The Forceful Tide

Often, the wind blew a furious squall,

Gusts, hurricane force – deadly.

 

Inked hair on the stormy beach;

Strolling away, scowls, feet firmly beneath.

Without even a glance behind.

Sacrificial, scaring, thoughtless.

 

Nights in December, frail skin,

Life in front of the flames – scorching.

But what of those slashing thoughts,

When all seems truly beneath the waves?

Life lived in a frantic haze…

 

With the flick of a sudden wrist,

Denouncing all, swearing in retrospect.

Into the distance,

Contemplation, revelation – coming undone;

Undying in the light of perpetual dusk.

 

Eclipsed by the tides of wanting.

Sun glistening of that youthful skin.

Flowing, ebbing, silently fading.

Lust, and subtle reason – morose.

 

Silk used to run through my ten digits.

Now… nothing but the sand of ages’,

Nothing but the dust

Of relegated dreams.

 

 

Tiny Stories – Across The Dust

Across The Dust


It’s been a very long time. My beard is long, my hair touches my shoulders in a tangled mess, and my body itches and stinks with retched uncleanliness.

But I do not care. I am beyond caring. That passed many months ago, as I realised what a shit-pit I now exist within.

Dawn breaks through the window. The early sun gleams and glints from the dust particles in the air, turning everything a deep shade of red. It is like this every morning – how long has it been now? Ten months? A year? More? It’s impossible to tell.

At the beginning I scratched the passing days onto the bare metal of the unit I live within, but soon, the days became lost, mingling with one another, until all I could measure time by, was the rising and the setting of the sun. Even that seems so inconsistent. A week seems like a day, and a day like a week. I have no point of reference, nothing to grasp hold of, nothing to direct me towards any type of goal.

I am a man, stuck in a metal box, on the surface of Mars – alone…

I pick up the radio transmitter on the desk in front of the window. I press it, and it beeps. “This is Nigel Warren of expedition Alpha 16. To anyone receiving, contact the European Space Agency, advising them that I am still alive within prototype habitat unit B3… Over and out…”

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Inhospitable Environments

Cacophonous in the fighting of souls.

Throned by acts of self-servitude;

With the hatred, the deposition of all obstacles.

Ravaging, sly swaying of ways,

Distributed amongst the populus.

Acclimated to the ritual destruction of all.

 

Like storms that rage on Venus.

Pounding, grinding, beating,

The most moralistic of features.

Turing stones to sand,

And riling at the highest of altitudes.

 

Bearing down like heavy soles on helpless ants.

Ruined, torn, beguiled – opinion eradicated.

Talking of savagery,

Talking of pain,

Talking of fairness,

Talking of nationalism…

Doing in self-righteousness;

Interest inherently in the progression of oneself.

 

So, take me down to the water’s edge,

Towards where the land meets the sea.

And on through the waves, and

Into the depths of the zeitgeist ocean,

Where the anglers lurk, and where there is little light.

Until finally, one is relieved of hope;

Former Oceans of Feeling

Wondering how all things work,

Down to the final twitch of a finger,

Under the eaves of all that surely grows.

Ivy clinging to the stone, an iron grip,

Never letting go…

 

Flowing wildly, like a river on Speed.

Milking the day; dawn to dusk.

Lazing, grazing, idling around.

Sweating amidst the thoughts of coming down.

 

Ideally, living from one to the next,

If only ideas could be lived in whole…

 

Caught in dreams of the girl with white hair.

Searching for feeling,

Here in the world – something that might compare.

Instead – taken as seen – pits, holes to hell.

Vestigial feelings

Serving no purpose under the new regime.

 

Yet, faces, they come and they go.

Apparitions, mirror images.

Fickle beings in their trendsetting-

In their never letting go…

 

Honestly, time doesn’t heal all,

Not the things that never happened,

Not all that was left behind in the fog of self-depreciation.

Time, what can one call time?

Relentless, garbled, lunacy…

Honestly, take me back to that tilted youth!

