.
I’m lost in the moment, catching debris in my heart.
Trying to keep you from peeking outside, out of this love.
Hiding the sunsets and sweet golden blue skies.
Do you remember you?
I ride out this terrible storm.
Promising salvation in these scared arms.
That bend and shake in the winds like the trees uprooted.
Running to the sea.
Thrown out of heaven.
Yet, I am still not afraid.

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Spark

There’s a voice in me that says you will not bend.
You will not snap, you will not end.
A hurtful pain, aimed at this heart.
Etched in stone, and miles apart.
I want to be wrong, to drink in hope.
To remain grounded, to live, to cope.
Yet all around the skies turn dark.
As nothing burns, without a spark.
And at the point where I am weakest.
You set a flame and sing ‘defeatist’.

Grounded

Skimming the coast as the earth sighs.
Went to sleep as the tides rise.
Caught in my eye like a halo.
Escaping the nightlife.
Weighted and shaking from a feeling unknown.
Blinked for the thousandth time.
Lost in a meaning that tastes like black.
The hum and the rattle enter my bones.
Splinters travel to my brain.
I’m anesthetised and sermonized by all I see.
Hoping to fall, crash and break.
To start again.
Grounded.
Touching terrain with feathered fingertips.

Instinct (feeling)

Illuminating, another dream. A waking life of happenstance.
Caught in your collapsing eyes, a scorched dream.
That empty coffee cup. That missed train.
Find me there.
Calling to you in a voice only God can hear.
The type of sound you can expect only at Christmas.
With choral tunes and awaiting disappointment.
Feelings. Stopped. Frozen for another time.
Frozen, in the summer rain that you hold me under.
I am the moth that flew back to the mountain.
The dragon under foot with a thorn in its side.
I am the love we had that fell into the ocean.
Lost forever in an indifferent tide.

Toujours en fuite?

Vous souvenez-vous, quand vous étiez jeune?
Les battements de coeur dans un infini.
Une seconde sur les lèvres de Dieu.
Pouvez-vous sentir la forêt?
Es-tu fuyant?
Disparu dans les arbres.
Quelle partie d’entre vous ne dort jamais?
Pour toujours rêver dans un monde où règnent les cauchemars.
Portez votre couronne.
Asseyez-vous, et lavez-vous dans les larmes cosmiques.

YOUR EYES WILL BE BURNED

Inside the room, inside the mind.
Out of view, drenched in turpentine.
We come together, we die alone.
Soft as Satan, cold as stone.
For in these hearts, that shiver and shake.
A knowing rumblings, and dreams do wake.
For together we go, and rise when fall.
A lightened future, in death so small.
For now we chase a living dream.
Of treasured moments, and deeds unseen.

YOUR EYES WILL BE OPENED

YOUR EYES WILL BE OPENED

It wasn’t so much that the dark frightened him, the shadows suited him well; casting a cloak for his deeds in the middle of the night. It was just that, the darkness heightened what he already felt inside, desertion and loneliness.

The small town nestled at the bottom of the valley, cupped neatly in the hand of the dark hills that surrounded the collection of houses and farmsteads. The hills were high and the weather was dreary, casting a perpetual gloom over the small town. The lights burned away from inside the cottages, flickering eyes in the darkened face of a place mostly ignored from the rest of the world. The occasional dog would be heard barking out into the night, disturbed by the nocturnal animals which snuffled around the market place looking for vegetables and food cast aside from the day.

Andrew usually waited until around ten o’clock to leave his house. The locals were mostly tucked up inside their own homes by then, and he found he could prowl the streets with ease. Tonight, he hadn’t heard any dogs barking. Not a leaf rustled or car rolled past. Even the full moon, which burned brightly above him, could stir up the restless of the townsfolk or awaken the crazies. All aside Andrew, a fact that was lost on him as he unlatched the gate of Yew tree cottage and slithered up the path, keeping in the shadows.

