Mourning Flowers 1. The flowers in bloom, painted like rainbows in June. Yet, you tear them down. 2. You cast them aside, like radioactive waste. And now: here you are. 3. They are reminders of all you’ve reaped and sown and lost. Mourn your life. Continue reading Haiku Friday: ‘Mourning Flowers’, a Haiku trilogy.
I’m let down, again. Every letdown compiling like a coded compunction, in synapses despoiled by repetition and disfunction. Swarmed and overloaded, categorised and goaded. Too many times to make sense of it all. Letdown, like so many times before. Who has any tears left to cry? And why bother to even try. Continue reading Let down. A poem.
Hulls of broken ships, scattered like white noise. The sea bed, as black as a charcoal cellar. It welcomes sailors to their ends, bloated corpses sleeping in hammocks of crusted ribs, drunk on briny, antique wine. Coral wreaths and sawdust mouths; barnacles, the new tattoo that marks the passage from man to martyr. Here among the starfish and crustacean shells, unworried by the weather, seabed tales in whale song punctuate their empty dreams. Continue reading Dead Men Deep. A poem.
She loves me, She loves me not. I suppose I’ll never know. She loves me, She loves me not. I have to let her go. She loves me not. And that’s how it always ends. Continue reading She Loves Me (Not). A poem.
Do you suffer from depression? If so, you’ll know the Black Dog. If not, click here or here before reading on. An Observation on Observation Every writer should be an observer. Every writer should watch the people around them, taking … Continue reading The Art of Observation, Character, Dialogue and Navel Gazing. An occasional post on writing.
Causal expectations and experience will say that I will just gain nothing from this long and tedious day. My movement winding down, corroded, insecure, scattered springs, nuts and bolts and thoughts abound, unsure. Who’s to say my automation is better than before? Let cogs and gears grind on and on as I cogitate some more. I was once wound so tightly that I thought I’d never slow, but now my springs are stretched and worn, so tired and overblown. Tick tock, cries the clock, round and round it goes, this clockwork man keeps winding down, all the way to zero. Continue reading Clockwork. A poem.
Her apple eyes look through me, Auspicious in ambiguity. To think, I thought she liked me. Extra ego in perpetuity. Continue reading Hate. An Acrostic Poem.
So, what exactly happened with the writing of my great Australian novel (and I use the term ‘great’ very loosely)? I don’t have writer’s block*. I know a lot of writers suffer from this, and I am always sympathetic (did … Continue reading The Great Australian Novel. A pondering.
Perish the thought, along with all the others. My mind is a blank canvas for me to paint anew; for me to spray all my hopes and blues. Continue reading Perish The Thought. A poem.
I glanced drunkenly into the near-empty bottle. In the viscous alcohol I saw my face, rippled and twisted like a garish Mr. Hyde. I laughed at the carnival mirror, so accurately reflecting every facet of my, oh, so petulant features. Every flaw and misconception brought to life in errant ripples at the bottom of a pit, too deep to reach. I cast the bottle aside and hailed for another, in the hopes that I (eventually) might see something far, far better. My first book of poetry, The All or the Nothing, is available now as an e-book from most online … Continue reading The Near-Empty Bottle. A poem.
Nights staring into gloom. A mirror to reason, reflecting all your fallibilities and failing sensibilities. All your new found confidence, blown away like mist, before winds of uncertainty. Your moon is waning tonight. You are a crescent shell, threatening to pitch headlong into the drifting, darkening tide. Best sleep, before you persuade yourself otherwise. As you slowly sink, the ever-present gloom drinks up your half empty cup, all your remaining light, and leaves you bathed in Nights. Continue reading Nights. A poem.
Shut me down, flip that switch. Turn out my lights and hear me Breathe my final maudlin death rattle. You have such a way with words, you kill me every time. Every. Time. Continue reading Flip That Switch. A poem.
The flame burns like phosphor, ignited and soaring by degrees: The passion, the anger (and the shame). The flame, super luminal intensity, burns me up, turns me ashen. (For how long will I shine before the all too brief spark burns low and fades? How long before the darkness encroaches again?) The flame wakes me from listlessness, brings me to back to life, again and again. Light me up, turn me on, and never fade away. Continue reading The Flame. A poem.
Acquiesce to the night’s probing fingers, an invitation given without betrayal. Shake and stutter in these jealous hills and vales. Writhe in a cave of dream-inspired torment, until dawn awakes the feeble sleeper and time restarts; a clock has no end. Continue reading Acquiesce. A poem.
Would that all these angry thoughts could energise me to action, rather than distraction. These angry thoughts, hiding fears and tears Everlasting. Continue reading Angry Thoughts. A poem.
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