Old Mother Earth Frowned

As Atlas Shrugged and LA boomed Old mother earth roiled and loomed And all remember the day she frowned To shake the buildings and crease the ground To remove the gluttonous, pampered herd Who gorged on praise and lived absurd. The Bergs quickly fled, as their frantic followers scanned the torah in a misguided bid to restore some order. All that remains is their red bracelets... and their holy water. “No refunds, sorry about your daughter.” Were the words of the retreating Bergs. Shouted from the open roof of a Merc, Before a gaping chasm removed their smirk. And as they plummeted to the earth's core They realised what they already knew There was no eternity, or heaven in store Just an unconscious return to the universal stew. Kabbalah. M Night Shyamalan would suffer the most, And some say the land harbours his ghost. Waiting, eagerly expecting with a white knuckled fist, His favourite deception, that classic twist. Tom Cruise prayed to his alien lord As his family ran for cover But the space-age god never scored Against a vengeful earth's wish to smother. And Christian folk blamed the gays, For bringing on the end of days They preached to corpses lost in rubble About the homoerotic nature of their trouble The generous earth let the sermons end Before the sickness she began mend And skewered them all with their own church spires As they caught ablaze in instant pyres. Michael Bay was molesting his member The special effects were fit to remember! But before his signature climatic blast The walls caved in, he breathed his last. Kim Kardashian was under the knife, When her trusted surgeon lost his life. In one fell swoop her nose was gone. And as she realised what was wrong and concrete filled the empty space, Her dying thoughts were of her face. And in a 100 years the trees would grow back Covering what once was the celeb star track. And in 1000 years people would be here, To revel in the new green veneer How fitting that the famous sign had seen And knew in advance what its letters should mean Through the new grown trees, if see it you could The holly had fallen, leaving the 'wood'.

Resignation runs faster than hope

The night is dark and grey no moon, no stars clouds as shrouds. There was a fire here once spewing energy and light now it coughs ash and smoke or perhaps it just dribbles it. There's a lone figure, which i think is me or it could be all of us, everyone. Just this, nothing else around. The figure hunches over, mumbling nonsense Strikes a match, lights a firework A spray of light; of energy The rocket climbs, leaving it's orgasm in its wake A comet's tail A blazing symphony Then it's gone. No explosion No colour No big bang No life. The figure tries again. The rocket lights the way! Then disappears swallowed by the grey. And again it, or i, tries The comet's orgasm lights his face hope fills his wide eyes it fails. It dies. His wide eyes shadowed with grey. And again it, or i, tries The comet's orgasm lights his face Anger fills his eyes It dies. No more rockets left. So he tries to sleep. He'll have to work tomorrow. To buy more. Up at 6, finish at 4. Night doesn't come, it's always night when you sleep in the day. But night is here. The fire still dribbles smoke and ash he has more rockets Frustration fills his eyes. They fail. Up at 6 again, to earn cash for more. Up at 6 leave at 4. Desperation fills his eyes. They fail. He returns the next night. He's worked again. Sweat covers his uniform. He strikes a match and lights a cigarette. Tears fill his eyes. Failure. He cries. His wailing louder than the rocket. He throws himself on the old fire. There aren't flames. No merciful release. No untimely death. Just darkness. And work. And failure. He strikes a match. Lights a cigarette. He's running out. He'll have to go to work tomorrow

