misplaced brains poem

Misplaced Brains

Some days, there are endless words,

And some days,

I live in contrary of continued strife.

Popular by demand,

Unwilling in wasted, apathetic action.

 

Broken, and begging,

In parks, and on the outermost edges;

Of the lands where the spirits linger,

Where cadavers lay flat.

At least the fog is a guise some morns’,

Blanketing the lands in false reprise.

 

Those, asking to hold;

I, needing to be held.

Skin sticky – keeping little inside.

Far too porous – clogged coffee filter existence.

 

From the pictures of an old-age days.

To the pathetic anger of high-school dreams;

Laughing at the fishing-line-thin teenage certainty,

Of all that was never to be,

In all the places that were never to be.

Some dead-end cul-de-sac,

From what one used to witness in the haze,

That clouded those prickly, sharp-edged days.

A Few Words on My Sparse Content

Hey people, I haven’t forgotten you awesome, lovely lot, I promise!

I’ve been spending a lot of time writing over on my other blog (Peach’s Almanac) Which I understand will be of little interest to most of you – but that’s fine, it’s something I’ve been mulling over for quite a while now. I thought, why not take the plunge!

I plan to get back into writing on here regularly, poems, stories, and rants on life – you know the drill! It’ll happen, I promise!

So, bear with me whilst I sort out my schedule, and set aside time for writing on both platforms. I don’t have any plans on leaving you out in the cold.

Don’t forget me! 😀

Hillside, on the South Banks

**I’m not dead!**

 

Dreaming of light that once flowed so smooth,

And with such determined vigour;

Of trees, and the tree-spirits that reside within.

All across the Lands of the New World,

Where we, feeble and weak, drink from streams;

Rust coloured, tainted by their shifting conversations.

 

Whilst foxes roam the valley, and the birds the hills,

We wonder, because wondering is our hope.

In grievance of what falls so swiftly to the ground-

Resenting, often living inside hate,

Of course, what else?

Blue skies, and blue water, and blue minds…

Insistence on belonging, just in the right time.

 

Brushed by the sun – caressed by warm winds,

Carried to faraway lands on the clouds that soundlessely swim-

Some days – beds of white.

Some days – suffocating black straight-jackets,

Unsure, not knowing the where, and the when.

And yet, in the moment, grass is still.

 

Our huts, warmed to the stones beneath.

Some days we manage laughs,

Some days we hold, and we drink, and we sing.

And in those times,

When Winter’s Philharmonic rings-

Living here in the hills, where the sun sees –

No matter our wild, wild dreams –

Isn’t so bad as one might first think.

Peach’s Almanac – Another Blog!

Hey you lovely people! ❤

Recently I have started a new blog. (don’t worry, I’ll still be posting here, and with as much frequency, this is just extra!)

It’s dedicated to Anime, Essays, Movies, Literature  – you know, pop-culture stuff, reviews and the like. You can do the clickety below and follow if any of that tickles your fancy. I look forward to seeing you there. And for those who aren’t sufficiently tickled. I look forward to seeing you here, as always! 😀

Peach’s Almanac

 

^ I like the clickety!!

 

Thanks, as always.

-Chris ❤

 

My Relationship With Welcome to the N.H.K

For a long time, I’ve been a lover of anime. Ever since I was a young kid, I remember watching Studio Ghibli film’s alongside my dad and sister, over and over again. They never got boring; the rich lands, and the characters, the stories – they seemed so utterly magical, so out-of-this-world, and yet completely believable, completely immersive. Sure, no doubt some of it was due to the impressionability of my younger self… but the remainder, was an intrinsic love for narrative of that type, one that would develop and mature as I grew older – as I grow older. Most notably the ‘Slice of Life‘ genre of anime.

Not just anime itself, but the surrealism which is often intrinsic to its nature. That which my most-loved author Haruki Murakami often portrays to such mesmerising levels.

Welcome to the N.H.K was originally a Japanese novel written by Tatsuhiko Takimoto , which was later adapted into a serialised manga, and then, to critical acclaim, a 24-episode anime series in 2006. 

I can’t remember the exact date, or even the exact year when I first watched it. I guess somewhere around 2013-14. At that time, watching it, I realised so many things – too many things. Most of all, it absolutely terrified me – ripped open my soul and left it there to be eroded by the environment if I did nothing to protect it from the elements. Here’s a synopsis: (from myanimelist.net)Read More »

All These Treasured Things

Listening, no sudden judgement – a receiver,

My mind open, I believe;

Words of utmost transparency.

Don’t be fretful of that which you cannot speak,

 

Life’s tough, arduous – we know that.

Shared. No seclusion, nor segregation.

A voice to paragraph, to feel in kind;

Life, and love, and all that’s between.

 

Sometimes I dream, and sometimes I’m bitterly real.

What can be done, achieved, felt – it’s a sad mystery.

But I ponder… what’s best?

 

Maybe it nullifies disappointment.

Maybe… simply, it’s beyond knowledge;

Knowing, that’s the hardest part – isn’t it always…?

Knowing what to say, and what to leave be;

Misinterpretation – demon dweller of frail words

Creeping ’round the corner, settling in cavernous cracks,

Yell the voices of pain-riddled pasts’.

 

Bathe within the beat of your chest,

The motion of your up and down breath,

Ground it all in reality – tight knot, heavy anchor.

Forge it into stone too heavy to drag behind,

And leave the grey mist,

The ambiguity of mind’s irrationality.

Be free… Live free…

So, let it all begin again.

Under the Dark, Dreary Night

Night-light rains down in the field of wolves,

Their names called, summoned at once.

Crying and screaming, the masses run,

From the beasts – the savages.

 

Bottle in hand, legs afloat,

Climbing trees – falling into heavy arms –

Strangers arms, unwelcome by the recipient.

Heart breaking, secluded to the dark beside stone walls.

 

Ground-worms, the eerie winds of euphoric glass.

In the trailer, painfully few beside;

Outside, the golden world goes on,

Laughter, chaos, the hugs of youthful sentiment.

 

The Forgotten, the Shadows in no light,

Weaving like willow around stronger trunks;

In the chinks and the chimes-

Kissing, looked on upon with bleakness of vacuum.

 

So, the bottles are empty;

A world turned hazy with grim solitude.

Nothing before. Nothing after.

What had I been expecting, a change in base temperature?

 

Morning light, and lingered pride,

Loving all around, but honestly, nothing inside.

Taken home, forgotten thoughts-

Trying to forget.

 

Images of possibility,

Voices that could have been, and might have been,

If only it weren’t for battered sanity.

Some things are never.