This is the Art
This is the Art
The woman, driven and lost in her own curiosity
Ascends the wooden staircase from the dim-lit crowd beneath
A dinner party at one in the morning; red velvet hues
This is the Art
He awaits her in cover of dark
In the room next door
So much hope
This is the Art
A young lady sits at the bar of the gathering beneath
She sits idly by, staring, furrowed brow, holes in the wall
Vibrating with such immeasurable anguish
This is the Art
The party pianist plays pleasurable musical prose
Bouncing off a beautiful audience lulled into a stupor – it proves fruitless
Yet he is still deeply mesmerized by his own fingertips
This is the Art
A boy kneels over in the bathroom, shielded by a stall door
He retches, his heart rate pulses and then plummets
Wondering amidst his panic: where can I come by a hit tonight?
This is the Art
An elderly woman passes by the building with its red hues glowing from the windows
Peers inside, but cannot bring herself to marvel over young ladies with long legs
For she was once a spritely thing
This is the Art
The fine lady sings the blues – so very well, such curves, so sensuous, so fine
And is watched by all of the tuxedo-wearing penguins scattered about the room
A shudder at the stand. She is the courtesan helplessly fondled.
This is the Art
An old man rests his legs at a stool by the bar, watches the sad one
He sees the crowd as a mindless blur, all the children of time blending into one
Seems to age hastily in the presence of their vacuity
This is the Art
A girl on the rooftop three floors up, spellbound by the sounds three floors down
Young and freckled, slender, flaxen-haired, satin smooth. She teeters off the rickety edge
She takes a step forward, spreads her angel wings, and flies away.
The Lost One
They say that if you blink three times in a mirror
Candles lit all around, of course
And say three times, “Rise, The Lost One, prithee”
That I shall rouse and rise above to claim thee; and it’s true.
Though I haven’t the foggiest about the blinking – nor the ‘prithee’!
The last time I claimed a soul
A woman walked merrily down an alleyway aisle after being consumed in scotch.
I thought to myself, “Well, that would be a waste, wouldn’t it?”
Popped out of the wall in a shadowy form, intangible
Cleaned her right off the sidewalk – not even a peep!
Children sometimes sing about me
And it’s not insulting; rather a little cruel and unkind of their elders.
Shouldn’t they think to say, “Let’s not teach the children of him, those frightful man-eating deities!”
I’m simply obligated to steal them now.
And who’s to say I’m even a man – I might well be a woman!
My lair, it’s grown a little overstocked
Too many different bodies to constitute a decent wallpaper or ornament
But I suppose it’s my fault, “I’ll take the tiny shack in the nether realms!”
Though I suppose I can’t complain, really
It’s rather difficult to bother about space – not when you’re incorporeal!
I’ve found it rather lonely though, you see.
Wherefore art the dating websites for ethereal spectral succubi?
What would my profile read – “Dainty baby-eating spectral witch seeks fit, sorted, similar.”
And I wonder, are there even any men left,
As I’m fairly sure we killed them all – they couldn’t do anything right!
Though I suppose I can’t complain about my life
Or rather, my un-life, however left of centre it may be
The goblins still pop out of the sewers to say hello on the occasion, “Go away, you evil bitch!”
I throw them the bones of my leftovers sometimes when I’m finished,
As I’m often finding myself a little overfed – and hobgoblins cannot live off rats and mice alone!
Still, I tell you, of all the pains in my un-life
The worst would be the ones still alive when I yank them through the spectral void.
So frightfully loud and agitated – “Please, let go of me; I’ll do anything!”
They flutter about in my arms, screaming rubbish about servitude.
You’ll sit quietly, silly girl – skinning is a fine craft.
I suppose it’s all I’m good for, really,
Skinning infants and donning witch-rags to steal the souls of the innocent.
You’ll have to excuse me for my actions – “My baby, where is my baby!?”
It’s a hard-knock life in the abyss, and a girl has to eat her share.
So goodbye for now, I’ll take the child – I’m sure you can make another!
Train-hoppers
Derelicts, drifters, vagrants, vagabonds.
They would know to call us names from the
clothes we wore.