A little writing inspired by the art of Beksinski

There’s a world, very alike the earth which we abuse, though further evolved in their greedy, selfish values. Kings, they declared themselves to be. And in mock majesty wore for crowns the skeletons of the dead. 10, it often took, to fit the shape of their titanic head. The putrid practice was made worse by the making itself. The deceased’s families fashioned the crown of corpses. The walking corpses sawing, gnawing and sticking the still. Tearless, though tortured as they were, no liquid was left to spare. Their dusty bones long too dry to produce emotion in the eye. And what, you ask was the family’s reward? None, that with you or I would strike a chord. Only a weak and sickening pride, that one of their own lay by the king’s side. The Kings, unaware of their greed’s gastric flaw, often consumed too much; swelled, and exploded, for their constant want of more. And when a king, through unchecked greed, blew sky high and left his chair; a walking corpse may happen by, glance up and see that it was bare. The ambitious grinned, for they now thought it was their time to take the throne, and in a hectic frenzy they scrabbled and clawed but fell back down as nails broke on the stone. But one with a brain, more useful than the rest, fashioned a ladder; from the bones of those who’d tried their best. When he reached the peak he lost his mind, which convinced himself that he was king. He looked at the weak and meagre bones below and began hysterically laughing. The first laugh heard from a skeleton for a thousand years or more. But this action, in an exhausted figure, was then the final straw. His broken body, weak and frail could truly take no more. He died, still laughing, fell from the throne and broke upon the floor. The end came fast for this doomed race of folk. The kings sucked the semen from every walking corpse; the soul, the life, the yoke. Then no more was left to them, nothing devoured except their time. To waste away, the punishment for their crime. Though not all went in this same way, some more desperate grew. One tried to eat the walking bones, choked and died bright blue. Another, like the other who turned himself bright blue; grew so desperate he devoured himself, though the outcome he well knew.

I want to be like Cheryl Cole!

On my way home i stepped in a pile of hair
Cut from the head of a poor girl
For a richer one to wear

Tell me if this is not a case of slaver and enslaved
When the wealthy can have instantly
What for years the poor have saved.

Blinded by camera flashes, celebrity culture
The guilty, vain don't see
They're the worst kind of vulture.

And so neglected, this discarded pile of hair
It would break the poor girl's heart
To see the rich one leave it there.

Pray what use?

Pray what use to me, the philosopher's stone?
That wretched thing which draws out pain
A life without love, all alone
The prolonging of which is not a gain

So i seek not knowledge of that sacred art
That wise men termed alchemy
I seek to sew this broken heart
To live again my History

A time machine would serve to stitch
The shredded rags of the now
Stained, ripped, torn, the state of which
Cast a constant frown upon my brow

Oh heartless time i offer to thee
My broken heart and heavy soul
If in return you could give to me
The days which once made me whole.

A story in 60 words or less.

The Text

It was twilight, when loneliness peaks. He was staring at the ceiling thinking of her when a text stabbed him back to reality. She was the only person to have this number! With eager anticipation he pressed the green button and read:

'Hello from orange mobile, you and someone special can get 2 cinema tickets for the price of one.'

oh to bring back last year

Oh, to bring back this time last year
such joy and bliss
Holding hands down Chmaps Elysses
young love in Paris

But all young love must turn old
and it gathers dust
The summers heat became winters cold
And froze our lust

And i walk in gloom under christmas lights
Now alone and grim
With a dull ache that grips and blights
every ageing limb

And though much time has now passed
As it ever will
My longing feelings do hold fast
For you haunt me still

You

You are my past, you are haunting my present and your absence fills my future.

You are Paris, Copenhagen, York, London, Stone henge, Stansted, Lincoln, Hastings, Ingleborough, Grately, Amesbury, Folkstone, Battle, Rye, Warrior Square and more.

You are J.D Salinger, stranded on moonfleet bay, only Puk for company, you are Treasure Island, Oscar Wilde, Vincent Van Gogh, Ensore, Gauguin and Cezanne. You are a futurist, you are shockingly new, the curse of the mona lisa is upon me now. You are German expressionism, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner. You are latin America, Tanzania and Tinga Tinga.

You are National Geographic, a Giraffe, Hedgehog, Jack Russell and a Mexican street dog hiding under a bed, teeth bared, curious children trying to caox it out. The tears i hold back as i wrote those lines.

The dirty, loud underground and all the rats within, who are more compassionate than the humans trapped in carriages, tearing through the dark. You are vegan, vegetarian, a hippie painting machine, a liar and a cheat.

You are forgiven. You are missed. The tears, whose siege on my fortitude was not in vain.

You are a tree in Warrior Square gardens, you are the laundrettes, room 410 and 305. The corridor in 305 and the crescent moon outside the window of 410.

You are the number nine, simply because when written down it looks like your name.

You are all of the things i've forgotten to mention. Your Guitar. You are seasons in the sun...or at least you were. My Tivoli duck. Let us hug in a red blanket under the Scandinavian sun.

