25th of December, 2012.

Golden Morning Sings

In gentle rain pouring down

Christmas Day again.

House

I feel your anger

Collapse onto the everything

Causing the world to slide down, down, down

Onto the floor

That greyed with dust and dirt,

And the face of a cold, cold darkness

Sunk into the flesh of wooden furniture.

You rush towards the tap

And swing it back,

The hot water bursting onto your tired hands

That always feel disgust.

Old decaying life

Ooze a smell that shrieks loud.

Your longing for a gentle warmth

Spoilt by the shiver of discomfort.

I cannot stand it either,

As your anger builds into your veins.

I fear that it'll burst onto me

And onto you

And onto the everything.

I no longer hope for happiness,

Because you no longer wish to find it here.

And my selfishness is desperate

For you to stay.

Silence on the Borderlines

Logical annotations

To fixed memoirs

Lay on the table.

So subtly label

The experiences into emotion.

Of toil and struggle,

And the laughs of faces

That no longer

Smile.

Lost decaying touch

Fell dead with colour

And leak,

The intended saturation

now weak

And pretending never to exist.

Words we never said,

Words we were too afraid to say

Once we said good bye

Rot on the raining fence.

Stuck, hooked on the spikes between us,

Blowing away in the wind.

You and I

In no more words than

An angry whisper,

Killed the garden we shared,

And slaughtered the keeper.

So that it would grow with weeds,

And then into nothing.

But sometimes I catch your eye,

As you weep in between the trees,

Still tangled by my thorns

Still afraid of new seeds.

And I have sown many more

Bad roses that have wilted.

But when I look into the sky

I see a world untouched by my hand.

I see a world where birds fly,

And colours sing in infinite prose.

Affixed associations,

But escapist intentions

Burn paper by moonlight.

Romanticised hallucinations

Or tangible realisations

Softly suggest

A new way to move from the chess board

Into a snug chair by the fireplace.

High bookshelves stand grand on all the walls,

Crisp, tender new words,

Kiss unknown philosophy gently.

I feel the waves of cold sea

Touch warm toes

Naked hands no longer curled around

Empty glass bottles.

Instead, those bottles are buried in the sand,

Their labels still on the outside

But the corners begin to peel away until

They are all the same,

No longer distinguished.

And that's how I will remember,

The box with your name

that will always hold

All of those memories.

But no longer painful,

As I cut off the canopy

and let the sun fall onto my face.

I still peer over the fence,

And hope that someday,

You too will see the sky

But in your own way.

And feel the gentle breeze,

Not choked by leaf and dirt,

But calm and sweet

In your orange lion mane.

No longer a chariot

Unscrew it, dismantle. Unfold it and lay it out.
Pieces.

Shun

Hideous insides squeeze tight
And there's nothing to hold onto.
Everything turns dark,
And my familiar surroundings begins to fade.
Nothing to hold on. Nothing to hold on. But I'm slipping, I'm falling and-
-I try. I try to stretch myself back into a humane shape
but
Like glue,
My skin sticks to my hands.
And the gravity gets stronger,
And my resistance gets weaker,
And I feel the crushing of my organs
Stain each other red.
Flesh turns to bone, bone turns to dust.
Dust rides the wind,
Choking on itself, never pure.
I'm blind to comfort.
I'm deaf to the world.
And I'm mute,
mute to scream away the current I'm trapped in.
Soul stuck
from love again.

Block.

She’s blank.

Grey stone stuck on paper.

Tools, here and there, strike.

Loose grains of sand so scarce,

Drowning in a white river

Disappear instantly.

Blank canvas, blank novel, blank sound

Bleed into a single screech

Of flats and sharps

Making the air heavy and

Sick.

Rotting desk sinks

As hands fall to the floor.

Empty Eyes

Dark room with a single candle

                                                                Floating

Hungry ear pressed against the condensation

                                Waiting.

There is an eerie song playing through the glass,

                Familiar words distorted into paranormal notes,

                                The happy voices now split into a chorus of spite,

                                                Emphasising the lonely separation

                                                                A mark of the lacking sensation

                                                                                Of warmth breath against thy neck.

