Now, most beautiful

By the church where no-one prayed.
In the corner sat your angel.
Weeping dusty tears while the universe cracked.
This second of truth, in a century of lies.
That angels cried. That god was still alive.
Such grave confessions.
If we ripped open heaven.
It wouldn’t be sky anymore.
There wouldn’t be a dawn to tomorrow, to a day you prayed would end.
Only the maddening loop of the well packed past.
Your angel sits and frames a beauty as the sun sets.
And the moon once more floods the heart.
We’re just diamonds and tears in the moonlight.
Lapped by the evening tide.
So write you wish in the sacred book, between thin pages.
Keep your dreams and your wants quiet.
I will look away.
Hoping the secrets never include me.
Then pass the book to that little corner.
And let the earth break open once more.
As the ascent of man can only come again.
At the restoration, not the fall, of angels.
The filling of love in god’s teeth.
That cracked on the sweet destruction of the old you.

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Windout

Be prepared for anything.
Little truths and indiscretions.
The joy will dig real deep.
As years fall away into memory.
You look forward, into my dreams.
Ignore those interruptions of life.
The wind in your chest breathes now.
This is your new religion.

Shroud

Awaiting for the darkness to pass.
For a sting’s throb to relent.
Deep in this cave of uncertainty.
Where the buzz of doubt floods and overwhelms.
Yet there is a peek, a gentle stab at the white veiled sleep.
The sunshine finger of light that inquires into the bowels.
What beneath the shroud is alive or dead?
The smell of decay sits too absently now in the air.
You know what was buried there.
For you killed it with your departure.
Yet as the birds sing their larkening song.
That threatens a spring in winter.
So too the shroud is awakening.
Dropping its ghosts and mangled possessions.
To breathe and live once more.
And taste the April showers and life’s new blooms.

Peck

There, can you hear it?
A relentless tapping.
Incessant as the dark which captures the night.
It comes and never leaves. Beating out the marrow of my bones.
Do not shake your head in disbelief, it’s a nightmare for which I seek relief.
Hello, it’s me here the fluttering reminder.
You inside me, what is that sound?
It’s breaking my will and senses down.
I’m the little bird that was on your windowpane.
I came inside when you opened that vein.

And now you tap inside my skull all day?
I’m here yes, and happy to say;
better me than the moths and ghosts.
Who’d nibble at your heart like toast.
If I move to the light, will you follow?
I told you once, your head is not hollow; you know that I am here to stay.
For how long?
Well, I couldn’t say.
I hope my fluttering would lodge that organ.
Of pulsing grey and tangle webs.
Of thoughts and hopes inside this head.
Lodge them why, what do I need?
I am safe alone, without any need;
of impulses that force me out of comfort.
Or being lost, failed abandoned then hurt.
I tap and knock as an irritant reminder.
You’re wasting time here, like a static sidewinder.
An empty column of force and wind.
That’s fading fast, anorexically thinned.

(Sigh)
I know, you’re right, but what can I do?
I had my dreams, but away they flew.
I’ll tell you what, there is tomorrow.
I’ll start it all then, and dreams will follow.
Then I will carry on with my tapping.
To keep you from your easy napping.
I said tomorrow I’ll chase those dreams.
For now please cease these needless screams.
Of forcing me, when I’m feeling forced.
Very well my friend, you steer your course.
But If not today, then tell me then.
If not then why, and perhaps then when?

Turning blue

Why is my world painted red?
No home, no hope, no heart.
Cast on a raft headed to the end.
Your vermilion tongue spits these thoughts.
A fever and the fakery that expands.
Yet these lies break in my hands.
And the hope swims beneath.
Blue and enticing. Like the ocean in god’s eyes.
A Sweet expanse of blue.
And nothing like you.

Lifting

Vanishing points appeared on the ceiling.
Little holes in my veins.
These little deer that course through the bloodstream.
Looking for the forest from the trees.
You force me to close my eyes to a world so hung in regret.
Precarious, like a spun sugared spider web.
Catching daydreams and ideas of escape.
That lifting.
Yet submerged in a dream where the walls crumble like chalk.
A hallucinatory step into monumental design.
Copying my name into the book of the dead.
That book that I read, where fate can be altered.
And we can change the path of time.
Which now forever ticks in my head, as I swallow each new morning.
Choking on the aftertaste of yesterday.
Lifting into a dream.

Lay me down

To sleep, in a dream that never wakes.
Flying on stars and tears tonight.
Lay me down.
Into the air or the earth.
For that is where my soul seeks silence.
Covered for a hundred years, a thousand tears.
Rusted and weak.
Lay me down, to sleep.
And tell me stories of the future.
A harkening of new truths.
When this time has died into a yesterday.
I will wake, and drink the world in again.