You are my heart and your absence leaves my life without a beat or the rythm needed to progress with a swagger. So i stagger through these obstacles.
`
You are all of the above but you are nothing i have known before.

You are gone.

If only you were here i could be all of the above too.

What is left for me?

Life is a bed of hot coals.

Fire walking:

The 'secret' is simply a combination of 2 things.

1) Having a strong mind, it is mind over matter, you feel a slight pain but keep moving.

2) Move quickly, stop to think and it will start to hurt and you will sink into the coals.

If this isn't a metaphor for how to live everyday life then the term 'metaphor' should be discarded from the dictionary.

Indecisive

How confused the days now seem
they snap from hot to cold
Back again, the sun does beam
yet cannot take a hold.

On the edge of my front door
I have to stop to think
There i stand forever more
I'm always on the brink.

One small step would set me free
but first you must decide
Hot or cold, please let me be
and pick your favourite side.

If cold wins out then fine by me
I'll bear the winter bite
But make your choice rapidly
before day turns into night.

A last goodbye

What is clearly passion you label rage
and you say i seethe, but i cannot cage
this tempest in me which blows too strong
and so what choice is left, but to just move on?
To sail this ship to new blue seas
to grit my teeth and get off my knees
to enjoy the view with eager eyes
and trace the faces as time flies
for many new ones there are bound to be
to replace the old that mean the world to me.
and If we should meet when our faces are lined
and hours spare we manage to find
then sit with me and i'll keep you warm
in moonfleet bay throughout the storm,
and exchange tales of the last long years
with many 'what ifs' and regretful tears
for the tale of our lives should be told as one
but if you have to leave i must move on.

A detached reply.

Shun i do not, but i must now leave
You say tis love in you, but i see you seethe,
and tis the temper in you and not the tempest
which, regardless of self talk, you cant resist
and so it rises up and blows too strong
gets behind your sail and steers you wrong.
Your eyes do cloud, but the mist is red,
angry thoughts, on loving words unsaid,
have left you hot, whilst i stand here cold
but i may yet thaw as the year grows old
a stark contrast to the seasons at hand
Autumn and winter, making their deathly stand.
I could not ask you to sit and wait
yet i do beseech you, think of me when you think of fate.

The lover's plea

I beseech you, Shun me not!
For the love i harbour thee cannot be got
by trivial means or much self talk
and cannot be stoppered like champagne with cork.
For this tempest in me will overflow
and spill from my eyes if thou dost go
And so my eyes become the clouds, dense and grey
That cast a fog upon each day
which obscures my vision and steers me wrong
And the world seems big, a maddening throng.
With such small steps i cannot prevail
to escape this crowd and so i fail
to make small progress every day
and yearn to hear you say you'll stay.

She's the colour of amber tea.

She's the colour of amber tea
Though twice as sweet to me
The girl i hold dear
and always long to see.

She roams like Ulysses
owns the many seas
and makes me feel freer
than i ever dreamed to be.

Ants

In life we are like ants, born onto a grassy field of an enormous and some uncomprehensible magnitude. Within this field our goals and objectives that we strive to achieve are placed at random destinations. Some of us are born within easy walking distance of these goals and objectives (those who go to private schools), whilst the majority of us unfortunate ones have further to travel, along ardous routes. It is not, however, just our goals and objectives that are placed on the field, there are a greater number of obstacles and distractions in this field (which we term drugs, beer, fatty foods, entertainment) that we are often held back by.

As each ant slowly travels through this field, getting nowhere fast, they have to choose each blade of grass ever so carefully (choosing one blade of grass will open up different avenues to the one next to it and at the same time burn bridges to goals that the next blade would illuminate). This decision is often hard when we ants don't have a helicopter view of the field and our destinations and goals are not clearly visible. There is no magic line which leads us on our journey.

I desire to gain a greater understanding of what influences our choices when travelling from one blade of grass to another and how people are held back by or conquer the distractions along the way. To this end i one day dream of travelling the world and interviewing fellow ants with questions aimed at discovering these truths. Hopefully with my girlfriend nina! who can illustrate our journey.