He’d been here before of course, he’d been to nearly most of the houses in the village after dark. But he liked Yew tree, he was always guaranteed what he wanted when he came. He felt tonight would be no different. His stomach fluttered thinking about it as his found his way around the side of the house where the rubbish bins were kept. He hoisted himself up onto one of them, the one marked specifically for garden waste, a few stray twigs reaching out of the lid like fingers. His trainers squeaked slightly as the slipped on the plastic and he held his breathe in an effort to quieten himself.

They were both there when he looked up. He didn’t have to crane his neck at all, his raised view let him gaze easily into the top window of the small cottage which seemed to lean over to one side. They were usually in bed, Mr and Mrs Sampson. The elderly pair would usually turn in around nine o’clock, sat up reading books as the night-time swirled outside their single glazed window. Andrew couldn’t make out the title that Mr Sampson was reading, he sat further away and the words were too small, but he could see Mrs Sampson was enjoying ‘The Pale Horse’ by Agatha Christie.

The room looked cosy, the lights on the night stands they each had cast a comforting glow around them which seemed to hug their old bodies. Andrew watched as Mrs Sampson nestled closer to her husband, riding down a bit lower in the bed. Turning the page of her novel.

Usually Andrew would watch a bit longer, observe them closely as they hung in his eye line like creatures in a zoo. But tonight something within him stirred strong and he was eager to start. He pulled across the bag he’d been carrying, and pushed aside the hair which had fallen over his eyes as he turned. His keys inside jostled noisily, and he silenced them quickly, reaching in to retrieve the smaller clear bags. Two tonight. It was always two at Yew Tree.

Inside each bag was a small baby white rabbit, each beginning to stir now as the effects of the ketamine were wearing off. The bags had holes in them, allowing the small creatures to breathe but as he handled them carefully out of the bags, they felt limp and lifeless in his hands like small softs bags of bones. He stroked one of the small rabbits with his chin, lifting the tiny creature up to his face. He could smell the warm musky smell of the hutch he had his garden. He closed his eyes for a moment and pictured the other bunnies, nested under their mother. Warm, safe and content.  The one in his other hand jerked suddenly and Andrew nearly let go of it. The muscles beginning to spasm back to life.
He must be quick.

He placed his phone carefully down by his feet as he crouched now on the bin, the two rabbits in each hand. He had their number of course, it wasn’t his first time. He hit the button of his phone which glared alarming out in the inky dullness of the night. The line connected. He heard the ring through his phone, and then moments later her head the returning sound coming from the Sampson’s house. He watched Mrs. Sampson look across alarmed to the phone. Her old fashioned sensibility on edge as she knew no good news came at such hours.

Andrew watched her reach across and lift the receiver, the copy of the Pale horse nestled now on the bedsheet between her and her husband who craned over to hear who the caller might be. This is when he had to be quick, this is when Andrew had to be focused. He held the two bunnies in his hand and waited, waited for the sound through the line in his phone and echoing above him through the window disappearing off into the night.

“Hello…’’ came the timid voice of Mrs Sampson, and that is when he began to squeeze. The more lively rabbit jerked frantically, but Andrew drew his thumb up into its neck and pressed harder. He could hear the old woman now, repeating her answer and he watched as her husband leaned over to listen down the line as if expecting his involvement could produce a response. Andrew stayed silent, slowly squeezing the life out of the animals he held in his grip like hands on a railing. His body shivered, a sense of connection travelling up and down his muscles as they tingled with every feeling of disappearance he craved.

And then suddenly, it was all over. He watched as Mr Sampson reached over and hang up the phone. Speaking hurriedly to his wife who seemed alarmed and confused by the intrusion to their evening. Andrew came back to where he was, the tunnel disappearing and the mist evaporating. He placed one of the creatures back into his bag, wrapped carefully in the small plastic baggy. He then hopped off of the dustbin and walked a few steps to the side door of the cottage. He lay the other dead animal on the mat by the door, it’s head flopping first to the floor as it’s small eyes gleamed up like a dolls. It had been the more restless of the two and Andrew stepped back and admired it there on the mat, forging it in his mind for the moment just as it started to rain. He then turned and left quickly, but just as silently as arriving, getting back at his house in less than ten minutes. He hurried quickly to bed, not changing out of his clothes, brushing his teeth or washing his hands; anxious to get to sleep. He did have school in the morning after all.

