fluid feelings found flooding the pockets of his parchment shell super soaking the contours of the cavities where his headaches thudding from the night before
the retrofitted facade of a man barely holding back the impassioned puddles forming on his brain the episodic attack insecurely trickles in droplets of consternating rain seeping out of his ears
he, the paper water pistol purpose built for living wondering if this is all there really is as his soggy sentimental self slumps unforgiving a pulpy mulch upon his mattress built to fulfil - to feel he has a purpose
yet, it all seems so… pointless limp and jointless a completely random animal instinctually protecting himself from anything that scares him vulnerable to sharp objects blunt objects projectiles objective objects of all styles infectious diseases and all trials one must face to be a complex creature of the human race
thoughts turn with a regrettable tinge to the flashbacks which make him cringe dismounting him from those worn tracks he tries to stay on a runaway mirroring his a departing youth the mirror always tells the truth when he stares it stares back
he digs his pupils in to the landscape of yellowed skin crows feet perched beside ashen bags trashed by another boozy night a sickly sight down the road from the bright lights and flashing signage of adolescence he can’t jazz it up he’s faded perceptions, jaded writing off his character the Bleeding Gums Murphy of evanescence
not good for his health or, his happiness he knows (them) as if they weren’t the same thing nosediving the quivering white (k)night who serves the king (of impulse) “Has't thee cometh to saveth mine own soul?” or, scratch that itch drawing his sword to get a whiff of the green pastures on the other side
“… and so, we celebrate the triumph of our hero…
Arise, Sir Knight the alarm is about to blare and you’ve been lying there feeling sorry for yourself for far too long this isn’t the chivalric romance you were after
and being somewhat of a crafter of poetry I will confess to thee it doesn’t get any easier to be a paper water pistol…”
he, the paper water pistol impaled by the spear of his alarm manages to disarm his combatant and peel his pulpy piece from where it’s drawn to (e)merge on the…
Mundane Monday morning crack of dawn behind the yawning and the night dreams are laid stillborn in the artificial light stirring from a broken sleep to an effervescently frothy top adorning the bitter coffee stirring the spoon in the cafetière purring like a waking kitten
he fills his mug half full “…another mundane Monday morning” thinks the fool who feels his mugs half empty
to percolate the silk thread he wishes to weave he adds a dash of milk and let’s it leave his lips, gratified he sips it slowly to taste the flavour of the day a spoonful away from ever truly being satisfied not on porridge and poetry, alone alas, it will have to suffice to sustain his flesh and bone and stand in as his vice
staggering through the week to the promised land staggering on weak will willed on his own command staggering on willing legs or, dragged by hand to drunken releases
the cycle ceases in amusing only increasing his self abusing tendencies getting lost among familiar brick in the loneliness of a crowded room just cold, steel-thoughts to cut the thick jungle of voices
he stares into their echo dancing on the inside of the amber bubbles he drains the vocals with a greedy gulp to calm his nerves and drown his troubles
steadfast at the bar he knows what he wants - another beer but, has never really known what he needs to be content whether sodden beneath the wetted whistle dampening the fires of desire first, to flatten the thirst of wanting some sort of “something, something” higher whether a purpose or, a punch up to make him feel alive in the here and now that’s the sort of sorts he’s sought in the rights, and lefts he’s caught just to feel something else something other
broken bottles reflecting shards of courage or, principle to stand his ground … stupidity some testosterone scented candle to illuminate the foregone vigil hormones of self destruction from which he used to function “drink up!” he presses on hoping to pass that point so he can disjunction
dowse that burning seduction to reckless and impulsive pursuits one can dive deeper into the intoxicating abyss the grassroots of this organised chaos; those flying fists fleeting fits of self-sabotage - they stem the barrage of normality
it’ll be a lie to say he didn’t miss it - enjoy it - the fighting maybe… maybe, that’s just his nature to find conflict, exciting
when he was born to feel life; with a frightening sobriety unfazed by the taser of authority yet, thrown off by the phases of the moon a swooping anxiety mourns the death of ignorance the misanthropic magpie to the amygdala a odd bedfellow who, pissing on all reason will let it mellow where he lays, restless
sights and sounds shiver through the veins of reality more real since the birth of his precept to percept its afterpains lingering, still
a wound which will never heal
why does he feel - so deeply?
is it imprinted in his genes or, a blueprint administrated by algorithmic machines
rolled on gears out the womb soft-witted built to hold these feelings pressed in the mould all parts, factory fitted packaged in pretty pink skin and shipped out
The old grammar school in the centre of town her bricks came tumbling down as felled trees
concrete rising rapidly from the rubble quick growing silver birches which burst the suburban bubble they nest new neighbours
outside the window their worry perches squeaking at dawn in some unknown avian song
“they don’t belong” said Mr Quo, to Mrs Quo, reciprocated
“first, this, then that. Soon, all we know - gone.”