Short story/fairy tale/myth, part 1

In ancient Greece there was once a man who Zeus, God of Gods, loved so much he wanted to do something to please him. Knowing as he did that some gifts go unappreciated he wanted to be sure of giving this man a gift that would be impossible to disregard. To be sure of doing this he called a meeting between all of the olympian gods to hear their suggestions on what to do. As always, the first to speak was the ever aggressive Ares;
'Make him unbeatable in war. He who is feared is also respected, and to be respected by all around you is the greatest thing. That's why we gods demand that humans pray to us.'

'Ridiculous!' Answered Aphrodite, 'it is better to be loved than respected, make a human too powerful and they will exploit that power. Make him beautiful, so that all who meet him love him.'

At this Hades began to laugh in a mocking a way, before speaking the following words; in a voice as parched as desert sand, yet clear and provoking, 'Love? Beauty? What mean these trivial things? What chance do they have to fight off age and death? Age lays siege to beauty as death slays love. Give the man the power to cheat death and avoid me, that is why men envy us gods.'

'Men really envy us gods because of that?' Asked Zeus, 'I think they do, yet only when they have eternal life would they realise its pain! Knowing we are here forever, floating through the universe come unbearable pain or unrivaled joy, knowing we will never die and therefore never truly live! That is no gift.'

Hestia, godess of hearth and home, thoughtfully suggested, 'It is where we live that defines us, if we surround ourselves by beauty in our homes we shall lead beautiful lives. It us that we live here, on Olympus that all humans are envious of.'

'You speak the truth Hestia, will you create a home for this man, here, on Olympus for me? Cybele, will you create for this man a perfect garden? With Grass of such green that takes away the breath, of shades never to be matched on the human world earth?'

'Yes, my Lord.' Answered Hestia and Cybele as one.

When all had left the meeting Hades crept back into the hall of Zeus, anger exposed on his face. 'You really intend to humiliate me thus? You intend to create a home, here on sacred Olympus for a human whilst i am banished and doomed to spent eternity the fiery underworld?'

'You have a duty to do dear Hades, and therefore must remain in the underworld.'

'Outrage! What do you know of duty? You spend your days vainly basking in the false glory that the mortals grant you.'

'ENOUGH' Bellowed Zeus in a voice that made the would make the earth tremble. 'Return to your dwelling place or i shall send you there!'






Next installment hopefully tomorrow, uni and work permitting.

Nostalgia

I have a memory bank.
But the more riches i acquire for it the more i become burdened with unhappiness and longing. My oldest, fondest memories become lost in an ever increasing heap and spending hours on end trying to sift through them i forget the present as i lose the past. I am alone in my memories, no one has the same memories as me because we all see things differently. We all go through these same emotions but we all go through them alone.

Upon finally grasping a memory of pleasant times i feel sorrow that the time is gone forever and realise that one day i'll miss this very moment looking back with rose tinted glasses. I'm already nostalgic for the past and present and so fear the future will disappoint.

It's these futile musings that hinder my productivity and emotional harmony. The memory bank should be kept empty if i ever want to truly live in the moment. But this means to truly enjoy the present i must, like Orpheus, never be able to look back on it when i'm running through life.

old, relentless reality

Oh, for the imagined immortality of a child!
Alive, oblivious, running wild!
And old, relentless reality can't keep up
With its icy dagger and its poisoned cup.

But all must stop to sit and think, to take a break
And on that day make no mistake
Old relentless reality will always be there
to chill their blood, and hold their stare!

Formless

Oh, you formless Frankensteins of now!
Creating, with little regard to how.
Your vile, mutated, twisted verse
carries structure within its hearse

Pretentious Prometheus playing with fire!
You doom your art to the funeral pyre
To be reborn, dada, a childlike form
For it's instant cool to break the norm...

Champs Elysees

In Champs Elysees sits a man
Who has just one leg
But in his head a master plan
to sit, quite still, and beg

Yet all he begs is bleak belief
that for the poor there's no relief,
The countless cars there honk a sigh
as they sit still and watch time fly

Skinny girls in shades of red
live the dream reality bled
The cheeky youths who clown around
the chubby folk their fortune found

All walk past without a glance
at the one legged begger who sits in France.