Good morning

Waking from deep sleep nine,

                            Phone too tired to remind me the time.

               I pick up a six string drum,

And strum along,

  To old melody and rhyme.

Monopath

 A familiar taste sits in my throat as I walk home at night. Letting my mind wonder as the streetlights stretch across my vision in a blurry orange beige spectrum, I contemplate on what the taste might be, but it is too unnatural to define as something organic. I let my legs stagger forward as my senses smelt together a complex pattern of ideas and thought. I hear myself groan as my feet kick the curb of the road, but the sound is detached, an automatic response to environment. The utterance is nothing more but dust on the skin of my independent society; My unique brain complex that leaks colour onto the road. Hallucinations of music vibrate kindly, entertaining my thirsty mind, bored of walking.

Click

Nation down!
Story uncovered and
Media drown.
Flood the wooden gates
Fragile from decay
Tear down the streetlights
Shinin' on old grey:
(The squares with the statues
Remind of old history
A memorial misery
The burden it weigh.)

Old meaningful morals and
United damnation
Of a tower of lies.
Everything falls-
Wasted bricks
As debris flies.
Battered homes lay
Under the siege.
Blocked roads, homeless people
A chorus of hunger, a screech.
Like a dying body
Sick
Body erodes to bone
City erodes to ruin.
Nation down everybody.
Down, down, down and gone.

Rising fumes against smiling shadows

Rise Rise Rise!

Why is it always this?

Gret sparklins arrive from the floor

And beckon

Whispers, in agrar husks.

Mist, aloft, the mist,

In lingers within large space,

In transparent, different volumes,

Harsh points in great intensity of feelings,

They drift,

Drift among me.

I am never alone.

The coldness intensifies as I relish that statement,

Everything I am familiar with dulls,

As I am pushed hard into a different world,

Fingers around my shoulders,

Scales around my arms and fingers,

And flashes.
Flashes are the things that catch my eyes,

The scythes swinging at my vision,

Cutting me from my understanding of this trance.

Is it not a game I can receive clear,

Nor deliver commuciation,

But just feel that coldness,

Wrap me round,

What if it takes me,

What if I am no longer, myself, found?

Smooth face

My best exhibit is a blank canvas.

No colour, no shape, no stroke

Just a void of final acceptance

That nothing I could paint,

Nothing I could create,

Would reflect the prince's smile.

Brush-Painting

Brush marks parchment with a slap of ink

Staining like a permanent burn,

Shades of nothing become embroidered into a new harmony,

Lively symbols

Of entangled symmetry.

Painter smiles,

Daring to curve and sweep his brush wildly

Fulfilling his need to deliver

An honest message

In a fury of passion.

Wounds of love

CRUNCH!

Teeth snare

Encoding data

Transmit

Into the apple.

Pulse of sound

Replays.

CRUNCH.

Teeth snare

Into apple.

Then withdraw,

Dividing flesh

To attack core.

Drunk

On bitter sweet sour

Green blood.

A thirst, a devious hunger,

For another taste

Of a broken structure.

CRUNCH.

Teeth snare

Into apple.

Another--

CRUNCH!

Fangs dig

Into apple.

Lips kiss leaking apple.

DUMP!

Remains discarded

Deep, dark bin.

Raindrops

There is a sadness leaking in my heart.

It doesn't drip like a whisper,

But empties in a scream.

Looking through a blue hue,
At the regrets, pouring down

Down, Down

Through a single stream.

One note, one wave,

A whole entirety

Summed up in such a singular world.

Echo upon echo,

The river pours,

A chemistry of darkness,

In poetic slumber.

But it's such a beautiful world.

Diagnosed silence for a little too long.

Weep, melody weep.
The drifting keeps on sowing borders.
Weep, melody weep.
The forestry is growing,
And the horizon sinking
With silhouettes of grey.

