The sun is shimmering
Through the clouds
And our judgement
As we swim in the sand
Bottles in hand
Drawn in the wind
Reminiscent of yesterday
And years since lost
No rain shall cloud this
Day is ours
For the strong in spirit
Shall rise and fall
With the ocean waves
’neath the shimmering summer sun
Turn our back to it all
It is what it is
We run where we run
A shadow swept past the window,
stirring eyes of dreary rest
to thudding bursts
of fresh passion and hope.
Turning to the open arch of light,
eyes adjust and explore, in search
of deep red, swirling in and out
Soft peace breathes gentle air
through the doorway
to penetrate the depths of his
Mind open, clear as gentle streams,
thoughts flow to dreams and notions
beyond his being, calling him again
to watch her figure in the half-light.
Like blood beneath her shoulders,
a river of soft fabric flows
through the fading sunbeams
to be consumed by earth’s grassy cloak.
Rippling with each sweeping movement,
hair flows over her shoulder,
caught by Sun’s peaceful call
to reflect his glow as he goes to rest.
Caught in the fading twilight,
she looks over her shoulder and smiles
to him just once, before extending
a graceful hand towards the doorway.
Frightened, he turns away, to drown
in his self-spoken inadequacies
as she watches silently.
Beyond the window, clouds note his cowardice,
and thunder obscenities into the heavens.
Hearing their taunts bicker with his doubts,
he looks to her for hope.
She is not there, not now.
Again he is alone with his regret.
Eyes of stale hope dull to dreary rest.
A shadow swept past the window.
This is unusual
Failing to fall
Four falls fall, foolishly
Fall means no winter
Four tones of silence
Warmer warns weakness
Weeks walking, watching
Please pause peace please
This is unusal
Four feigns to fall
Words will fall from basket case
And cookies from the frying pan
Await alas the empty space
Between the maggots and the man.
Fun fact: This poem is completely meaningless.
“I am a potplant”
The potplant said
With a smirk
And a quirky smile
“I can’t smile”
She thought with a start
“I am no sex”
It had not occurred.
But she was an ‘it’.
Feeling stones fall
In its heart
“I have no heart”
As the blood rushed
To its head
“I have no blood”
“Well how am I thinking?”
It was a pot.
The liquid thought finds form in breath
And speaks as tongues hence intertwine
To curse the day and stagnate death
And run your fingers up her spine
Where chaos forged and mountains rose
And tundras wept and magma surged
Beneath the ice, blood throbbing froze
Beneath the fire, thought was purged
Autumnal is a pretty word
But Autumn days fall far too fast
Protect the crop, farewell the bird
These summer nights can never last
Send the children off to bed
Time may paint my knuckles red
Trap a thought and let it flow into a stream of motion in the wind. And where the motion falls into the blue abyss of shallow breath and liquid time, embrace the cooling tumbling spring-light as the leaves dissolve to hope. And darkness falls into your mind. Depressants, this is how they strike. A piercing cut into your throat, and cough and wish that it were done. And wish the night were over, and wish the days had passed beyond. A dream, this is no dream, you will not wake, but fear may take her hold and struggle with your thoughts and shudder, shimmer, what is this, and wrestle, brawl, and feel the chaos, chaotic limbs and darkness strike. Eros. Et tu pathos. Find some pause and hold to hope.
Nothing will result. Accept the smoke, and taste the bitter salt.
Detach the fabric of the space
Between believing here what lays
And lay alone before the days
Turned into nights and we were slaves
To the emotionally depraved
Resenting all the thoughts we craved
And nowhere, nothing was the same
Tonight the icy worlds inflamed
Til there was chaos in the rain
Lest there be blood upon the frame
The fam’ly photo since deranged
A mother’s child hence estranged
And no one ever thought to say
Or even think themselves away
To question what defines their ways
And simmer softly into space
The hollow gap between your skull
And brain, is where the dreams
Are born, a subtle rush of steam
To fill the space and swallow
Thoughtless thoughts in form
And wait, he waits
You see the irony in that
As thunder roars, and she crawls back
And may select
A deeper shade of black
We imagine humanity to be immortal, it seems. In every story we tell and every image we build of the future, we strive to demonstrate the human knack for survival. Post-apocalyptic sagas ravage the industry, and people fill the theatres as they watch the heroes of mankind rebuilding history. But one has to wonder what happens if we don’t survive? What would happen if the Red Sea were to come crashing down on us? Would Moses lend a hand, or would he too be swept far off into the abyss?
“All I fear is nothing.”
These words were marked in spattered black paint across the old council walls. It would be difficult to determine when it was so adorned, or by which unfortunate soul. The CCTV cameras had all been shut down by that stage of the chaos, or shattered by rifles in the night. Shop fronts had been kicked in and ravaged up the main street, some doors swinging on their hinges and others in pieces like the shells of chickens who didn’t care. Spaces once marked by windows alternated with crack ridden bullet-resistant glass – an artwork almost – a memoir of a city gone mad.