YOUR EYES WILL BE BURNED

Lex talionis

To mark her lips, a bite that one would linger.
Consumed, not in anger.
But a love that dwelled within.
This reasoning. Hurried like the ghosts of youth.
Prickled at the mind. Forcing such wayward expansion.
The roaming hands and clicking of tongues that carried such mental masturbatory thoughts.
She switched on the light upstairs, and poured forth with a cascade of collections.
A lit flame in the belly. A catch of the smell beneath her thighs.
A sigh.
What ram shackled arms kept her from the storm?
Scarred and weakened, hung low like the ebb tide.
Jolted by an osteoporosis in a spine so usually straightened.
She pulled her close, deep within to protector her from the crumbling world.
The falling of civilizations and the countenance of god.
A new god, born in the tangles of her hair.
The well of her soul.
And the pain in her kiss.
Miss, subtle cataclysm.

Turn around

Cupping ghost dreams in my hands.
Small and transparent like memories for old lovers.
The turning tide of the wastelands.
Cast in iron, and weighted down.
Bad dreams and crystal sleeps.
Resting on that frozen lake.
Going over and over again.
Like that midnight train of desertion.
Fumbling with the broken toy in my hands.
Bloody from the beats per minutes.
And sorrow per second.

I don’t want this future

Sand flurries through these fingers.
Time crumbling away.
I stand motionless, allowing the wind to rattle my bones.
A cobweb in my mind tightens.
The earth shakes and my moon falls.
I want to return, go back. Sit and wait on the edge of existence.
Dip my feet into the pool on unknowing.
All the mysteries have answers.
All the faces now have frowns.
These clothes, this skin; all illusionary trinkets to dazzle and distort.
A box, a prison I have dug for myself.
My temptation tiptoes into time, and takes me away.
Above the towns and the moments I made.
I return to the tree from where I fell.
Safe and secure like a nut underground.
Buried and forgotten by last year’s squirrel.
I sit and wait, casting eyes up to the heavens.
Allow for the rains to wash it all away.
Soaking it deep in my veins to breathe a new now.
With my future, yet unwritten.
Writing in the coal I’m turning to diamonds.

A break with reason

Let our eyes see, peek behind the blindfold.
Your well-worn heart heaves to a different beat.
The bones of the world hold heavy in your hands.
Try to understand.
The harm was meant for someone else.
Someone I’ve never met.
Not to shine that light on anyone I love.
The ones around me when I die.
As I try not to cry.
This two hearted monster that runs to naivety.
Boiling my brain into shadows.
Burning my blood.
Breaking my smiles down to nothing but prayers.
To only be afraid of the end.
Building myself an Allah. Building up to Jesus.
Crying and creeping out of this cradle in my mind.
There is nothing but sugar in my bones.
And desperation in these bombs.
Exploding into nothing.

Yeux de Dieu

To see, with our eyes open.
Is true sight.
To reveal what is hidden.
That is what my feet touch this ground to do.
A reason for this earthly dwelling.
These veils that block out the sun.
Which stir the hurricanes in my world.
It’s all an illusion.
To see, with the eyes of god.
Born out of my own skull.
Is to know what life is all about.
And what to transform.

Oh Father

Trying to forget, in a month full of regrets.
Each one a paper cut on my tongue.
The sting and sing of a song never sung.
Oh father, please hear these crystal callings.
Tuneful as they resonate out of my bones.
It hurts deep within, now an avalanche of sin.
A snaking of something unknown.
This internal scaffolding rattles with every utterance.
Forgiveness seems to be someone else’s fate.
But I cough up a prayer, a confession;
my contrition aimed high into heaven.
As below my skeleton shatters to dust.
Silently, as I know I deserve it.

Grip

Inside I’m fragile, delicate like glass.
A heart that’s throbbing to a spiritual beat.
My veins carry sugar and honey, the milk of the all you need.
We bleed the same, we ache in rhythm.
Held tightly in reincarnated rapture.
Your halo slipped, you tore and ripped.
Giving me a halo around my eyes.
To have me, to want this
To leave yourself over me.
The blooming of purple violets and the marks only I can see.
I do not slide down the mountain of our achievements.
There is no rainfall that makes us drown.
I am here, structured and as safe as houses.
Just caresses what’s beneath my ribcage.
The treasure I gave to you to kiss with care.
Hold me like your soul, precious and secret.
And love me like a fading dream.

