Sullen, Dark Creatures

Tumultuous in the grief of ravaging winds.

Worming their way from one to the next;

Worms, digging, ebbing with the flow of all that falters.

And in the breath of man, stumbles a voice.

Distant in the manhandling of endless apology.

Forgotten by those that once listened.

Or, could it be there was not a soul to start with?

A middle-ground between something and nothing.

Church spires, towers of steel and rust.

Apoplectic in all they profess, in all that is dust.

But we sit, and we linger in that set duty.

Duty in something; duty in something we know nothing of.

Twisting, fumbling, fidgeting – lost in life.

Bereavement in all that lingers;

In all that is eternally lost in thought and light.

Cracks in the concrete effigy of the past.

Viewed by those that have no sympathy for the present.

Those that smelt within the furnace of needless fortitude.

For the worms, they wriggle and they writhe;

Compelled towards a destination of sullen plight.

Creatures that cannot stand the breadth of light.

So, one feels pleasure within the company of worms…

Two Hands, Two Tools, Two Killers

Two Hands, Two Tools, Two Killers


It was cold. I couldn’t feel my legs beneath the mud, beneath the sludge, beneath the weight of the world bearing down on them.

In my right hand I held my rifle – I could just feel the inscription I’d made into the wood, ‘PeaceMaker,’ it said. The irony, the cold-hearted humour of it, it wasn’t something I cared about anymore, I felt nothing for it. It was just there, in the same way many things were. My other hand, wrapped in gauze, pushed in Isaac’s gut in an attempt to stop blood that flowed from a bullet-wound in waves. Whilst peering over the ridge of our foxhole, I attempted to stuff more gauze into his jacket, into the wound itself. But, even then, I knew it was useless, that it only served to satisfy a dying part of myself – for he was already dead.

Pulling my hand away in a mass of sticky blood, I grabbed the remainder of his ammunition, his two grenades, and stuffed them into any remaining pockets of my own. He needed them no longer. It was the last thing he could do for me.

As I wrapped the bloodied hand around the wood of my rifle, a deep sadness arose. Not the kind that you instantly feel, nor feel in any true sense at all, but one that you just notice in all its pain, acknowledge its harrowing existence. I wanted to feel more, but after a year of this, I was asking a little too much of myself. I had been hulled of feeling, on some days even of compassion.

I laid the back of my hand on the freezing mud, and steadied the rifle. Slowly I scanned the misty forest; or maybe it was smoke, I wasn’t sure anymore. Behind a towering sycamore, a hundred-feet-or-so away, something shifted, trembling like a spectre in my half-vision, twinkling like a tracer round darting through the night. I put my eye to the sight, lining up the tree, and the glinting. My finger slid from the wood, and onto the cold metal of the trigger. This, it was what I lived for, this was my sole purpose of existence; a soldier, a killing machine, a pawn for the elite. Everything else I once was had melted away, leaving the husk of something unrecognisable behind. The worst part… it no longer scared me.

I saw a flash of green and grey. I pulled the trigger. The stock threw my shoulder back. It deafened me. The shot echoed around the forest and the surrounding valley, amidst many others. Then, I heard a scream – a gurgling of sorts. It was a sound I had listened to many times before, the sound of a man dying, not quickly but slowly. It was something I had knowingly inflicted many times. Both when my own life was in imminent danger, and when it was not. Neither was easier to begin with. But the killing of men, of people, had turned into something of a reflex, and nothing more. There were no tears. No sympathy. Nothing. I was the perfect soldier.

I looked to my left, where Isaac’s body was slowly turning cold. I had known him only a few days, I suppose that helped. Nonetheless, the view had become part of my daily scenery. One soaked in mud and blood. One that was cacophonous, insane. The trouble was, after a while, insanity become normality. Beyond, it is the normality that takes on a different meaning, one that is not so easy to get used to.

Once again, I leaned my head down and sighted my rifle, scanning the woods for any movement – anything I could put a bullet through. I felt the cold, and the wind, and the chill of snow in the air. Yet, I felt nothing in the killing of men.