Secret

Girl wants to pray,
She couldn't say
All the things she wanted to
In that one day;
Where the smoke had departed
And the broken hearted
Had decided she wasn't one of them.
She declined an invitation,
A kind of aspiration
She once had but lacked concentration,
Determination, preservation,
To say yes.
But now she wants to shout,
Take me out of here,
This darkness
I'm sinking into
Ain't somewhere to stay.
I'm just a girl,
Working all I can,
Make this sinister shadow
Go away.
But no one hears her,
And now she's alone,
Enduring the scaly skin
Of a snake
Biting into her,
Blinding her face
Like a black scarf;
Painting her eyes in a haze,
Fixing her gaze
To a muddy sepia
Of a dead world.




It's like an endless forest
In a twisted fantasy.
Without a final page,
Deep hypocrisy
That all fairy tales
Have knights and kings,
Brought up that way
To see splendour of things
Diamond rings,
That say the words that you don't want to.
Things that might be true,
Things that might be hidden away from you.
Bad nation.
Lies to generations,
Everything's fine, so work in celebration.
But the truth is...
Function is the devastation
Of every limb and bone
Of the mental salvation,
All blue thoughts
Sweep together
Like a herd,
Like a flood,
Like a swarm of hot blood.
Escapism,
Isn't a solution,
But the girl doesn't know,
The girl doesn't see.
And what the girl doesn't know or see,
Makes her
Secret.

Nylon Strings

There was a parcel left for me yesterday;

Dressed in red ribbon and fancy writing.

I had came back from work,

Weary bones, weary mind.

The house was full of dust,

It hadn't be tidied for a while.

I took a sigh, turned on the kettle,

And sat down, unwrapping the beige paper.

Sitting inside was an old cassette,

No note, no name.

With a little hesitation, I plugged in my stereo,

Put the cassette inside, and without another thought,

I pressed play.

I closed my eyes as I recognised your honest voice

Singin' our truths,

Along your refreshing beat.

A cold stream of music tickled my ankles,

Making my stuffy surroundings blur and disappear.

I stepped forward into the ocean,

And let my body free-fall onto the surface,

A splash of colour as the water swallowed me,

And I can began to sink deep,

To a world of water; of the tears I had cried,

The laughter I had once sung,

All the smiles and the frowns,

The warmth and the coldness of my heart,

Intertwined.

Your lyrical exhibit sang to me,

Flooded my surroundings with bright coral

And strange shadows I could not recognise.

My body sits still with a lowered head,

As I explore and swim on,

Your beautiful waves of rhythm,

The seaweed waves along,

In total harmony.

The ocean so expansive,

My sorrows hadn't left me,

But I could no longer cry.

I watch above and around,

The melody is the heart of the ocean,

The sea bed wild with chords so grand,

And your essence,

The streams of light from the surface,

From my life's aquarium of emotion.

Revealing old memories,

Newer hopes, greater times,

A promise of a world full of everything,

And as the music fades,

I see a room not full of clutter,

But a home.

Reckless words

Ain't like that any more.On the floor,
Near the bookshelf
By the stairs.
Fourth step. Fourth step doesn't smile.
But fourth step never smiled.

Quiet words,
Whispers
Thoughts
A thunder.
Simple things, a faint fire,
Burns like a scream,
A preying liar.
She ain't crazy,
Oh she ain't crazy-
But the heart's desire.
A drenched flier
Sayin'
I love you.

A mist.
A flood.
All honesty,
Written in mud.
Complicated knots
Entangle muscle, memory, mind.
Pulls me in a dark, dark cave.
Leaves my warmth behind.
Oh so subtle,
Your gentle breeze in the shape of your smile.
But then my breath,
It's empty and vile,
My words
Just
Spoken
With a rotten tongue.
But it's not just a mistake,
Because you're someone.

I'm sorry.

(But there's more to that.
They're just reckless words,
Meaningless birds
That sing no notes
in the Garden.
Invisible feathers,
invisible everything.
But let them sing,
In whatever colour you choose,
The sense they bring,
That I refuse
To say I'm always right,
Always bright.
Always alight
With kind thoughts and...
Understanding tones.
Understanding glows,
Of polite sentences.
Yourself is my importance,
And that's why I say it.
Just like that.)

