My Words, My World

First drafts – A few pages in the large wilderness of the world of writing

Archive for the category “words”

Rain, finally

The hiss of the constant rain,

at last.

The patter of raindrops

against the glass.

Windows, tiny windows of clear water

shatter as they hit the ground.

The air becomes water

and the water, air.

I stand, I breathe

and the skies open.

Water washes away the withered spring;

rivers on the road

rivulets on the window

and the trees raise their branches

and give their thanks to the rain.

Two till six

Watching the twos, threes and fours

of the morning clock.

The sixty second minutes, as they

count the hours off.

Sleep eludes me,

sleep deludes me.

Five is here,

in its cold, dark hour,

Five now passing into six

and still I sit,

unsleeping.

My insomnia wakes me,

my insomnia hates me.

Rise

I bleed, I breathe,

I sleep.

Sometimes.

I wake, I walk,

I see

the signs

I go, I stop,

I wait.

For what?

I feel, I fall,

I kneel

beneath the sky

I rise, I try

to stand

my shoulders back

my strength in hand.

Breathe and look and listen

At 4 am when the world’s at rest and the only ones awake are those that should be and those that don’t want to be. I step out onto the balcony, breathe in the deep pine scent which flows down from the mountain. In the clear air the black sheet of night is bejewelled by a thousand diamonds and the planets are visible without the need for technology (except for my glasses). I sit and breathe and look and then I listen to a distant owl, in my usual waking hour before the hooligan cries of the crows begin.

Lungs

I woke up the next morning,

mouthful of strong cigarettes and bad whisky.

My lungs felt like lead weights.

I coughed;

it sounded like Tom Waits, singing in the gutter,

so I knew there was hope.

Time

The sun rises

            I sit

It rolls over me

            I sit

It goes down and disappears

            I sit

in the sultry, inert air

that moves not leaf nor hair

like the breath of the dead

or the sigh of angels.

The moon follows sun

            I sit

The planets align

            I sit

The stars wheel overhead

            I sit

In the night’s darkest hour

when time slows down

to the separation of continents

or to the beat of broken wings.

Twisted long dark hours

Twisted long dark hours

suffocating

skin drip and turn, turn

over and back

the weight of air

shallow,

lung heavy

sleep evades me

as does the slightest night breeze

sheets adhere to me

as does the vaguest night dream;

now forgotten

the first birds call

in the sticky summer night heat

in the twisted long dark hours

suffocating.

Motorcycle

The road keeps rolling under two spinning wheels

and your eyes are peeled;

for anything and everything

and the heat of the engine burns your knees

as the cool air kisses your skin

and with the visor down you can see the bugs hit your face

while the wind plucks at your jacket with its airy fingers

as you change up and change down

and your ankle stiffens like a rusty bolt

and you sweat; you sweat

and the inside of your crash helmet smells like a wet dog

but it’s all OK because that’s a motorcycle;

that’s my motorcycle.

Pavement

I walk the pavement,
Why would I walk anywhere else,
when I can avoid the chewing gum,
the discarded face masks,
the cracks and the dogshit?

I breathe in the petrol,
the diesel,
the LPG,
and the hum of electric cars.

Two-stroke scooters battle big-engined cars
as they vie for the same space,
for their little piece of road.

Everyone’s going somewhere,
everyone’s got a destination,
home to their evening:
the nagging wife,
the bottle of wine,
the TV sound,
the steak dinner.

A thousand thoughts in a thousand cars,
a thousand distracted minds
all wanting to get where they’re going…
or maybe not.

A thousand different things to do,
but no one’s doing what I’m doing:
walking,
while avoiding the chewing gum,
the discarded face masks,
the cracks and the dogshit.

 

Cat

Cat walks freely,

independent,

Cat sees who he wants to see

and hides from those he doesn’t.

Cat takes a stroll through the garden;

not his, obviously.

Cat goes where he likes,

where and when and why.

Cat sees things in the dark

he sees things we can’t

Cat sees spirits of the departed

and he doesn’t let it worry him.

Cat could hunt;

but decides not to.

It’s in his nature

but not his character.

Cat snarls at the birds

twittering in the trees

why should he climb up,

when he’s found a place in the sun instead?

Cat decides he’s hungry

and moves from his sunny spot,

in through the catflap

and into the kitchen.

Cat looks at the empty bowl

and thinks he should have learned to hunt.

Two hours

A two hour lie-in or two hours wasted?

Head afuzz with insufficient sleep

At least that’s how it felt when I woke up

flicking on the little alarm clock light

with a dry mouth, warm pillow, cold nose

Who turned the heating off anyway?

A two hour lie-in on a dark winter’s morning

Not exactly an incentive to get up

A reading light under the covers,

A well-thumbed copy of Factotum in hand

Bukowski going from drink to drink, job to job, hole to hole

And me thinking it’s time to get up now anyway.