… and still the sun shone through the room but, nobody noticed
the rosey hues around yesteryears anecdotists overwhelming any intervention
live - whilst you are! cried the April rain when she speckled the skies to remind us, again to appreciate the coming season
it’s nothing new - change happens it doesn’t need a reason
we don’t own a thing but, perhaps, our bodies - and even those, we borrow
do we truly even own our joy, and our sorrow?
Or, is it a fantasy we experience fleeting just chemical pathways in our brains meeting?
we leave as we came in judged in death not the pennies in our pocket or, the wrinkles on our skin
she, the earth best we charm her, not harm her
we, merely her sentinels and our bodies, our armour glistening in the sun as we gatekeep her bounty till we return to it
and maybe, just maybe we have a skeletal claim to build more than memories perhaps more than a name etched on some stone or, in hearts and minds
the war on mortality goes on
in this vanity - is there any wealth?
why do we battle to be remembered?
a deathless self
what does it tell us about ourselves - our wants, and needs
in building pyramids to our field of reeds?
the search for immortality goes on
we can conquer flesh in passion love, or lust regardless the one thing never to die I trust is our urge to bring an Alexandra to foreign soils
what is the essence of our existence the sum of all we are everything we have ever explored, felt and thought every emotion questioned, and answer, sought every moment passing before us - to us every moment passing before us - after us?
as buildings rise above us where we lie
in the timeline of the Earths existence am I - are we - good gatekeepers in humanities contingent subsistence?
A poem in free verse, with a reading from the author
I am the dreamless night without slumber without silence
shadows lumber a deafening hum fill the walls till it becomes numbing I, to it all but never numb enough to find stillness
a lively mind a blessing and an illness
tuned into the world beyond beyond the window pane -
creatures of the night buzz and swarm toward the bright lights and warm embraces
bushy tailed foxes dip in and out of sight whilst the tods snarl and fight vixens squeal to lure a mate
we animals with beating heart what sets us apart? us sapiens us sentients
we have a world beyond the vein which pumps and circulates
beyond the world of atoms
ideas percolate free of verse and unpredictable spreading knowledge circulates imbedding in pockets of peoples creating culture
in the world of essence before disappearing out of use to a world of evanescence
nose pressed against the window pane shatters letting in the wonderland Alice and all the Mad Hatters
a circus of characters trampling winding in the belly this winded pain that leaves one breathless restless
I am the restless mind that’s wanting
ever wanting wishing in a sea of worry fishing for some unseen promise
rocking the boat in calm waters anxieties keep me falling flailing drowning
washing up on the shore of reason soaked to the bone I take myself home muddled amongst beached words thrown overboard like an imperfect rhyme
it lingers the worry dropping in unannounced
the wanting wishing it could be hung up at the door like a soggy coat instead of dragged through the house dripping sodden trodden into every square inch of solid, saddening ground tarnishing
I am the tarnished tale imperfect scrawled loosely barely legible unrhymed
written in many different colours of ink often blue often dark that bleeds out when pressure is applied to leave it’s mark flawed scruff beyond the straight edge of the line the impressions remain rough and real
scribbled in the margin between black printer pressed type otherly
the books a bestseller “don’t believe the hype” writes the child in war torn Afghanistan
It’s an often confounding composition life for many barely fitting in in the confines of the page the cage - the boundary - the box which we find ourselves in from birth
a story with a plot a protagonist you
drafting out a manuscript - conventions which skew our personalities likes, wants and needs to fit into the systems that be - the creeds, factions, institutions that we accept, embody or in their grip succumb proliferating and often become
I am the narrative changing unfinished
no one child passes undiminished of their truest self configured continually by their cultures
still, here we are with all its wealth beneath the circling vultures
who pick the bones of the earth
but they do not have hands to brandish the knife which carves the oak of my resolve
or hold the weight of the hammer which judges ones heart and can absolve
dexterity to move the pencil toward where the flowers of creativity bloom
in the darkness of a dreamless night tracing the shadows of the room
filling space with our annotations
… until the end
bending the will of our poetic voice till the poems penned
I am the pen which writes I am the fingers which type I am the restless mind I am the dreamless night.