That insatiable insanity.

 

Longing for time to have

Nor a past, nor a future.

Tangles of yearning, incomparable being.

Edifice of inaugural darkness.

 

From dark skin to white hair;

Habituated in one’s inner sanctum.

Loving, hating, somewhere between everything.

Cursing, wearing a scarf of weary strangling.

A past grown tired of fighting,

Of never letting go…

Our Reality – ‘Dark Matter’

I will start this by saying I have very little knowledge of quantum mechanics/physics. Then again, that’s hardly the point of this – I’m no professor. If I were more intelligent in that way, then I’d love to be. It’s just one of those things in life that isn’t going to happen, no matter what. So, if any of you happen to be a physicist, I’m sorry for butchering your religion.

Anyway, I’m getting carried away…

I just finished reading Blake Crouch’s new book ‘Dark Matter.’ I was surprised because it was one of the best books I’ve read in quite a while; and that’s saying something, because whilst there are many books that I like, there are a depressingly small amount that I love. Dark Matter scored itself a place on that pile that’s hardly a pile.

I can’t really describe the plot, how it unfolds, what happens, because that would ruin the surprise for any of you wanting to read it, to unfold the mystery that lingers on every page. But I do want to talk about some of the things it explores, if for no other reason, simply because they greatly interest me.

What is Reality?

I’ve always spent a lot of time wondering what is real, more so as I have gotten older. Maybe it is something that has been sped

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Crouding Around Delusion

All of the road bumps, light.

Hard on the bare plastic.

Light in the dregs of nowhere.

One dim street lamp, to the next.

 

Idealism rocketing around.

Amphetamine, reaching light-speed.

With the bumps, the rumbles, the cognitive jumbles.

 

Doors closed,

Spirits living high, hopeful.

Backpack rattling away with needed fuel,

A little fire in the ever-night.

Crackling, burning, smoke rising high.

 

Laughter breaks the silence,

Half-drunken vigour, ruling.

Into the darkness, one small step.

Music in my ears; base heavy, rattling.

 

Farm-grass beneath the feet of dozens

Lighting the fires of careless youth.

Tires screeching…

Alone amidst the crowd.

A few friends beside, nothing more,

Not enough.

Not to crack such a fleeting consciousness.

 

Pull tabs, pulled;

Bottle tops, popped.

Chaos lingering, unperturbed.

Sexual laughter, tension, aching in the air.

A wish to place ragged hands anywhere.

 

I sat, jumper hanging loosely from my back.

Out of sight, out of the fire’s irreverent glow.

A few hugs, but even those –

Wrong; written to fail.

 

Down: one, two, three, four, five, six-

More…

And more…

Time nothing but an illusion,

A construct in the fragility of existence;

Within the wood-smoke, the midge bites.

Truly alone, despite the crowd.

 

 

Beneath Distant Dreams

Time aside from time well spent.

Laying down in the dirt of lost dreams.

Hitched on the memories scooting by.

Latched to all that revolved, and

All that inanely failed to.

 

Grandiose in dream, forgetful in memory.

Initiate the one;

All that I secretly seek.

 

Hoping for time, and

In time hoping for hope.

Relentless in energy spent.

Horribly heinous in one’s decent.

 

Cannot forgive;

Cannot let go.

Crime of the century,

Crimes against forthright humanity.

 

In the speaking of words,

All that’s thought; not all that’s done.

Laying in the mud of riddled energy.

Time well spent,

Something I doubt.

 

Deceit in a fleeting action.

Called to arms in the face of mumbles.

Life teetering amidst dark matter.

Sights to hold

In the rendering of forgetting.

No sights; utter bewilderment.

 

Days black or white,

Tortoise or hair,

Prompted to walk in jumbled kindness.

Insides ravaging with despair.

Caught in a moments notice;

Blown by the wind like,

Paper in the breath of the devil’s squall.

 

Blue turned to red,

As the clouds come crushing.

Air, cherishing it never made sense.