And so, the days went by, one after the next. Soon I lost count, both of the days, and of the men I brought to earth within those days. Time, it had no end, nor any beginning. Everything was immeasurable, uncountable. That world, it turned me into something not entirely human. Something that couldn’t be given a name.

Against the Powered Tide

The Recklessness of Youth.

Straining, heaving towards some written rule.

Determined by peers, embodiments of greatness.

Ha…. stifled, indifferent to the individual.

Straight-faced, that way – indisputable.

What living has become;

Numbers – who’s got more than who.

Sitting without anything else to inanely do.

Processes’ in yes and no,

Unequivocal in right and wrong; black and white.

All about the future,

All about how one might benefit,

All about the…. me.

Sick, wretchedly tired, stirred in deep.

Calloused and worn, torn, broken.

In such a life; battered and bruised.

Can we truly think of no better use?

Words and sentences, abused.

Narrative woven the thinness of hair.

Cinema, laid contemptuously bare.

That youth, course it seemed bright; endless.

And yet, all things do end,

All things do eventually fall to the bottom.

Whilst some things never truly resurface.

One may think, change comes soon.

But that so-spoken change is as fickle as the ever-waning moon.

Bright, and white,

In one place always the dead of night.

So, here lies that Recklessness of Youth

Faces, scowls, contorted,

Peering into that waiting, hanging noose.

The City Nowadays – Truth In Words

These are not my words. Of course, all credit goes to L.A. Salami, check out my recent post on him, look him up, listen with all your heart and soul.

“I’ve got heartache, headache, high cholesterol, low self esteem.
The terrorists are out to get me because I approved of Noam
Chomsky beating on his chest. – Illegally downloading music’s become too easy – it’ s destroying the culture.
But I don’ t wanna pay for it – fuck that. I’ve got bills to pay, I’ ve got food to eat – I don’t earn that much money –

There are jobs nowhere, I can’t find any!
What happened to Rock and Roll? What happened to Hip Hop? What happened to the cinema?

Films used to be…Great. Now they’re easy to make, easy to sell, easy to get bored of – everything’ s 4 stars or more – Everything’s the best film of the year – Fast food films – Fast food music – Fast food politics – Fast food ideologies – What’s the worth of working to live at the cost of your soul? So much so that you don’t want to live at all?”

– L.A. Salami – The City Nowadays

Towards Places

Through barriers we transit.

In search of love and truth.

In lieu of so-spoken proof.

Existing through one’s eyes.

Seeing the world with untempered lies.

Anguish, and pain;

Not a person relieved of their face.

For it is human, and it is what we know.

And in the knowing.

In the understanding of such rites.

Vengeance in one’s contempt and spite.

Dreams, and dreams alone,

They don’t separate all we know.

Building a picture, an endless mirror.

To places, far, far beyond.

Places outside of the human mind.

Where we might find peace in kind.

And yet, we must work.

Work to reach that hallowed space.

That land where we might finally come to stand.

Drowning Among Insignificance

Like a midge within a whale.

Like a whale within an ocean.

Like an ocean within a universe.

A land composed of carbon and greed.

A land in which rules usurp basic need.

It is in this we live;

It is in this we perish.

It is true nature, blindness aside.

Through the finest of weather.

Through the loudest of days.

Through all existence, whatever the ways.

A life born;

A life ended.

Such is this world,

Amid its unforgiving reveries.

For Ourselves

People, they sit and they watch.

Looking back, and towards the clocks.

Sitting, sleeping, not getting along.

In this world, this frail, frail place;

Masses, trying to keep the retched, insane pace.

And for what, gratification, social acceptance.

Abiding to rules set by our fake directors.

Thinking, thoughtlessely believing in what is said.

Characteristic of the utterly brain-dead.

But I do not blame, and I do not begrudge.

For it is all of humanity that swims in the sludge.

Oh, what can be done. And where is the light.

One that might shine on the unforgiving night.

 

Abide