Broken Silence

Today I heard the beat of a swan’s wings

I’d never heard it before

It broke the silence of the smoke of a cigarette

It rippled the silence of a glass of wine

I followed the swan across the still of the lake

I followed its flight across the face of the winter sun

Today I heard the beat of a swan’s wings

and wished I could fly

Good morning

The subtle scream of a distant ambulance

the harsh cry of a crow

the hum of the elevator

and her soft breathing beside me.

The fingers of dawn yet to creep through the blinds

the alien glow of the alarm clock

the annoying too-early church bells

disturb the darkness of the room.

I get up.

Good morning.

A Wednesday stream of consciousness

An on-off night and a mosquito in my ear and I fumble in the dark and then it disappeared but now the night has gone for good for me as I lay there and think of what I have to do, what I probably should do and what I’d like to do and all the while a soundtrack is playing in my head and it’s Manfred Mann’s version of The Mighty Quinn which is not a bad song at 5.30 in the morning, although I’m yawning but now I really want to hear it but that means getting up and using technology and 5.30’s far too early for technology, after all, I’d only check the news and see big, fat Mike Pompeo bully another sick and twisted little country with sanctions, sanctions and, ah! stick your sanctions up your ass, fatty, so it’s no technology for me, like a smoker avoiding his first cigarette to let his lungs breathe, you see, and now I’d love a coffee now I’m up with the birds but I guess putting on the kettle is still technology but I could really use that coffee while my pencil scrawls my morning scribble across an unwritten page.

And I, alone

4am and the world is unmoving,

until I step outside.

The air is warm and still and

the terracotta tiles are cool beneath my feet

Quietude absolute.

A half-moon headlight casts my shadow

A scattering of stars against a black velvet backdrop

Mars; loud, red and angry

and the owls compete for who can hoot the loudest

and I, alone, breathe the morning

and I, alone, feel the morning

and I, alone, become the morning

and I, alone, am the morning.

Black and white

Black mountain against a grey marble sky

No technicolor sunrise this morning

I beat you to it

There are more than fifty shades of grey

in this sunrise.

This morning is Cagney and Sheridan in

Angels with Dirty Faces

This morning is Bogart and Bacall in

The Big Sleep

This morning is a noir dream

This morning is black and white.

Narrowing options

I woke up a shade after 7 with The Kinks’ “Apeman” swinging through my head, so who knew what type of butt-clenching merry-go-round of a day lay in store.

The night had left my brain feeling like pizza dough.  I sat on the closed toilet doing nothing, staring at nothing; that middle space where nothing exists, probably the same place cats stare at for hours on end, and contemplated the great debate of the hour: tea or coffee.  When I got to the kitchen the debate was decided, there was no tea.

A day of narrowing options lie ahead.

Closure

Christmas passed,
the year thins to an end
and I too seek closure;
of my eyes in the darkness
(well, temporarily at least).

My thoughts flash like festive lights in no order
and my mind considers things like political parties
and grey life under the Stasi,
of free-flowing intellectualism
and cold, uncaring capitalism.

I think of flights and holidays
and rhythmic train journeys
hurrying to their destinations
where destinies await the destined.

I think about the sun
and where the winter has gone
(It will be back to bite us on the ass,
no doubt).

I think about you and me
wind-blown from the sea.
Years end
but the waves do not.

Tools of the trade

The keyboard lies silent, like a long-closed factory, its worker-keys now unemployed, passing into disuse and irrelevance.

The pen lies on its side, like a dead soldier, a used-to-be who has taken an early pension, now laying in the sun.

The notebook lies closed, in a crypt-like embrace, its secrets hidden inside except; here there are no secrets, just untouched pages.

The once-writer lies on his side, a book in his hand, eyes skipping over the words someone else has written; and wonders.

The sea’s breath

Yesterday I felt the sea breathing
as I watched the wind-strewn waves;
some breaths shallow, others ocean deep.
I fell into their rhythm
and breathed in the salt spray
and breathed out my soul in return:
sea salt spray for my soul
or what part of it I leave here.

Today I heard the sea choking
it’s breath no longer a rhythm
but a slow death rattle.
I walked in to it, embraced it
but plastic caressed my fingers,
tightened and gripped my hand
and embraced me, as I wanted to embrace the sea.
I pulled, and the plastic relented
the more I pulled, the more it came
but still the sea couldn’t breathe.

Tomorrow the wind will still blow
and the salt will still tang the air
and the waves still sigh upon the shore
and where once the seagulls cried
the only sound will be the empty laughter
of the few that profited from the many
of those who took from the Earth
and spat back its destruction.

Yesterday I felt the sea breathing
and wondered how long it would last.

Silence

Staring at four bare walls

unavoidable, inescapable

No sound, just silence

Not even the mechanical sound

of time passing

as a welcome distraction

The silence isn’t deafening

but the thoughts are.

If they had colour

it would be grey

If they had sound

it would be a low, lost hum.

The drip, drip, drip of the leaking tap

The drip, drip, drip of the leaking tap,
tightened to the full yet still…
drip, drip, drip,
like some mad aquatic clock
or a water deity’s idea of a joke
and where does all this water go?