Yet this city was one of the last to fall. Even when the capital broke into disarray, they remained strong. Even as former politicians rose as self appointed leaders – even as their forces were systematically crushed and scattered to the wind – even as anarchy travelled in her hordes to plunder and desolate the entire continent. Throughout all these tragedies, the residents forged together to protect their humble city from the darkness.
As the sun began to set at the passing of one particularly unremarkable day, an eight year old girl looked up into her mother’s eyes and asked when the birds were coming back. There was something in the comfort of their song. Her mother couldn’t give an answer, shoulders crumbling to dust as the she retreated inside. The little girl sighed and looked across the hills into the distance, sighting an oddly shaped tree. Twisted like a whirlwind, she imagined it forging to life, swift as the rushing of a thousand wings, to carry her into the sky. Night fell and she slumped into peaceful slumber.
It was a week later that the first men began to rebel. The Mayor had been binding the town together until that point, somehow remaining just and fair to his flock in the face of limited resources and mounting fears. Perhaps he could have held them together longer and brought them through the tribulation, if it weren’t for his pride.
“Absolute power corrupts absolutely,” they carved into his forehead before they hung him in the main street, where criminals had died in centuries past. It was designed as a warning to all with fantasies of power, but the deceased leader instead served as morbid inspiration for those seeking to take his place. In the days that followed, three rival parties were formed. The Deputy Mayor was the weakest of the leaders, barely able to command his force of police officers. When they revolted, it was his blood that painted the central park and tainted the duck pond.
The next was a small but well organised group identified as Panthers, a title proudly stolen from a local football team. Focussed on taking hostages and ‘eliminating’ threats, it was them who systematically erased the tens of other would-be leaders from the record. Whether through direct violence, cold blooded murder or the limbs of loved ones delivered in the night, their methods were unfeeling but effective, striking fear into the hearts of thousands.
Finally there was ‘The President’, a man who rose up in command of a large and frightened army, under a the hammer and sickle of a bastardised flag. It was him who believed in fighting violence with violence, and he who decreed “Either you’re with us, or you’re with them!” In those days, he commanded that the streets be littered with bodies and drenched in blood. In fear his armies obeyed, and those who would not enlist perished.
It was in those days that the council walls were marked, and in those days that the final traces of humanity were brought to their knees.
In the end a few hundred survivors remained in the city, hands bloodied and hearts burned to the core. The President smiled, eyes full of pride. Beneath him were those he deemed worthy to rebuild mankind. At this time an eight year old girl shuffled toward him. In her hands was a bird, its throat wet with blood.
“Did you do this?” he asked after a long pause.
She looked down and didn’t say a word.
*Note: Apologies for misspellings or if it feels chaotic at points. I threw this together at 2 in the morning for a class, and didn’t get a chance to edit it properly.
A rush of cold air bursts
Forth like a causeway
Torrents and tendrils of breath
Numb slivers of skin
Streaming through the vents
Bittersweet intermingled energy
Icy fingers take their place
Bandaging my legs
Gripping my feet
Clawing up my spine
My heart beats twice
Memory is a curious thing, easy to acquire but difficult to retain, like dignity. The act of remembering is a simple one – all it requires, on the whole, is an experience of an event. At this point your mind, or a mind, goes through some process. Perhaps comparable to taking a photo. Perhaps bottling a scent. Perhaps it is an angry letter to remind future you of what occurred, so your fury may endure.
At this point it becomes tricky. Like an apple in a jar beside an apple on the shelf, the mind conforms this memory into both short and long term states. The short-term is the freshest – crunchy and bursting with flavour. There you can experience every detail of what happened moments before with thrilling precision! This finds particular use in conversation, where one may ask what you were talking about moments prior. A good short term memory might respond “apples on a shelf”, while a bad short term memory may freeze, stutter and descend into weeping.
Warning: An apple on the shelf may rot if left unattended.
As for the apple in a jar, it will remain unchanged far longer! Years into the future, you may be reminded of what Sally said to Baxter’s dog that one time, and become reinvigorated with rage! Or you might smell a perfume and develop a renewed craving for passionate friendship.
However, the longer something survives, the less muchness it embodies. You may find your memories becoming shallow, empty or tainted. They may start to grow appendages they never had before. The taste of the apple pie may seem sweeter than the fallen fruit in the orchard grass.
Once your mind has taken these apples and placed them on their respective shelves, the art of creating memory is complete. Simple, really. Congratulate yourself on a job well done, perhaps with a cider or light snack.
Warning: Do not engage in memory related actions while under the influence of alcohol. You may find yourself knocking jars to the floor and crying over old fruit. When you awake you may wonder what you were doing in a room full of apples to begin with, and find it difficult to explain patches of bruised skin.
Message from vanderlyla:
"6 posts in and I am your fan sir"
I wasn’t originally going to post a reply (I don’t like to clog up people’s feeds) but I think I should pay tribute to the fact that this actually made my day.
I know it’s ‘just’ some new followers and a single fan message, but I was almost in tears to think that people (most of whom I’ve never met) liked something I wrote. So I don’t even care if I’m not meant to be excited about these things, I am!
With so much negative in the world, I figure you’ve got to celebrate the positives. So, thank you everyone for the encouragement. I hope not to let you down! :)