The challenge today, I which I particularly enjoyed, was to compose a poem without putting pen to paper – in this way, we explore the Oral Poem – now written, attached is an audio recording of the work in spoken word.
I decided to play on, and continue, the ‘oral’ theme in my poem, taking inspiration from the inspiration.
Resting softly on my side on the side of my non-bruised ribs I ponder where is my muse?
the irony is not lost on me searching the atmosphere at my fingertips
the taste of the room on my tongue
the smell of summer from the garden
a forever garden blossomed that circles the circumference of my imagination unending
the irony that there’s no obvious vessel who carries the seed of creation
rather airborne as wildflower birthed of a unfamiliar soil each cycle
where is my muse? deepening breaths inflate my lungs mind make me wince remind me of the body I abused the ribs I cracked the blood I spat from the contusion most recently reminds me of my mortality firms my feet to the ground heightens my senses awareness gratitude to wake living for life giving
my muse is my body at rest recovering with time to spare I work out my mental muscles with ink and paper gratitude for this yin
my muse is my body at play unthinking is my body in motion following a sensory trail of breadcrumbs to my gingerbread house salivating at simple joys and grand experiences with vision and adventure gratitude for this yang
and every now and then my body will hit a limit tumbling into the cage laid out by the witch within who plans to feast upon my bones
till foiled by my Gretel my creative falling petal freeing a seed a yin which grows tall blooms blissfully in the forever garden
and kicks the witch into her oven burns to ashes whilst I stuff my pockets full of jewels to live happily ever after
we grow up on fairytales - fantasy
grow old on reality - truth
actuality is; theres still room for fairytales beyond youth
youth beyond age
age beyond now
now beyond then
then, where is my muse?
and find within
there’s still room for fairytales beyond imagination
imagination beyond dreaming
dreaming beyond sleep
to dream with eyes open
every week every day every moment
beyond an open mind and open heart
to seek a muse which moves gracefully amongst the atmosphere in the room
I would like to drop a notable mention to Rob Kistner, whose style, free of commas and capitalisation, I have recently fell very fond of, and employed today.
I adore the way this extension of poetic licence sits on the page, and flows.
They say, imitation is the highest form of flattery – well, I suppose it’s fitting to extend my appreciation for this poets work, and style, in a dVerse prompt, which asks of the writer to summon their muses.
A large part of my quest here at this blog, is to expand and develop the breadth of my knowledge, and ability, and sharing this platform with so many talented poets and writers, is a real privilege and gift.
Thank you for reading.
What is life without community? I would love to connect with other nicecissists out there. Reach out, let me know what you think in the comments, and of course, give me a follow for more – nice!
A week flies by, Few words falling from fingers, Instead, They dance in the brain, Pirouette and sustain, Position, On the tips of their toes, They strike a pose,
Preforming for a crowd of one, In a dusty theatre, That sees no sun, But, bright and living, Feeling, Giving, Whether booked in a playhouse, Of purposeful prose, Or, aimless artistry,
Just creating, To create,
We create, Because we can, Fresh thoughts that expand, Across the stage, Youthful ballerinas, In black leotards, And pointe shoes,
They begin to gather, Where the shadows linger, Behind the curtain, The artists find their form, The arts, Take shape, Sculpted by gentle thumbs, That overcome, The riddle of clay, To display, The ballet, Dancers,
Chopping board chests, Flat and firm, dainty waists, Perfect form, Which bend toward the sun, Floral stalks, Lithe and graceful, Hold up dusty pink cheeks, That seeks, Heat and light, Heliotropic acolytes, Budding,
Gripped, To words that tug on the heartstrings, They don’t float away, But, leap in the mind, Their syllables flying through the air, Poetry in motion, Like a kite, Twirling, On the winds of creation, Swirling,
Twisting - It’s luculent libretto listing, My lexiphanicism, In its use, Irony not lost on me,
And loganamnosis; Those words which are lost, Wandering/Wondering, At the tip of the - tongue,
Dramatic inner dialogues, Orated; Authentic, Not synthetic voice, Adroit, not Android, And void, Of heart and soul, In beating of the audiences applause,
Smiling through gritted teeth, he nodded, before his boss, who plodded, on his fat little hooves, to his swizzle chair, “swizzle on this” thought Chris, who held out an imaginary middle finger, Only barely dared even in his mind,
Herman Parker General manger, on the door, cut in lettering, that chained him, fettering, beneath, no matter his belief, of worth, warranted, that his mother spent years to impart,