DREAM

Though sleep masks the state.
A dreamless weight, covers me.
Clouds of possibilities blow in through the holes in my veins.
Delicious golden fires dance across each eyelid.
Who stole the sun each night, and welcomed a darkening miasma?
One that feels warm, like a hug in the snow.
Dreams comes.
I never sleep anymore, only dream.
Tales that betray the words I use at day, break of the old logic.
You call me tongue tied, twisted and turned like a rooted tree.
These dreams, take me.
Gliding over rooftops and memories I long ago thought I had drowned.
The danger is to dwell in these dug out magic grooves.
But nothing now pulls me back.
Nothing else saves me.
Dreams.
That’s where you will find my mind, as it switches off the light.

View from the top

These sights wash these eyes like concrete.
Nothing moves me.
There is an absence of surprise now in my bones.
The world unfolds before me, much the same as it did yesterday.
Ashes never change.
It’s such a shame that everything stays the same.
And all these prayers go unanswered.
The wasted youth of trying to figure it all out.
Coming up empty.
Pots of fool’s gold and the things unneeded.
Yet bought at such a price.
The devil counts the souls as the sun goes down.
These conversations I have now, should be with myself.
Ten years ago.
Instead of to God.
Who always only ever laughed.

Little book of hope

With all the darkness and fear in the world, it is very important never to give up hope. Remember the potato; it grows down deep in the soil, finding it’s way in the darkness to push and reach up to break the soil to find the light. Reaching up to god. Reaching up to survive.

A free book is available in order to help tip the scale to the brighter side of the world, when you feel covered in earth. Enjoy!

Hope

You only want the past to die

Cross this skin like rough terrain.
A bad road in every direction.
Cut deep with the scars of a warrior.
Battles won but never chosen.
You’ve earned those stripes that glimmer red in the sun.
After you’ve loved and left someone.
And danced with the lions.
Now they judge you if you choose to let go.
Escape the nest and break the bars.
Of a prison you took too long to leave.
For now the waiting‘s done.
And you choose to run.
Into a future you accept, with all its tests, wilfully.
Because it’s now your own.

Up on the ride

‘So, you will change today.
The lights you so frequently cover will begin to shine again.
The pathways you trapped so blindly will start their purpose, or disappear.
The drastic decisiveness that you must learn to inherit will make its first cautious journey.
Upwards, into your inverted perception circle. I would like to be your friend.
Life, a gift you so often squander is precious, as it has always been.
And faith, that I have hidden, still sits above your head.
So pull back the morphine curtains, go wash and purge those demons clean.
Today is the first day, as they have always been.
And today, dear you, you will begin to love yourself with joy.’


Guillemots:Up on the ride

Salt in the soul

What do you do, when cannot breathe inside?
As the voices pull and call you out to sea.
Caught on the tide of time.
The sun sweats out the salty dreams.
Moments of disconnection.
Burning and fizzing in the heat and spray.
On a day, far from over.
And though you try to ride the tide of change.
You only get battered, smashed against the rocky shores of truth.

Calcination of a dying angel

A flicker in a flame that sets the beat.
Ticking over the tock of a time unravelling.
This flame that scotches the hands that hither.
Trying to love and caress, only to be burnt.
Those feeding fingers that crisp.
The smell of burnt skin and hurt.
Yet a call from within threatens mountainous shifts.
That this life of fire will burn to ash.
And a darkness will follow.
One where we can move without ever being noticed.
For in the dark, we can truly see ourselves.
And I will once again think of running away.

Your pilgrimage

I love your silver dressed dreams.
Darlings, that call us all to look.
To peek and prod in an unforgiving time.
Hook your hate around my hand, thrown in the bag to drown.
Kittens, pebbles in your pocket.
You call this your pilgrimage.
A racing stumble through our great beyond.
But that was where I found you.
Heaped and tired, all covered in stars.
Can you walk the line?
Can you take some time to change?
Wrap this love around you heart, swallow and then re-arrange.
Your pilgrimage.
You deep mistake.
Your breaking through, my privilege.

Her own little joke

And all this talk of giving up.
All this talk of collapse.
Makes her soul spin and throw up.
Makes her mind relapse.
As she chuckles inward, quick at first.
Thinking back to how to how she fought.
Through the blood soaked perils, through the worst.
And all the things life taught.
She smiles now at their silly.
Their lives breaking down through phones.
How their summer sun turned chilly.
Now that ignorance is in their bones.
She wonders if they will ever feel.
How she did through the pain.
Through poverty, through lack of meals.
The constant bombs that fell like rain.
But she’s not bitter, she merely laughs through the windows.
She knows they’ll be just right.
They’ll fall on each other’s pretty pillows.
That they Photoshop every night.