ADIEU

Shuffling off this mortal coil.
After years of strife and toil.
Turns my sight towards the sky.
And spit in Satan’s salty eye.
For though I’m old and known to break.
With bones of chalk that tend to ache.
I know the spin of a moral compass.
And what is true within each one of us.
For Satan tried to grab my soul one day.
When I was down on my knees to pray.
And promised heaven and all the earth.
If I would part with what I’ve had since birth.
But I knew that cunning devil.
Was not true, or on the level.
And would leave me lost and doomed.
When the horsemen rode to their apocalyptic tune.
So though he lured and tried to test.
Reach within and corrupt the best.
I fall into the unknown whole.
With my heart intact, and with my soul.

When worlds collide

Catch me staring, out into space.
Through the letterbox of wonder.
Out of the eyes of god.
And I found you.
Skimming the skies with darkness and sleep.
I watched you fall deep.
Into the oceans, and turned with the tide.
To know you, is to consume just a spark of your fire.
My own deep desire, explodes when we touch.
Mix and repel, our magnetised hearts.
Set to a compass which spins on the calendar.
Forcing us north of the North Pole.
To a tune I cannot hum.
What colours we make, what stars we conquer.
When our two worlds collide.

Skyward pines

Under the trampled feet of the ghosts of the forest.
We lay in the soil, safe for a century.
Soaking the world in.
We turn away from forever, looking into the eyes of life.
Shooting skyward.
Oceans away from the city of conformity.
An exquisiteness that waivers every day. At the whim of the winds.
We are the pines.
Skeletons in season, breaking beauty as we trail the atmosphere.
Still as the tomb of tomorrow.
We watch the forest shiver and shake to a human beat.
Still with a taste of god in our mouths, breathing in his breath.
Dancing in the darkness as the world sleeps.
These pines.
Waiting once more to be cut down by those seeking our answers.
To get at the truth, down in our roots.

Tarred and tarry

If I stand on the shore, you’ll come for me. I’ve never wanted to be rescued, but this time I need to be.
So I cast my eyes onto the horizon, awaiting your sail. Only to fail, and fall apart once more.
Were you lost in the perfect storm of us? Thrown against the tide that always turned?
No, nor was I.
I feel you now, as my feet feel each grain of sand between my toes.
Feel you, like the lunar pull of the moon rocking the ocean within me.
Yet still I am alone. Stood upon that beach as the sun drips into tomorrow and is swallowed by the night.
I feel heavy, like a bag of shells. Jostling against each other, trying to be heard.
Trying to be shiny, bright and new.
Yet worn, and washed by the sea. Thrown up across this prehistoric coastline.
Chipped and crushed before finding a home.
Will you come for me, or must I swim beneath the waves. To kiss Neptune on the lips and sleep forever in that watery grave?
Only time may tell. So I shall stand and wait upon this beach. As the sun kisses my skin to dust, and the salt joins the tears in my eyes.
Your colossus at the bay of salvation. With a candle to harken you way.
And to burn me down.

Outward ink

Where do you go, when the anger shows?
The pulsing in the veins.
Threatening to tear the skin.
I close my eyes. I need such protection.
My blood is as thick as oil, and my heart as black.
Why do the things you say splinter me?
Rising my inner mercury.
My hands vibrate to sonic sound.
Angels crying, and a war in heaven.
The fury felt through a thousand decades.
Torn from the very books that celebrate such divinity.
These thoughts and callous kisses close in.
Peeling back my lips to bare these well-worn teeth.
The bones break and shift.
Ascending my temples as you try to look away.
But look deep within this life.
Into these blackening pools of my eyes.
Do any of us win?
Struck skin and nitroglycerin on the tongue.
Blossoming florets of purple that do not smell sweet.
They only anaesthetise me in an opium blur.
Sending my skull into the floor.