A smile, dialled in, as if truly from within, he writhed in pain, to sustain, the charade, in ill regard, he aimed his smile, and nodded, like a dog for treats,
Mr Parker, who’s eyes grew darker, sent a scolding, A tirade that flew low and bold, whilst holding an extended index finger, capriciously, dropping vicious words, through the air, lodging deep in Chris’ mind, perniciously,
In the schism, between nightfall and sunrise, Chris’ bruxism, wore him away, as he analysed, grinding down to the gums, his teeth, with stress and worry, as bakers flour, breaking down his happiness, in his only sacred hour,
The sun rose, but didn’t pry free of the clouds, the microwaves ping was flat, masticating on morsels of Herman Parker’s words, he sat, and ate his placid porridge, which had no flavour, or joy, a degustation of his station, in life,
The bus was late, so, so was he, he felt defenceless, an amputee, of his own bark and bite, the elevator was out of order, so he took the stairs, with every step, the hairs, stood higher on his neck,
He rounded the final stairwell, a place, which captured the trace, of a person, where cigarette smoke shook itself from clothes, sticky fingerprints layered the bannisters, and low light picked out particles of skin, falling through the dense atmosphere, as petty life forms, whom he imagined, pitied him,
He slipped behind the computer screen in silence, a quiet, which felt uncomfortable and heavy in his tummy, as if he had gorged on fried filth during a diet, “Chris, my office”, Herman’s voice, Blunted across the no mans land of desks, mangled spines and turned up ears, through the mud, he lumbered and lumped without choice,
Arriving at the lettering which reminded him of his place, head hung, emaciated and drawn, almost instantly, he was stung, by the poisoned thorn, which grew along, the length of Herman’s tongue, a razor sharp thicket, dense and inescapable,
“Chris, come in, and shut the door, don’t look up, stare at the floor, now, unbuckle, turn around, I SAID DON’T LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT THE GROUND!”
Or, something along those lines, it was all the same, to Chris’ ear, it was Chris’ fears, which held him back, laid him down to be walked on like a mat, whilst simultaneously standing up straight and smiling, as a simple child, and nodding, the good boy he was raised to be,
Herman’s fat fingers gripped the desk, as he rested on his weight, in front of it, petrol to Chris’ hate, pendulous jowls, let go the occasional speck of saliva, which landed indiscriminately, on Chris’ face, his heart began to race, with an incendiarism,
Chris bit down hard as he started to shake, the shards of spit, repeatedly hit him awake, he clenched, first, his teeth, his buttocks, then his fists, as yet another projectile barely missed,
Chris’ eyes began to tunnel, toward the lathering, of frothy white cannonballs, which had began to pool, at the corners of Herman’s mouth, one struck Chris on his lip, as his conscious began to dip, in and out, black smoke and twinklers choked the oxygen from the room, breathing toxins into the edges Herman’s rotund mandible,
An emancipating volt, put a halt, to Herman Parker’s sentence, as a sudden switch, was flicked on, in Chris’ brain, a penitence birthed of electrical flame, for all the years of stress and pain, which connected in a precipitous strike, lighting fast and precise,
The flash lit everything up, emanating grace, as Chris’ fist made a vivid slug in the centre of Herman’s face, widening eyes were flabbergasted, two rich rouge celebratory ribbons blasted, twirling in spectacle across Chris’ new aura, exotic dancers in red dresses lead a carnival of emotion, unequivocally beguiling, Chris nodded and walked out the room, smiling.
A trio of sparks, Manifesting differently, Creativity; Showing up previously, Daily - now every three.
A busy first week back in the U.K, whilst making my adjustments, poetry has taken a momentary backseat. The inevitable overflow of pent up creativity has spilled out into a rather long poem. I hope you liked it, and the somewhat off the cuff tanka to compliment!
In the dome, thoughts constellate in spaces dark and void of air, Neurons lighting up, as pixels in an infinite code, Programming which downloads a language unknown, and prone to glitches, An arcade of concepts consternate in phrases which won’t translate,
Neurons lighting up, as pixels in an infinite code, 8bit figments, which fragment and implode into black holes, Bred on bright flashes, dopamine rich colours, and catchy soundbites,
Programming which downloads a language unknown, and prone to glitches, Words attacking my brain do not compute - troubleshoot, reboot, Firing up, extraterrestrial pondering descends as space invaders,
An arcade of concepts consternate in phrases which won’t translate, Utilising tools, upgrading dictionary and thesaurus, A nebula of ionised words, nouns, adjectives and verbs, to explore...
