On Frailty

I lay down with a heavy heart, a pulse that beats like thunder; strong and inconsistent. I hold my fears, tight, for comfort. I grip my duvet and pillow in a vain mockery of holding, instead, a warm body. I resist day that dawns with falling rain as I try to wrest some sleep- some rest from this stalemate called 'love', where all is pain and tears and lack of trust. I become slow, conceited and spiteful, burning with an anxious sickness that is nothing new, and yet, something that one can never get used to. No matter how many times the pieces take their part: lining up, coming together, knocked down and falling away, every time the board is cleared and the game begins anew. A man with so many occupations can not always follow his heart. Though the water appears still, one should not think that it doesn't crash against the breaks.

A song of the forlorn

Baby, I'm all a-tremble...
A shaky, unsteady, leaf
and you're the gust
and you're the breeze:
You blow me down

An Aphorism

All is Matter
or Energy;
A matter of time
before the energy runs out...

An Epistle to D

I sit in the chair of my now absent friend and already a victim of nostalgia's cold distance, I recognise our farewell and awkward instance of anxiety felt as I knowingly, evidently, stall the inevitable with lost and rambling, feeble thoughts. As our eyes meet at the door, I flinch and look away. Coy, made shy and abashed by my love. I see in your eyes all the tiredness I had inflicted upon you over your short stay. Flush and handsomely haggard. I admire you, protesting against the self in not reaching my hand out to you; in an offer of consolidating our friendship; in my desire to embrace you; to kiss you, and I envy you your return- that you should leave this mad place with pleasant recollections of a past spree as you immerse yourself once more in regular, working, solidarity, as I return to the destitute scene with the mind of a criminal, and mourn alone your passing from this place; left bitter-sweet since you departed- where here I shall wait those many long hours become days, until you again entreat upon me.
   I consider the tasks ahead and everything I needs must do before me and it is all too much. Right now, when even just to summon the will to move becomes such a dauntingly momentous task, how think I to do? When every thing needs must be done by the selfless 'i', devastated since you are gone... How shall I even think to do?In league with me sits the cigarette you last, kindly, allowed me. Yet, filled with the most miserable woe, I dare not smoke; to see your effigy cremated.

The Nihilist

The Nihilist: Video Reading

Whilst the poem itself has been written up already, here is my first attempt at making a video. It's unedited and simple, but I can't think of what more could be wanted or needed.

An example of flash fiction

Some may disagree, but I really do feel that I'm a better man with drink inside me; it oils the system, lubricates the joints and the mind follows suit, though admittedly, sometimes, the tongue carries itself away on occasion. I woke up early, (something that never happens when I'm sober) and drunk today, disparaging life and debt and desirous of death. I have little left in me that's certain of anything any more.
To detract from that, I wrote this:

Humanity was at a stand-still, the day the news emerged. It had become the biggest thing since... Well, since Jesus, really; which was both a crude, much as it was a fair comment to make. People began vociferating that you couldn't trust the scientists. Can't trust science? Then what else was there? Faith? Easy pickings between the two, really, and especially in this case. What when one wrong meant the other right and both really came down to meaning the same thing. And besides, to oust science now as wrong would be to condone the backwards steps of alleviating any founded principle of it's truth. Start there and what are you left with? Non-existence, non-entity, nothing much but faith again. Yes, the world really was shook up- the day they dug up Adam's bones...

And verily shall
He quaketh;
He that should stumble upon
Great mysteries
Of the earth unbounded,
Of the eternal beyond, and
All between: All unknown
To return to light
The place men tread
As never a man had
Before.

Notes (from) on the author

After being awake and occupied for several hours now, the urge to 'breakfast' has only just begun to rile me with some severity. I boil a pan of milk and water, looking at the packet of flavoured, powdered, pasta that I intend to indulge in. The 'best before' date tells me that it ran out approximately four months ago, and as I tip the pack into the pan, I notice the debris looks discoloured. Black are the flakes that were once, supposedly, meant to represent broccoli and the scented cheese flakes look like ground sawdust. An emaciated pig, I was jokingly called once. Not prudent about eating 'off' food, and frail in figure as I am, I consider the juxtaposition to be an accurate portrayal. My stomach rumbles my muscles and the convulsion makes me feel sick. I retreat to my room for a while as the smell of food lingers and wafts, overriding the smell of my father that's since invaded my space after I accepted a couple of garments from him that have ever flitted upon my conscious, reminding me of him. Everything drifts in my mind: my plans, my goals, my desires. I must do this, I'll do this first, and then there's this. This and this and everything. I've been eating 'bad' food for months now- at least weeks- and it hasn't killed me yet.