The first paper cut, at that last letter,
sealed with a moist expectant tongue.
She had scabbed her knee,
Fallen while running to get to the post box
before the 5pm closing mail run.
And by her final application of a band aid,
There was I,
At which the sight,
The weeping wounded.
I, her shrapnel strewn valentine.
The moaning crows.
The blind worms, poking about.
Out mine eyes.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Out, out, brief candle.
So twas the day after my birthday and i was on top of the world,but theres always something that puts me back in my place.
My euphoria was ill founded.
As the smell of bitter black coffee
Permeated the city air,
I passed the concrete bed….
So I sit on this train,
Alone with the strangers to share my experience
The drivers voice resounds
Across the carriage
windows with such a verbose intensity,
That it renders me
Thoughtless, all I can do is laugh
As he heralds central station as the
glorious next stop.
He thanks me with such smart arse gusto for
choosing city rail.
When recomposed
From my convulsions of laughter
I look to the others
for recognition
that the pleasure of the moment was mutual.
Their dour faces collapse my helium balloon,
And as I come crashing down
I remember earlier passing the concrete
bed of the dead man.
Clyde Livingstone.
Those that shared the same endless bed as him,
(In the place where the pigeons strop and the workers fret,
in their shoulder padded suits, heeled boots
where their ties loosen by night
as they superficially strengthen their bonds)
had placed a little flame in the inner most corner of
his resting spot
on red cardboard they wrote of how he touched their lives
and how they would remember him.
These forgotten people
not forgetting the dead man.
All the while the workers pass,
As they unnoticed,
tended to the brief candle.
Which flickered constantly to the ignorant hum of the
whoosh of the suited briefcase.
My euphoria was ill founded.
As the smell of bitter black coffee
Permeated the city air,
I passed the concrete bed….
So I sit on this train,
Alone with the strangers to share my experience
The drivers voice resounds
Across the carriage
windows with such a verbose intensity,
That it renders me
Thoughtless, all I can do is laugh
As he heralds central station as the
glorious next stop.
He thanks me with such smart arse gusto for
choosing city rail.
When recomposed
From my convulsions of laughter
I look to the others
for recognition
that the pleasure of the moment was mutual.
Their dour faces collapse my helium balloon,
And as I come crashing down
I remember earlier passing the concrete
bed of the dead man.
Clyde Livingstone.
Those that shared the same endless bed as him,
(In the place where the pigeons strop and the workers fret,
in their shoulder padded suits, heeled boots
where their ties loosen by night
as they superficially strengthen their bonds)
had placed a little flame in the inner most corner of
his resting spot
on red cardboard they wrote of how he touched their lives
and how they would remember him.
These forgotten people
not forgetting the dead man.
All the while the workers pass,
As they unnoticed,
tended to the brief candle.
Which flickered constantly to the ignorant hum of the
whoosh of the suited briefcase.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Acuity
(if you write in stanzas you look ultra pretentious, but i have to, to assist reading flow, coz my writings pretty clunky, yes dear audiance of zero people, this is my disclaimer)
Black and white photographs upset me.
When I see one I think, that most likely,
the person depicted in light and shadow is now dissolved and diffused under ground.
Where no luminosity can penetrate to make something obscure.
Where the omnipresent darkness isn’t created by shadows cast, rather, it just is.
The photos now, mass produced and easily dispensable
encapsulate a hyper realistic construction of
our coloured forgings of an otherwise mellowed world.
Pictures seem to signify permanence.
In a certain frame nothing bar our garments worn plots our place in time.
The lurid hues saturate us with immortality.
Outdated now is that orange digital date in the corner.
It seems the photos have captured an eternal present.
Though this is far from the truth.
The pixels of time can exist only on a perpetually aging paper.
Black and white photographs upset me.
When I see one I think, that most likely,
the person depicted in light and shadow is now dissolved and diffused under ground.
Where no luminosity can penetrate to make something obscure.