She lay awake. Flickers of bright ideas in the dark hours; hot enough to melt the rest of her thoughts, as candle wax, out the ears. She was restlessly focused – vocally restless, she sat bolt upright with an uninvited gasp.
“Crucial to finding the way is this – there is no beginning or end!”
The words fell from her tongue, as gold bullion in her lap. Sheets lifting airborne, as ghostly whispers in the opaque room, frozen in the moons glare, as she slipped on tip toes to the cranky floorboards, which marked her arrival with a groan.
Unpinning her paper map, with all the continents of the world, she tore it in two, clinically, down the middle. Rearranging their order, she placed the two halves side by side.
“My word! There’s no East and West, and we aren’t the centre of the universe!”
The divisions which define us, are only as powerful as you let them become. We made them; harboured and grew them, becoming embedded in our culture and history. Identity defines us, but, it doesn’t have to.
There’s no geographical East or West, and, once we look passed the boundaries that we have created – once we invert the map, open our minds, and abandon our tribal mindset, we can see the only thing which divides us, is us. Theres two halves of the brain, which work in synchronicity, for the healthy function of the body.
So, after more than two years, the time has finally come – I’m going home.
Home being, to no home… well, not entirely true; to my parents home, actually – gratefully – but not really my home, not anymore, and it hasn’t been for some time.
That said, “home” will always be home.
But, what does home mean?
Sure, it’s where we live, however, when, where you live is transient, where is home – my home?
Is it where I was born – Los Angeles, far from my upbringing, in London’s periphery, or just that, where I was brought up?
Perhaps, it’s the walls in which laughter echoed, as a child; a sentimental space – a place, in memory.
Is it where a family resides?
Does home need to be familiar, or, is it as simple as where you lay your head?
Do you need to feel connected?
What if you lay your head on cardboard boxes, build a cardboard castle – sure you’re “homeless”, they may say, argument muted, but, there must be a moment those four walls become home, unless, home is defined by utilities – then, are you ever a washing machine or a toaster away from a proper home?
Maybe, it’s where mail gets sent? Imagine cosy dinners around a P.O. Box.
Aha! The age old saying; home is where the heart is. We’ve beat the game! Ba bum bum b…ut
…what if you’re an organ recipient and your heart has been sent to pathology..?
For five years, my partner and I have called many manner of places “home”. For longer, we’ve been separated from the family cell – in some aspects, not all, of course – having mutually shared our first home (an apartment) in the U.K, prior to starting our free footed journeys, beyond the bounds and bounty of imagination.
My old bedroom, in the family home – my parents home – is filled with boxes; boxes upon boxes, of “stuff”, which has utterly overrun it, piled high atop my bed, and everywhere else. The bed itself, floats as a cargo ship, transporting miscellaneous relics, keepsakes, crossing a sea of memories, they collide in waves of nostalgia, manifesting into an aura almost tangible, frozen in time, as icebergs bobbing, off the coast of my youth.
Bizarrely, surreally, despite my gleeful excitement to see my family, I can’t help harbour a feeling of displacement. My home, has become so far removed from any earth and brick, that I find in the parting of my van and I, I am lamenting fully its fast approaching drive into the sunset as a loss greater than its weight in steel, gain in virtual digits in a bank account, or, in the comfort of its shelter. I am mourning the farewell to the nomadic lifestyle it represents, at least for a time.
What am I going back to – really?
My home, is/has, and I suppose always will be, exactly where I am – where I’m meant to be. Except I’m not meant to be anywhere, am I? I was meant be in Canada right now, before the pandemic hit, so, turns out I was meant to travel Australia, a little longer. Are we honestly meant to be anywhere? I don’t think so. I don’t believe in fate. We just are. And I mean that.
Although, infinitely grateful to have a supportive family, who is able to accommodate for my partner and I – our lives, mine, and that of my parents, have moved on significantly from the parent/child conventions of yesteryear, as it does, and venturing back, will likely prove to be as much new territory, as it is old.
I feel somewhat like an invading army, overrunning the walls of their castle with our bags and ransacking voices, bellowing stories of conquest and expansion. I just hope the purity, in the heartache of our time apart, and the long awaited, imminent reunion, will mitigate any emboldened feelings of intrusion, prodded as spear tip in their sides.
In writing all this, I should probably acknowledge both parties, to the best of my knowledge, are indeed counting down the days with excitement. Writing for myself, I feel joyous and warm with expectation. Our planned stay is to be relatively brief, and transitionary, in its facilitation of our next step, yet, with the state of the world, its limiting options, you just never know how long “brief” is anymore. Through the rosy visions of sunbeam lambent toward the wildflowers, in the cling of open bottles of bubble and hop; there is a guilty distillation in my soul, in which I feel kneecapped of my independence. Kneecapped, with a double edged sword.