Varying vacillation

So easy to dream, so easy to believe.
Smearing our shells with honey.
Chewing on tomorrow.
Staying warm by the light.
Setting little fires within that we promise to keep burning.
They smoke our flesh, making us delicious for the monsters of mortality.
Picking through our bones.
Choking on our hardened stones of hope.
It’s easy to try, it’s easy to survive.
A world designed to favour the ignorant.
The deckchair days of substantial existence.
Those fires burn us away to a husk of regret.
Washed upon the beach of the mind of god.
Though, the alternatives are sickening.
Giant cliffs in our soul to scale and ascend.
Bloodying our fingers on jagged toothy beasts.
Easier to lay on the sand, and be washed away with the desert tide.

A Quieting of souls

It was raining…
No, actually I don’t think it was. Stories always begin that way. The weather playing an integral part. The rain slashing at the windows, the eyes to the soul. From what I recall it was a nothing weather day. The ones that blend and blur into the stretching days of the week. Important by its unimportance, as time drips away in huge heaps. How many of those days have I been witness to? Sloshing back and forth in a maddening storm of banality.

There’s that weather again. I guess feelings are easily expressed through the elements.

His heart was like a rock. Nothing metrological about that only that his mind changed as much as the weather. A rock hewn from some mighty mountain full of pride and ego. It sat there, darkening the earth around it, blocking out the sun.

Bitterness does not belong in the tale, bitter people are weak, and after all I have endured weakness is not a trait within me.

No, I was not bitter by things. Embittering, but not in a nasty way. A useless endeavour besides, for the guard was up now and the rock grew stronger. Covering itself now in a gaudy shell of diamonds, harder than its innards. Tacky as rhinestones, but known to be genuine for its talk of money. I wish he held me that close. Kept snug in his pocket like a twenty pound note.

So that day, a Wednesday…it had to be really. A hump of a circumstance that found me at home. Pacing my bedroom and rearranging my clothes. Perhaps rearranging my life on some distant astral plain. Parting and subdividing atoms into a new river course. One to take me back to where it was brighter, lighter, and out of the woods. But there, in that existence I was to be found emptying draws. Kicking up dust and emptying the bins.

He let himself in. The key to my heart along with the apartment jingled in his pocket, next to his sweaty thigh. Calling out at the bottom of the stairs, I came to see him there. Framed in the hallway. Beckoning. His mind all talk of departure. Of spiriting himself away for a greater good that I had no right to be a part of. But his mouth did not utter these constant thoughts yet.

I would not descend. Calling out that I was busy upstairs and for him to come up. A grumble, a mumble of words strung together in irritation. Yet he came. Trouncing up the stairway like Melelaus into Troy.

The music from my world surrounded us, light strings of an orchestra hastening the end. I knew it then, with that look in his eye. The thousand ships of pain launched to plunder. Endings start at loves divergence. And though I sat and listened, my heart was collapsing. How much is justified? What is dredged up in departure? He touched me, needlessly. A patronising positioning of a hand on my knee. Asking me if I understood, asking me to have self-respect enough to let things be. It was then my soul grew still. Flanked on each side by a hurrying wind. Yet more weather. But it was the eye of the storm. A static electric hum encircled our souls, waiting for the collapse.

And it came. And they both remained silent. Mine, broken and shattered from an arrow to the chest.
His, laying crumpled at the foot of the stair. A twisted mess of bone and bruising. Seeping a love, that was no longer mine.

Of course, the day changed then. Going from the mundane to the maddening as I set ablaze to rival the burning of Troy. Maddening only for those caught up in the chaos. The firefighters and the old woman who lived in the apartment next to mine. The concern for the cat that always used to come and shit on my balcony, and who at times doused with water. I don’t know if it ever turned up, though everyone got out fine. As the smoke filled the sky above me, new clouds threatened to keep me under a strange world.

Fugitive is a rather ugly word. It implies something has been done wrong against a system which is good. What did I flee really, a broken heart. A life smashed into a thousand pieces after years of toil and care.

No, I would not say I am criminal; though my mind may have easily slipped into narcissistic notions of self-survival. But just that instead, a survivor. In the dark and in the quiet, while all around me life creaks to an unknown day; I hear the tiny clink of my soul, slowly coming back to life. Tiptoeing carefully back into the orchestra pit, hoping to make beautiful music once more.

And obviously, now it is sunny. The rains never trouble me.

Indignities of war

Now the music sounds better without you.
The sound of rust and avoidance.
A pin of change, held in thy hand.
Explosions in their eyes, are merely the dying stars of hope.
As they drop bombs on everything you see.
All that once glittered was sold.
Packaged and peeled like your skin on the cross.
And we taste the regret each day.
And we forget each pain and stay,
locked in world of static.
Explaining each miracle away.
It once felt like home.
Until the sands rose and the waters melted.
And we looked once more in the back of our skulls.
Picking away at you on the roof of our mouths.
The tourniquets we place over the lands tear.
The crumble and crack of reason.
The pain is the only thing we’re happy to hear.
As we martyr those who walk your walk.
And silence those, with that familiar talk.
Of love.