Scorch

This elliptical orbit that spins inside.
Gravitates to your inner moon.
A sea tide of the soul that shrinks in time.
In purpose.
My will.
A thousand suns of shame.
Burning away my eyes, to stop the tears.

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Dispatcher commands

Watch your dreams run for cover as the nightmares come.
Flowing in a stream of lightening and regret.
Cancelled out like an expired passport.
You fall on me.
Cling to the world I once promised.
Bow your head, and summon new reasons.
These demons, will whisper into your soul.
This pillar is now just sand, awash with a wave of tears; it crumbles.
Back into the iron sea.
Let go of my plane.
Let the time zones take me.
As the days slip away, and I fade into memory.
Adjusting sleep to sympathy and rhythms without you.
Turning away from that hemisphere and heartache.
To a place only I will ever know.

Growth (Extract)

Harley Holland

Towards the end of the summer holidays we would catch sight of Barry walking aimlessly around the town. Down the streets and through the fields he would plod along and not take notice of anyone. His only concern it seemed was to find a river or large pool of water. This was not a worrying or bizarre act – the days were long and hot as we cycled and played out in the sun. We would zip past the fat boy on our bikes. Trying to edge ourselves as close as possible from striking him. Only Nick would dare get the closest. He would spit with long drawn out phlegm gurgled especially for him. “Watch out fat boy” or “Barrel belly’s gonna get ya” he would chuckle as his bicycle handlebars grazed the boys arms.

I had caught sight of Barry along the nettled bank of a stream while carrying…

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A Shading Response

nara15blog

After the subsiding of the color shock,
granite grey spills into my day
As liquid rock passes through these lens,
and up to mercury,
to surge the cerebellum bay

Panic flutters in my hearth of garnet consumption
Held a mudra to feel the rhythm
Within that upper mantle — a wild outcry
Some bottled up words burn brighter

You possess the flood
Let’s interrupt our patterns
For we our interdependent

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Future fuses

Trying to steal your future away.
Landing on the moon to paint it blue
Feeling the floor, years before; where you once imagined dreams may lay.
Licking desert trees that stick with thorns.
Climbing buildings to fall once more.
Trying to love you, to be let in.
Hesitation now pulls me back.
Humming like a neon freight train.
Ten miles in the wrong direction.
Come down. Come down in time and sit as we talk it over.
The fruit pips of confession stick in your teeth.
We leave the troubles where they fall and jump a plane.
Faster than light we pulse to new terrain.
Punching holes in the wall of time.
Singeing the soul of god (sighing silently).
As the world now revolves around us.
Spinning the wheels of fate with saccharin,
with all but our eyes closed.

The Pumpkin man

Every year, when the leaves turn brown.
The pumpkin man, comes to town.
He straddles confidently into the square.
And steals the first child sitting there.
And though this may seem mean and frightful.
We’ve come to terms, and find it delightful.
For the pumpkin man, like the Krampus in winter.
Knows which boy or girl is a sinner.
And punishes them for their terrible ways.
For their nasty manners and idle malaise.
But fear not, for he brings them back.
A little wiser, in that pumpkin sack.
But for his trouble, we all bequeath.
For him to keep the child’s teeth.
For a pumpkin man, though true and dandy.
Must go through all that Halloween candy.

Bleed air

Wait for the dust to settle.
A hurt that’s wrapped tightly in a bandage.
Squeezed into numbness.
You asked me here, you want me to stay.
But to remain means deserting me.
Leaving myself alone to drift into space.
You handle my heart so coarsely.
Picking off the dirt that reminds me of my past.
Scars that taught me not to break.
To catch you, half a world away; lost in the fog of tomorrow.
Cancelling time zones as the tock and the tick irritate.
And your kiss, inebriates it all.
This Atmosphere changes everything.
Up here, I cannot see the fall.

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.

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.