But, then again, hasn’t everyone forfeited in ways which make my turbulence seem borne of paper planes; fragile and crude?
I am burdened by the knowledge of my overwhelming privilege, to have spent this tumultuous time, in the sanctity of Australia, where I have been free to, if not wholly condoned in the scripture imposed by the higher powers that be, at least in practice; shake hands with strangers, scratch my nose without barriers, loiter in public without imposition, and tongue kiss traffic crossing buttons, at my discretion.
Australia has suffered in pockets, anyone who has lost a loved one can attest to that, but no where close to the degree of many of its closest neighbours in the East, or its political allies, in the West. It has, for all intents and purposes, at least in my experience, been a beacon of normality. I’m sure most will agree. Especially all the Hollywood stars, who have flocked here in droves. The U.K is the great unknown, where policy can change with socks.
I’m stepping out into the road before the crossing lights have gone green.
I’ll be riding a waves of emotion, back to the shores of white cliff – my family, my country, and my home.
I know, I know, it’s the question which keeps you up at night.
Oh, it’s not?
I wish you told me that earlier.
To those who have never experienced the van life, they may imagine a scraggly type, in boho genie pants, ornate with Thai motif, sharing spoonfuls of cold baked beans, between themselves and a windswept mutt, which shares its owners features. Now, whilst that may be true often, there is an alternate universe where a venturesome few reside.
A lot of backpackers kit their van out with a gas stove and refillable cylinder – portable, practical and relatively cheap – but in my opinion, messy, greasy and often smelly, when fitted in as a permanent fixture (especially at the head of your bed!).
However, those without the space for this set up, like myself, who opt for a smaller, more under-the-radar vehicle, might be left wondering of alternatives. 220g canister compatible portable butane cookers, let me tell you for nothing, suck! The canisters are expensive, short lasting, and foiled ingloriously by a light breeze.
If you’re lucky enough to tour the popular backpacker destination of Australia (fuck yea, Straya, cunt! – get used to it), then there is an alternative.
Two years in this larger than life country, and I’ve managed to get around… a bit – it’s big place, if you didn’t know.
The hot plate ‘barbecues’ are all over mainland Australia, and the quaint (and mighty) Tasmania. These barbecues, are provided free, and kept well maintained (often) in the majority of parks around the country.
It’s quite exceptional, actually.
I don’t think we’re trusted to have nice things in the U.K – that’s understandable.
After realising it’s just a glorified frying pan, I became quite experimental.
Far from just the humble burger, I managed to knock up Spag Bols, all manner of omelettes, crispy potato’s, sweet-sticky Chinese dishes, complete with fried rice, and so on – you name it, I tried it – often met by raised eyebrows from the locals, behind their sausage sizzle (sausage and a single slice of white bread, an Aussie staple).
Here’s an idea for all those interested, with more to come!
I use ‘sea to summit 360 furno’ camping burner for boiling. They are cheap to buy at around AUD$30, and as good as the pricey stuff. Gas canisters are $14-17. I love my gas burner, it’s perfect for a quick tea, rice, pasta, or, anything else!
Teriyaki Turkey Mince and Rice
• Turkey mince • Red onion • Red or green capsicum • Spring onion • Rice • Teriyaki Sauce • + Add peanuts for extra crunch
Super easy this one; just chop the capsicum and onion, and fry with a little oil. Whilst the veggies soften, start the rice – boiled or fried. Top time saving tip, get the microwaveable packet rice, for quick and simple fried riced. Add the Turkey mince to the veggies and break it down with the spatula, frying it off until cooked, keeping the rice separate from the other ingredients. Add the teriyaki sauce and heat through for a minute or so, making sure not to burn. Garnish with chopped spring onion and optional peanuts.
We build our castle in the sand, standing proud, upright and pristine, buckets of expectation, become the mould, shaped according to its vessel, its straight edges can’t defy the breeze,
the winds of change
Grains lifted, airborne, one here, one there, but it holds its form, threatened with nothing of substance, light basking it in a radiant sheen, vigorous incandescence, now time to live inside, to watch the waves,
the changing tide
It breathes evanescently, fluid salutations, never quite hello, never quite goodbye, transience lapping up the shore, grain by grain, the foundations of your castle, wash out the sea, till it tumbles back into the beach,
I sit, my women by my side, with legs dangling – as the moon in the sky – out the back doors of the van, facing out across the Bass Strait, to the mainland of Australia, from my coastal cradle in Tasmania, rocked by a chilling wind which tightens the air.