Tearing at the seams from a journey never
ending
We have no home, no fixed address, or place
to rest our heads
But for the harsh stone spine on the coal
trains’ back
Flying low across the tundra.
It is not an ordinary life by any means -
‘Tis not for the young, the dainty babes,
Nor the unsullied.
Eventually you grow accustomed to the scent
Of smog: smoke so thick you could choke in
an instant
Should your skull loll in cloud forms’ way.
Once I had a friend who scaled the hills
with me
Those rusted ragged shapes and structures.
Her hair was blackened, though she swore blonde
roots.
Her cheeks lit up when twilight settled. I
watched her become fire.
The train we rode sang ricka-ticka-ricka-ticka-ricka-ticka
But she sat idly by in silence, staring holes
into the spirit of the universe.
We paved our way across the land
To destination unknown, fabricated by our
hand.
One thousand hundred million miles, it
seemed
She stayed in dreams, while I watched the
skies and surrounds.
Rucksack tight against my chest for warmth,
we flew
Leaving dashes on the world map.
Several times my friend bled -
But there can be no aid, so she let it seep.
Several times others came looking for us,
Ones with no intent to fly across the soil
as we were.
We hid between the carriages and beneath
crates and chests
Until they went away, and the train picked
up again.
My friend and I met many on our wild and
wondrous ride -
Other travelers amiss in civilisation but
awash with the need to journey.
Trading food and warmth,
Dirty-faced smiles and pleasant exchange.
Where have you come from? Where are you
going?
All aboard the locomotive. Our train into
the wild.
Then one day, when all was calm,
And the vehicle had come to rest before a
storm,
She bid me farewell – that blackened mug,
blackened hair.
Those cheeks lit up not for dusk, but for
me.
She took off into the night, a wisp,
unperturbed.
Our paths diverged.
My journey carried on across the continent
On the back of a roaring dragon of smoke
and steam.
Its wings flapped, screeching out into the
sky,
Rolled over hilltops, towns, and deserts –
through other peoples’ dreams.
We blazed trails upon trails and were never
bored.
Watched the land zip past in motion blur
while we stayed perfectly still.
One day, however, the rolling journey came
to an end.
The wheels stopped. I hauled up my
rucksack. I hurled it overboard.
Clapped my feet down onto the warm, dry
ground.
I picked up my things – and took off on
foot.
Journeying, for some, is a delicate venture
into wealth
But there is no venture quite like losing
everything by choice.
I boarded many more machines, and many
others with my spirit, my presence
Came to join me - other pilgrims on a journey
of discovery away from industry.
Rode the backs of roaring dragons o’er
lands untouched by man.
Derelicts, drifters, vagrants, vagabonds.
Worshippers of serendipitous circumstance.
Yet still as I pave my way across this
strange earth
Places so unfamiliar as to bother and shock
When the sun slowly begins to set, and
twilight takes hold – but for a moment
I remember my friend – her cheeks alight
with wonder, her hair and soul aflame
As another day did lose its way down the
side of Mother Earths’ mountain.
Sitting idly by in silence, staring holes
into the universe.
Such is our plight - these transient days.
Derelicts, drifters, vagrants, vagabonds
Homeless, hobos, miscreants, criminals
Pilgrims, journeyers, adventurers,
wanderers
Forever Train-hoppers.
-
Based on the photographic works of Mike Brodie.
Skin
Still I can feel them crawling in my skin,
Through veins and arteries freely to play,
In time the transformation shall begin.
In deepest sleep I saw them writhe in sin,
And none did rise to meet the light of day.
Still I can feel them crawling in my skin.
My blade did draw from me an awful din,
Set blade to flesh and run along to flay,
In time the transformation shall begin.
You tried to drag my form back to my kin
Fruitless to keep my evil spawn at bay;
Still I can feel them crawling in my skin.
Danced long into the night to rid my twin,
Yet still he tore and ripped in bloody spray
In time the transformation shall begin.
And now, my love, I loathe the fool I’ve been
My lips apart with darkness making way
Still I can feel them crawling in my skin,
In time the transformation shall begin.
Tour
de Inferno
Suicide is tricky.
I should know – I’ve attempted it several
times.
I’ve even managed to achieve it
successfully.