Rose Sleeves

Rose Sleeves playing bright melody,
Creating a garden with passionate rhythmn.
Chord after chord,
The nature begins to climb,
To intimidate a coming day so sweet,
a hope so strong,
With dancing hands, dancing feet.

Inspired by:

My four year old MK-928.

There is something quite majestic about an old electronic keyboard.
A small thin layer of dust sits between the keys and the speakers,
The squeaky vibrations of each note sing to such a degree of "almost perfection"
that it may as well be perfect.
The buzz of a midi instrument that in it's time was quite modern,
But now has a delightful crisp edge,
of an old time classic.
Such is the aging process of sound,
Like a wine it only makes for sweet nostalgia,
For the ears of it's owner.

The shiny wall isn't always blue.

Blank stare
With grim expression.
A face that can only be related
To an empty pit,
Of something ill-fated.
But she's soft-centered,
A smile begins to melt the water,
The image falls, and begins afresh.
Something new, something young,
Something with a dress.
A woman that once sung 'impossible'
Now with a posture so strong, yet still fragile.
She's independant, she's renewed,
And beside her feet, is a glorious sight.
Unlimited tins of paint, unlimited light
To a canvas that is as wide as the horizon.
She became the artist.

My Monster

And just like that, the old man on the corner of the street began to laugh, his eyes widened and the veins on his neck began to grow. It did not take long for his height to stretch so tall to cast a great shadow that stripped the sky's light from my face. His crooked stance gave off such a thick darkness, it trapped the colourless air above and dyed it into a grey mist which quickly began to drown my lungs. His face was something I'll always remember, as never had I saw a grin stretch so wide.

The Scientist

"The experiment worked!" The scientist said, he looked at his fellow colleges who just nodded their heads. They did what they were told, and if the scientist was happy, so were they. That's how the system worked. And that's how it'll stay. It wasn't long before another situation arrived, all hands on deck, all sleep deprived. "It's time to get that engine rolling again!" The scientist bellowed, so loud the lab shook, and nearly broke the fragile glass below. The colleges obeyed and turned on the system, reading to observe the new mission, impossible situation rolling on the screen like a documentry film. It featured, as always, a twisted play, must like the ones you see today. But the ones you see are the ones on screen, the ones you'd pay to watch at eighteen.But this game wasn't just for fun, it was an experiment. That's what the scientist said, so that was what it was. This was the lab inside the head, of a mind that was never fed, learning for a mad cause.

Hanging on words that no longer rhyme.

So there I was.
Standing.
Just waiting.
Listening. Hoping. Longing;
For its voice to return,
To a familiar tone.
Not the angry one
That was displayed in front of me.
But all there was
Were thorny vines,
Creeping. Surrounding. Binding.
Wrapping around my insides,
Like a poisonous snake,
It’s words leaking into my veins,
Like a foul dye emptied into water.
Every new sentence
Began with an uglier word,
Distant. Cold. Heartless.
Is what they wanted to say.
But that isn’t what they said.

Stone stares with blank face,

Blackbirds tweet it's usual phrase.
No meaning in the song,
Just an intention to make the photograph
A forgotten memory.
She’s not like that, anymore. Anymore.

The Desk III - My Garden

I sit at my desk and look out through the window.
It is getting a little dusty.
Through the glass, I see the old garden I grew up with,
But the Anderson shelter is no longer at the end,
And there is another plastic greenhouse,
Rattling in the wind.
I think to myself,
If my life were a garden,
What would it be?
Would it have flowers,
And trees that blossomed,
Would it have leaves,
Left on the ground, forgotten?
Would it have an orange slide,
Or a broken swing?
Would it have a kite,
That would fly
Without string?

Generous warmth, sick heart

Cold hands hover over
An everlasting fire
and glow

Defeated is the darkness,
that surrounds the night.
destroyed by the embers
That burn bright

Yet I turn to the bars
of a prison cell
Forgetting the open door
In front of me.

I am in two worlds
My fabric has been ripped
into two pieces
Sitting in each dimension
Unware of it's other half.