Numbing sea of dusk,
Black waves lap over the rocks –
Steal and shape their form.
The “Blood Supermoon”, flying through the sky – pumped and swollen – battles the darkness, in a fray which has spanned the ages, destined, ultimately, to be lost, in a distant flow – of what we call time – beyond mortal bounds.
May she bathe in blood –
Our moons hoary complexion,
Flushed in her frenzy.
We are here at the epoch of her supreme power, draped in the red of her own cape, or; perhaps refracted sunlight in Earths atmosphere – it is up for debate. A trail of Infinite energy, sourced from across the universe, scattered in starlight – a fallout of the tumultuous tussle of time, space and all the things which crash about in the cosmos, silent to earthly ears.
Twirling in the sky,
She dips into the umbra -
Flowers in her hair.
Tonight, she celebrates her victory, for the sky is lit, for all to wander in the would-be-darkness, and share in her spoils. The Flowers of May, still hold their scent, as she prepares her outfit for the Strawberry moon of June. Our hero’s job is never done – her schedule ever busy – as she prepares to Clark Kent her super powers, until their time of need.
A knock in three, I rise for thee, but, barely see,
through the cigarettes, which went down for breakfast,
two more worries at the door; I’ve been dreading this day, the Grandchildren come to play,
One more second of peace before…
Shrieking! uninvited joy, through the musty corridors, and into the high walled garden, the plants suffer, where attentions do not tread,
These little mites, bearing their cuddles and need for comfort, behind snot and dribble, unappealing as burnt toast, I spread myself thinly between, as to not come across too sweet, a sugarless spread, try marmite instead, on your unsophisticated palates,
Don’t call me Gramps, best call me Grumps,
Wee devils, who question my dishevelled manner, and everything else, infernal curiosity, which need be shelved, yet turn a blind eye, to the paintings which loom, as their heirlooms, in my doom,
In timely strokes, I poked away, dabbing and brushing, as aging hands sway,
Or, to my poems, which litter the table, where the ashtray climbs, as the highlands in winter, where I spent my youth, bonnie and in bloom,
the little tykes pounce on my lap, laddie, and the lassie too, spirited hair attempting to escape in all directions, in blonde tuffs, that grew, as kicked up lawn, and flap as dying canaries,
– I do mind if you mine my beard, not that you asked, but leave anything which you might find, for its mine, crumbs and other oddities, all things weird, drops of ash, a hidden rash, stash of cash, its mine –
Whilst the ashen mounds, are beaten from their crystal cut bounds, to float down again, as snow on rolling hillside, where I used to glide, on planks, in the Cairngorms flanks,
I thank you, for that momentary reminisce, a time of bliss, where my dear lady lives, behind the glass, of the café, I pushed scran down the pipe, As she’d unload rounds of banter, into my ready hide, tough as leather, But, already sore from the Scottish ice, we warmed our fingers, as we blether, around tea brewed black, in porcelain, not paper,
like it used to be served, when things were right,
there’s not a night, I don’t rest my hand, on your pillow, to a hollow, as in my heart, and trace the dents your body followed,
not a day goes by, I don’t wipe my eyes, of your presence,
aye, I miss you so, I wish you dinnae go, but, I also miss my brew, and that’s one thing I can change,
Duality; life and death, A new journey beckons me from the Duat, The strength to inhale each breath becomes onerous, The Kingdom of Osiris awaits,
Judgement awaits. Who dictates my life, But for my own heart,
Balanced against the feather of Ma’at, Judge away, For I am free of sin, Ready to address my assessors, A simple man, Who split papyrus to make bread, I tore in parts, My wealth, To be divided between my two surviving sons, All I ask, Is a fair decree, When Anubis stares me down, Formidable fur, Black, Rich as the soil of the Nile, Lit by his just perceptions, I trust, Ive lived as a good man, Yet, my fingers, Cleaned of my last reeds, Which residue determinedly lines its cracks, Carrying my labours into immortality, Or restlessness, Shake with the thought – My reflection in the jackal’s austere eyes, As he prepares my fate, Heart in hand.
