Sunday, 22 January 2012

Plea of Loneliness

Drifting across the impersonal horizon of my life
Is my mind, body, disconnected from all.
Multitudes surround me, heightening my isolation and
The coldness that enshrouds me is too much, too much.
So how about you and I walk away, have a chat perhaps?
Ah well that’s okay, I’ll hurt on my own, and
Perhaps until someone else comes along, or perhaps…
When will I grow tired of waiting? Am I a glutton?
I indulge in punishing myself over empty bonds,
Artificially crafted in this head that controls my body.
Yet this same head blurs the lines between them and me.
I hope.
I pray that I wake up from this conscious coma and
Learn to appreciate those who kindly surround me.

Oh hello...

Having gotten over my writer's block (as if I'm good enough to even call it that trolololol) I have decided to resurrect this blog in which I hope to post literature written by yours truly. No doubt during the dormant period nobody so much as glanced at this blog but perhaps that will change? We shall see. That being said I do have to wonder, as I write this, why I am writing as if I have a large following. I may as well be giving a speech in an empty theatre or painting pretentious surrealist art in the middle of Primark Coventry. Nevertheless if you are reading this then welcome! Hopefully you enjoy what I write in these coming months (years? decades?), and please try to turn a blind eye to my previous posts, I am fully aware of the fact that they are crap. That being said I'm pretty sure that anything I do put up on here will be crap and sniggered at by anyone who stumbles upon this blog. Meh, like I said, we shall see...

Friday, 18 March 2011

First Bit of Prose...

Keeping Up Appearances

I really do hate it when people talk to me about their life story. It bores me to tears when someone feels the need to fill me in on the goings on in their local country club. I do not care that the Hadleys’ youngest child has left for college nor does it interest me that Mick Miller has a new twenty-something trophy that he flashes to anyone who will listen. The conversation this evening truly is dire, she is wittering on at me at this very moment. She is so caught up in her dull conversation that she does not even notice the glaze over my eyes or the vacuous nods to show that I am pretending to listen. Mrs Cumberledge is always one to gossip about nothing Helen had said the last time I was dragged into conversation with this dreadful woman. I am Helen’s boyfriend and so it is a must that she flaunts me to all of her friends and fellow members of this bourgeoisie. She is a quite a peculiar character, Helen. We have known each other since our time at The Marion Westwood School in Boston, where we were in the same tutor group. She played lacrosse whilst my time on the green was spent mostly running and playing as little football as possible. Helen and I didn’t actually start dating until seniors and this remains our alliance till this day. She is not beautiful. By no means is she ugly, oh God of course not, but she isn’t beautiful. Just ordinary…

She has just mentioned Helen, do I pretend look interested? No, just stare blankly. Hmm… that necklace looks cheap. My God, can you believe it? How many people in South Africa did it take to mine that? Zero I would bet as that is obviously gold plated, oh times must be desperately hard. Can you believe she spends her time going on and on about others’ monetary affairs and yet she fucking manages to wear cheap metal on her neck with pride. God she reeks of fraudulence. No doubt if I interrupt her now and ask her about that thing she will tell me that it is an old family heirloom. Hmm, I will ask her. Oh it is an old family heirloom, she says, yes I can tell, it is just so beautiful. God I hate people like her, back in freshman year I had a roommate like her. He came from quite a wealthy family, not that wealthy, but enough to bluff his way into the most exclusive fraternities. He had the most awful pair of shoes, scuffed and never polished. I think he did it intentionally to avert attention away from his father’s large donation to Harvard Law School. Obviously wanted to appear like any other John Smith but that was not the case when it came to the Porcellian. How he was allowed to join is beyond me, it makes me so angry. I wish I had ju– and here comes Helen. Hand on my shoulder, she will come to my left side and hold my, yes there she is, holding my hand. Probably will not have the decency to take me away from this conversation.

Well at least she has diverted the woman’s attention to herself. What time is it? Twenty two past eleven, good. We will be gone in an hour or so. That reminds me, I need to buy Clara something when I see her tomorrow. Just to keep her from whining about my not seeing her today. That woman is becoming a burden but she serves her purpose. For now at least, till I can find an alternative though this one will be difficult to get rid of. May even start talking to Helen and I cannot have that. The material that this woman with her fake gold would have would be enough to make me cry. Oh Miller is leaving, that girl is quite attractive, unlucky her. Perhaps I will be introduced to her next time. Oh good, Helen is apologising now, we are leaving. Just as well because I could not take that woman or any of these people any longer. Awful people.             

Wednesday, 16 March 2011

Browning, love... Don't read into it.

I Love You

Your flawless, floor length hair would make for a perfect noose,
Your eyes are the deepest blue, like a marina; you can drown in them.
That nose with its perfect tilt protrudes out and stabs my eye,
Whilst your lips are a perfect red, drenched with the blood of my neck
And acid spews when your lips part, dissolving my soul, but not my love.

How long will that neck be without my hands? Perhaps until I remove my lips.
You with those two breasts upon your chest, that I rest my head on
Whilst you lift up those long, weightless arms, dagger ready in hand.
You put my hands around your waist; I run them down those voluptuous hips.
But before I even get to your legs, you impale me with the stiletto I bought you.

Yet I will forever be enamoured with you and your body, though time
Will tell if this novelty wears off whilst it remains forever lifeless,
Though need I remind you that you have been so, long before my hands
Cut away at the life you live and keep you docile on my bed, whilst
I show you love that you neglected to show me, God will not say a word.

Tuesday, 15 March 2011

Love and summer, albeit a bit early.

Our Summer of Love

Your golden locks caress my chest as you and I frolic on the green,
Losing ourselves in this welcome wave of heat like a couple of fools.
As we continue to exchange moisture we do not notice the love in the air,
Two bees zig zag over our heads, caught up in their own minute world.
These star crossed lovers reach their destination, daffodils in full bloom,
Where they harvest the sweet nectar and conjugate with blissful abandon.

Yet like us they do not see that they aren’t the only ones, who are drunk,
Intoxicated by the beams of light that perpetuate during this time of year.
The daffodils, the tulips, the carnations all blossom from the ejected seed,
Spawned by their predecessors with the assistance of wind and wings.
Soon it will be their turn to disperse their offspring and watch them grow,
Thanking the sun for this glorious season in which they can flourish.

We need not lament our ignorance for this is something to marvel,
Knowing would simply make us lose the spontaneity of our ways.
For every time you and I play on the grass like teenage kids,
And the bees continue the serve their queen and their appetites,
And the flowers continue to perpetuate their circle of life,
We are all playing our part in this multi-coloured summer of love.

Yeah this is bad.

My First Poem... Recent Events In Japan...


We sat to watch the Grand National.
We bit our nails, we ate our meals, hushed
As the coverage panned out of our screens. Behind
The screen, a thousand miles away, the ground had
Rumbled and the white horses had begun their gallop.

We sat awed as the horses reached the finishing line.
The horses were no longer white; black with the stench of death
As wood and horse collided with startling speed, we thought
Not of the lost but of the scale of nature’s Pandora
That does not infringe on our hazardless lives.

So are we concerned or are we voyeurs?
We the desensitised to the Earth’s bitter seed,
That disperses with no warning, wrecking homes and lives,
Whilst we think not of the ocean’s murder but instead
Its mighty power, we the seekers disaster porn.