Does it race along the tubes and pipes
only to be unceremoniously
spat out
into some shitty sewage treatment works?

Or does it instead splash happily along
those tubes and pipes
and find itself jettisoned
into a little stream,
just a trickle at first
which is then joined by others,
left to the same fate
and together they form a river
which gets faster,
noisy, rushing water tumbling over stones worn smooth
and dancing over rocks and waterfalls
and down, always down until finally,
in the distance,
there’s the sunlight’s reflection on water
and the river’s pace gathers
and drives on
then, finally, pours into the sea
where the drip, drip, drip of the leaking tap
becomes waves upon the shore.

Winter night

A fingernail moon falls down the evening sky
and now the wind has dropped,
from a bluster to a breath
as the frigid night descends.

The trees, immobile in their submission,
silhouette against silhouette,
branches handing like the arms of the guilty
as the frost’s frozen fingers
freeze all they touch;
and even the church bells are subdued.

But lo!
A thousand firesides
lead like beacons in the night,
protesters’ torches in rebellion.

Cold is the winter night
but is vanquished by the hearth of home

Where do all the words go?

So you start writing and you continue, word by word, one after another: 5,000, 10,000, 20,000 and then…you turn your head away and BANG!, you hit the buffers, nowhere to go, no more forward momentum. You open up the story; it’s been two weeks damn it, not two years but when you look inside it’s like taking a straight razor and cutting yourself to see what comes out.  20,000+ words and there they sit, destined for the file marked ‘In progress’, along with half a dozen other 20K’s that came to the same end.  It’s like trying to build a Lego house but someone’s blocked up the holes in the bricks.

The penultimate day of the year and I sit, devoid of ideas and inspiration.

Am I destined for a life of flash fiction and off-the-cuff poetry?  Fuck.

 

 

Somewhere

Clock tick, ticking in the silence of the apartment
or
the apartments because there are nine in the block
and
I’m the only one awake at this time,
in
these hours where I should be elsewhere
and
not writing, or reading or dropping benzodiazepine for sleeping
and
my body aches for sleep
but
my mind tells my body to fuck off
and
get up, get going and do something
and
I’m on the sofa with a pen in one hand
and
a notebook in the other and a book by my side
and
the clock keeps ticking
and
to think that somewhere the sun is rising
and
somewhere else it’s setting on another day
as
the momentum of our forward roll takes us around
a
big ball of light and heat that keeps us here,
alive,
going nowhere except forward;
rolling, rolling
in space time, in real time,
(who’s got the time anyway?)
as
somewhere to the east of me the sun is coming up
and
somewhere to the west of me it’s going down
as
10,000 lives have just left
and
10,000 have just begun
and
we just keep on rolling. Somewhere.

Slow is the night

Night,
split into two:
broken lines
black and white
drawn and then fade
merge
and become grey,
like the dawn;
if it ever arrives.
 
My eyes are heavy
and my face is sliding
like some lost Dalí canvass;
long dripping clocks
leaking slow time:
sluggish minutes
and
creeping hours
in the long dragging night.

It’s the season

The sax-playing Santa
sat in the shade of the subway
blowing his way through Christmas classics
and then just some classics
with no mention of Christmas;
which is good.
I could listen to him all day
or even an hour
or even 10 minutes
but I can’t;
I’ve things to do
and people to see
and places to go
and even if I don’t
I have to be doing something,
buying something,
eating something,
drinking something
and I can’t stop,
we can’t stop
because it’s Christmas
and there won’t be another one until…
well, this time next year.

Government lies and secret files

Government lies and secret files
and prepare to wade through the bullshit
as it flows on down from above

There’s no responsibility in selling arms
to someone else
for them to kill someone else

and so the hands are clean
and the conscious is clear
Everyone’s friend is no one’s friend
and vice-versa
and around it goes

Sanction this and sanction that
and “they started it first”
and “my bomb’s bigger than your bomb”
as if they’re comparing their cocks
in the changing room

and there’s still room to change
but no one wants to
It’s all government lies and secret files
and the dirtiest clean hands
you’d never want to shake.

Petrodollars

Wake up shattered
with bad news splattered
across the headlines,
the world’s deadline
as its hopes lie in tatters

with the continuation
of the transformation
of the sea into plastic
and the forest into sand
and the animals into memory

while the dollars exchange hands
and get sent offshore;
tax nicely evaded.
No answers needed
when no questions are asked.

Who needs a fucking conscience
when the blood-soaked petrodollars
slip so easily
into slimy outstretched palms?

Photo courtesy of: http://creativesci-fi.wikia.com/wiki/File:Dead_earth.jpg

Sunday morning coffee

Early Sunday morning walk,
hungover.

Squinting in the morning light

Cappuccino with a double shot of coffee
and eyes that finally open

with the hoarse caw of the crow
and the hoarse voice of the barmaid
who must smoke a packet

or spend her life shouting
above the noise of the cutlery
being put in its place

as the coffee machine whirs
and the people sit
over their Sunday morning papers

as the cappuccino goes down
and the day opens up.

Post Navigation