A Wonderful Pair of Silver-blue Eyes

There was once a boy of fourteen,

Standing by the road

Watching leaves chase his feet,

As they ride the April wind.

For a moment, he becomes alone,

Blossom settles onto the ground,

And inside the hood of his favourite coat.

His silver-blue eyes watching the world,

From where he stood.

In the distance, the faint sound of engines

snorting fumes on the main road,

And the seagulls yelling irregular tunes

To the cloudy sky; of which was of a grey melody.

But his smile was warm,

His bright eyes forever shining,

For there was the most beautiful song,

Singing inside his heart.

The Happiness Machine

To calculate your overall happiness, you take out a few counters from The Box. Lets say... A yellow counter for happiness, and a black counter for sadness. Now depending on what kind of mood you are in, affects the currency exchange rate, but lets say you're feeling quite neutral right now, so each black counter is minus one, and each happiness counter is plus one. After picking out several counters from the box, you realise you're on a minus number. All your worries and fears have been drawn out from The Box, and they stare back at you coldly. You'll want to add more yellow counters because happiness is a good thing right? So you try and reflect upon the good things - almost desperately to get to '0' or a plus number. Sometimes this is quite difficult, and sometimes you count the black counters as minus two or three, because you feel quite sad.

But no matter your calculation, you don't have to stand by it. When have numbers or math ever served you in a light-hearted conversation with your friends, or the feeling of warmth - either from the sun or just simply from a smile? Take a break from fighting the world, and make your own personal revolution. Break free from sitting in that dark room and counting... And make your own rules to happiness.

The Desk II

I have been sitting down for a while now on my dull yellow chair, my hands stretched into a mellow chord on the keyboard in front of me, yet no music plays; the power had long since been told off. Clouds gather in the window, it's waning light highlighting particular objects on my desk such as the pile of paper to my right, and the open drawers full of clothes that hang half in, half out. I know somewhere in my room, my bin should have been emptied out weeks ago, used tissues most likely have a life of their own by now. I decide to empty the bin out tomorrow, and maybe even dust the desk too. Time had been and passed, and evidence stacks in layers within the corners and between the unreturned letters. Is this loneliness, I question myself, while realising that a significant amount of time had past since my last reflection, an old rail ticket sits in my hands. I smile to myself, perhaps somewhat insanely, and think that I am much more of a person when I am with my friends, so much so that perhaps I am less of a person when I am alone. Maybe, I have playing along for too long, that somewhere in the dust is the remains of myself. This idea is far from the belief that I am selfless, no. I am very selfish. I guess that is how I use people, I have forgotten who I am, and the only way I remember is through my friends. Fragments of myself discovered through conversation, no single friend knowing the whole 'me'. I want to laugh, this dark thought is a little bit silly, I know, I understand that well; yet some part of me seems charmed by the whole idea of losing myself, perhaps I am mad already, or I have been alone for too long there simply has never been a single 'self'. Now that sounds insane all right! I may have laughed at this point, I don't know. I doubt I'd even want a single friend to know 'all of me', so I decide that this entire trail of thought is ridiculous. I return back to reality, my arms are now spread out across the keys before me and let out a sharp wail. I must have turned the keyboard back on at some point, I turn the power off again. I have been sitting at this desk for too long.

The Desk I

It's late again, and I can't help thinking about the many times I was close to you. My dear friend. The candle burns and casts a shadow on my desk. I relate more to the shadow than the flame now, your distance is so far as to sit in an entirely different world. Sometimes your friends tag your photos online, photos of happy smiles with people I don't recognise. I guess time moves on, and your shadow moves further away. I would contact you, but other than for the sake of loneliness I wouldn't know what to say. Maybe I'll wait next month and say happy birthday. But that'll make me just another message, a sentence with no real meaning. I don't want to be just another person you met some time ago, but I'm afraid to admit that some friends come and go. But just so you know, a reply from you would make my day, don't be afraid to say “I miss you” sometime soon.

The Routine Syndrome

Routine

The Morning

I check the phone,

It's still 5:15,

As if all the thoughts in my mind

Only took a short dream.