The dark centres of her eyes call to me as sirens, across savage oceans of bubbling seafoam – green and brown heterochromatic whirlpools – that suck men under. I would be foolish, a foolish man, to think there was any salvation to be found inside, yet this voyage has thrashed any resilience I might have had. I lean in, take her lips between mine, knead them softly, delicately, with purpose, as if working clay, which would be presented to an Emperor. She was sculpted by higher beings. I work my fingers into her supple thighs, breaking her down, releasing her to me. My blood pumps hot inside me – inside her. A heat to make the waters rise and flood the land, crashing on the shores where fireflies dance, at night around the fire. All things which make men different from animals, washed out to sea.
When I wake up, she is gone. I am alone, again. This cursed island, echoes laughter in the buzzing of insects. Sandflies ravage my skin into a reddened map of islands, which offer me no bearing. The urge to tear flesh with my nails is consuming – as do minute residents, to my flesh. The carcass of my ship, still half buried in the beach, as whale bones, a rotting skeletal wreck, disappearing and resurfacing with the tidal forces, haunting me, the ghost of my ruin. I think of her – the lady of the island, who has made her home in the hours of my dark recess. She taunts and tortures me, with her wicked seductions, and promises of deliverance.
I cannot stretch my mind to find the cure, In as far, As I cannot stretch enough my muscles, I can’t even carry my own weight, Lest attempt the burden and trouble, That I drag on my heels, These sinews are strained, Uncooperative, stubborn, fickle, Beaten up and corrupted from years of abuse, For excess, or success, Battling hurdles in life’s race, Toppling cones of some description, Through the hazy morning smoke clouds, Too jaded to escape, Pale and sickly green, Flinching at the thought, Of trying to be normal, A pain beyond tears, That falls as locusts in the heart, A plague to purge any sense of self, That might have existed, To the ripples of Phoenix wings, Beating, but not beaten, Fire dances from the void, To see the door, Through fight and focus, Climbing out through the screen, To the rolling hills and mist, Beyond the limits of the past, Maybe, of the future… Certainly, of the future… one day, From ash piles, to snow capped summits, Where the air is clear and nourishing, The crackle of ice beneath surer feet, The numbing of fingers, which draws you to their existence, The ever present, ever quiet, Working away for your benefit, Crystalline kisses from the sky, Which melt away in spring, To celebrations, Of rushing rivers, Circular, Ashen skin, and back to ashes, On the wind, We drift on unobtainable vapours, Disappearing in the air, As breath, free from the lung, Grasping the moment, To snatch space with empty hands, Jumping for dreams, To land on legs which give way, Wounds below the surface, Muscle, tendon, bone, Throbbing thoughts process, Through the beating heart, Of the drummers tempo, Counting down time, Mere mortals cannot live in the clouds, The crack of thunder, The flash of reality, From mountain peaks, to peaking early, Let down by fibres of being, Being of fibres, torn and tender, Is my body a prison? – For that boy, Who cartwheeled atop joy and laughter, The cheek to think he could rebel against, That which catches us all; The fall.
I’ve decided to try something different and include a reading of ‘The Fall’.
I felt quite emotional reading this aloud, and that may present in my voice.
Once I had finished, my partner asked me if I was feeling sensitive, seeing my eyes glossed and watery.
I said, I’m fine, of course, the chlorine from the pool got in my eyes, since I had my morning swim without goggles.
An Ode to Wilfred Owenin the style of ‘Dulce et decorum est’
Knives carve off limbs, flesh torn, dangling, serrated, As skin mangled from claws on Christmas Turkey, In war cries, angry men’s lives are narrated, The line between liberation and invasion is ever murky, Boys with blood sullied hands grip hair on severed heads, Those that could have painted portraits, Coloured from a pallet of the slaughtered instead, Fed on fables; a prophesied paradise awaits,
We grow fat, in our ivory towers, Safe from the stranger that bubbles fat and skin, Like butter in a pan, from drone showers, In war, does anybody win? Greed dances between missiles of falling tears, Precision strikes in the heart of our society,
What have we learned in one hundred years? Wilfreds woes live on in propriety,
Eyes rattle and roll, jaws hang without screams, Bodies rot, go putrid in a stupefied sun, Pierced and hung, displayed with no head to dream, In ancient squares, where civilisation begun,
Babylon had fallen - long before Saddam in Firdos Square, Lines drawn on maps separate nations in the sand, To say we have not learnt one thing, would be unfair, We’ve learnt of it, how to better wash our hands, Politicians bleed lies through crooked lips, Contorted through years of kissing corrupt feet, The only thing which is true, is found in deaths cold grip, But, for distant sounds of innocence echoed on the ruined streets, Still, children’s lives are worth less than ammo, The old lie: which never dies, the same old story, May only foreign babies be born to know; Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.