Where the omnipresent darkness isn’t created by shadows cast, rather, it just is.
The photos now, mass produced and easily dispensable
encapsulate a hyper realistic construction of
our coloured forgings of an otherwise mellowed world.
Pictures seem to signify permanence.
In a certain frame nothing bar our garments worn plots our place in time.
The lurid hues saturate us with immortality.
Outdated now is that orange digital date in the corner.
It seems the photos have captured an eternal present.
Though this is far from the truth.
The pixels of time can exist only on a perpetually aging paper.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
daydream in sepia
young charles durning thought it would be nice if he left a handsome photograph for his sweetheart. to pore over for the three or so months he'd be away for. they said it would be over by christmas. but as the snow fell they dug in.
even as the sky doused him with a morass of sleet so malignant it made his young bones groan, charles would ascend to another place. he'd imagine his sweetheart, below that very same sky. he thought of her thinking of him, writing him the many letters that he knew she had written.
(they had just gotten lost in this glorious war machine. charlie knew undoubtedly she always wrote to him. he wrote to her every day. maybe she didnt get his letters. charlie couldnt handle this thought. and so charlie write to her, in the toilet, as he was supposed to be firing his gun with aim, at every second he could spare. his bundle for the postman was always the biggest, and the most hilariously unnessecary).
he didn't know that she had taken up house with his big brother.
he didn't know that she couldnt bring herself to open his letters (not out of guilt, she just couldn't bear reading a simpletons declarations of abandonment to love).
he didn't know that his job filling shelves at the corner store would not be reserved for him upon his triumphant return home.
all he knew was his love. his silly, grand, big, endless, wasted love.
one morning the sky was blue. as the signal resounded for a call to arms, charlie realised that the sky was never blue. perhaps this meant the war had moved elsewhere. and so charlies thoughts shifted back barely a millimetre onto his sweetheart. there she was under that same sky, being ravished by a metallic downpour.
his sweet simple heart, feeble to everything bar love, couldn't bear thinking of its custodians debasement. and so with the thought to annihilate all thoughts charlie ran out into no mans land. clearing the barbed wire with such virtuousity that he had galloped almost clear across the waste.
the snow had long buried young charlie by that third year. and that uniformed photograph had fallen long before between the cracks. luckily for charlie he hadn't the faculty to realise it had disappeard the very moment it had been taken.
even as the sky doused him with a morass of sleet so malignant it made his young bones groan, charles would ascend to another place. he'd imagine his sweetheart, below that very same sky. he thought of her thinking of him, writing him the many letters that he knew she had written.
(they had just gotten lost in this glorious war machine. charlie knew undoubtedly she always wrote to him. he wrote to her every day. maybe she didnt get his letters. charlie couldnt handle this thought. and so charlie write to her, in the toilet, as he was supposed to be firing his gun with aim, at every second he could spare. his bundle for the postman was always the biggest, and the most hilariously unnessecary).
he didn't know that she had taken up house with his big brother.
he didn't know that she couldnt bring herself to open his letters (not out of guilt, she just couldn't bear reading a simpletons declarations of abandonment to love).
he didn't know that his job filling shelves at the corner store would not be reserved for him upon his triumphant return home.
all he knew was his love. his silly, grand, big, endless, wasted love.
one morning the sky was blue. as the signal resounded for a call to arms, charlie realised that the sky was never blue. perhaps this meant the war had moved elsewhere. and so charlies thoughts shifted back barely a millimetre onto his sweetheart. there she was under that same sky, being ravished by a metallic downpour.
his sweet simple heart, feeble to everything bar love, couldn't bear thinking of its custodians debasement. and so with the thought to annihilate all thoughts charlie ran out into no mans land. clearing the barbed wire with such virtuousity that he had galloped almost clear across the waste.
the snow had long buried young charlie by that third year. and that uniformed photograph had fallen long before between the cracks. luckily for charlie he hadn't the faculty to realise it had disappeard the very moment it had been taken.
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