I sit up and rub my face,

Easing slowly out of sleep

As if there was something

To get up for. Something to greet.

But everyday day is just the same.
Yet there's nothing else to do.

---------------------------------------

University

Go to a lecture or two,

Then become ill for three.

Friend will complain,

Make more of an effort

The tutors still don't know your name.

Only that you're the student who's ill all the time.

Stop being lazy. What's your game?

----------------------------------------

Back home

Door opens,

To an empty house.

Climb upstairs,

since there is no one else.

Throw myself onto bed,

Sayin' I'll do better tomorrow.
Tomorrow comes,

and I'm still in sorrow.

---------------------------------------

Life can't be a simple routine,
Day in day out,
With a cup of caffeine.

There ain't no more to do,

No more to say.

Just life can't keep running,

Like this way.

-----------------------------------------

Next Morning

I find myself lying on the floor again,
This time the door is left open,
I guess I was tired last night,

I try to recall the last memory,

But today is already not going right.
I ask myself,
Not moving a muscle,

If it's worth getting up,

If it's worth trying again.

Everyday just seems the same,

What's the point,
If I'll just wind up here again?

No more.

All I want to shout is

No more.

Just.

No more.

No more.

Just no more.

The Pocket Watch I

As I was walking home,

I put my hands in my pockets,

And tried to ignore the cold.

Somewhere I could hear the faint pulse

of a pocket watch,

It's beat as loud as thunder

On the quiet street.

It occurred to me that this sound

Was like like the drum of my heart.

A rhythm like this does not last forever.

Neither blood or battery is infinite.

And yet in this world, time passes

Without a conscience, without a thought.

Yesterday felt like today,

And today feels like tomorrow.

I know I saw your smile,
Yet I cannot remember standing by your side.

I know I heard you laugh,

yet I cannot remember if I was there.

Dreams and reality merge,

And I'm never certain,
On the existence of my own memories.

What does it matter if I had written it down,

When it does not feel as if it happened?
Feeling lost in my own thoughts,
I continue walking along the street.

Up the hill,

But down in my own world,

Where the hands of a clock draw

circle upon circle,

losing it's perfect timing,

Half a second each day.

This will be part of a series of poems. The Pocket watch is symbolic to me, and there is still more I wish to express that I can't put into just one.

It might be called growing up.

I find myself always wanting to accuse you and say “How can you...” but then I realise that isn't the right question. I want to tell you that you are wrong, and you are betraying your own beliefs. But I'm betraying mine, by letting you get ahead of me. You're happy, and you seem so fulfilled, as if you are gently prompting me to ask myself “How can I...?” It is somewhat mean of you to counter my own stereotypes of your world. But I cannot hate you for that, because your counter is beautiful. Although I do not believe I can follow you, you've inspired me to find my own path. In a way, I want to find out that I am right, that my own ideas are better than yours. But I don't think life quite works out like that, and not everything needs to be a competition. I must remember that. Happiness is something that cannot be measured, so for certain I will never know if I will ever find more or as much as you. But at least I know it exists. And I want to thank you for that.

The downside of ugliness

You hate yourself, your body, your face.
You know somethings not so right about thinking like that but... Well.
It's not that simple to change your mind is it?
You watch bitterly from the distance as others suffer from their own shadow,
"I'm fat, I hate my nose, I hate my teeth."
They have no clue, right? No absolute clue on how this game works?
Because they're alright - infact, they hardly have a problem.
But you. That's different. You're just ugly all over.
There is nothing of yourself you like, and the clothes that cling onto your skin - uncomfortable. You hate them.
You've tried to use every powder and every colour on your face, but well...
That just made you look like a joke.
So what now?
Where's chapter two?
Are you really going to stay on the first page?
No matter how many times I tell you that you're beautiful,
You're never going to believe me.
So you may aswell flick over the page and see what else there is to see and know.
Your novel can still continue and flourish,
Without a perfect beginning.

The dawn of adulthood

I closed my eyes and saw fishes swimming in the sky.

I opened my eyes and the fishes fell and died.