What? Boy, wipe that shocked look off of
your mug.
What do you think we’re doing here?
Yes, well, if you ever manage to get it
done right, you’ll no doubt wind up here.
In the belly of the beastie with the whores
and liars and queers.
It’s not a bad place – actually quite a
treat, almost romantic.
Well, between the torture and the fire and
time infinite (also known as boredom).
There’s also a rather fetching barbecue
night on Thursdays.
So tell me – was it a once-off experience
or did you fail miserably?
You can tell me. We’ve got time. All of
time and space, in fact.
It’s a tour de force through pain and
anguish
A long and winding sorrow – a terribly
insipid snare.
Oh, stop crying, child. There’s nothing you
can do now, is there?
There’s Hitler looking askance. He’s a gem
once you get past his fascination with eugenics.
Brit Murphy is in the corner with MJ
talking pharmaceuticals.
Most of The Beatles are in the other room,
playing for the big mans’ minions.
What? Didn’t you know that all celebrities are bound for here?
Well, I suppose not. Its not like anyone
really knows until they’ve kicked it, do they?
Speaking of kicking it, I’m still so curious – how did you kick the bucket?
Was it a self-performed car crash?
Drowning? Gas-in-the-car-show?
Or was it a plain old-fashioned slit-wrists
biz?
I can see you’re a bit calmer now. That’s
good. So which was it?
I’m quite fond of reminiscing, you see.
I’ve had years to be nostalgic.
Oh, hang on. We’ve got to sign you in.
Yes, well, there are a lot of us here, with
more coming.
I’ll need your name, date of birth, and your
still-beating heart from your living years.
No, dear, we don’t need a blood sample –
it’s long since coagulated.
You’d sooner die here than feel bliss.
You hear that? That’s the sound of another
poor sod getting a lashing.
The crack!
is the least of your worries. Indeed, it’s terribly contrived.
You should be frightened of what you can’t see.
The invisible deities. The silent shrouds.
The flecks of dust in light beams.
Well, now that that’s over, it’s best you
be on your way.
I’d start in the torture chamber and make
your way to the casino.
Oh, no, you don’t get to play. You get played for.
For whatever part they might be interested
in taking.
From looking at you, I have a hunch you’ll
wind up feeling a tad emasculated.
Anyway, I’ll be off. I’ve got to go get
spit roasted by the Manson family.
No, I mean, an actual spit-roast. Fire,
death, smog. Speared in the gullet. Charming.
Try not to get lost. It’s a very big place.
It’s a little bit like jail - if jail
consisted of ten-foot daemons from your most Lovecraftian nightmares.
Every terror you’ve ever envisioned, locked
in chains of a cavernous kind.
Oh, and – I know you’re confused. But trust
me, dear.
This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity –
you should be happy you’re here.
No tour-de-force,
rather a tour-de-inferno.
You’ve made your bed – now lie in it. Try
to lie with glee.
They prefer you smiling through your teeth.
War: A choice
This was not a choice
that I desired to make.
They argued with me
and told me no,
Grabbed and grappled
at my arms through teary eyes.
They screamed until
their voices were sore,
Blind from salt-water
drops of love dripping down onto the denim of my shirt.
I shrugged and sighed.
My tears met theirs,
and flowed together.
This was not a choice
I could have changed,
When I arrived to the
damned station to bid adieu to normal life
And when they screamed
and begged for me not to depart
My own heart tore
asunder into shards of glass
So that when I looked
into them, into my own forsaken eyes
I could not recognise
myself. I could not cry.
This was not a choice
I would have pursued, was it not the only one available.
Many boys would have
agreed, yet none could brave refusal.
Still we trekked and
slipped and sled
Until our feet were
sore, and packs we could not heave.
Then we heard a
rattling sound across the sky. A boom. The squawking of birds.
And knew the first
platoon were to come to an end. Too soon.
Now I carry my own
cleaved flesh across the dust
And wipe my own blood
from out of my eyes.
I hear my comrades
fall behind me with a deafening thud
And feel the burning
toll of the sun pound down upon my skull.
I trip, and stagger to
the dust, let out an awful scream of indignation.
I claw at the sand,
attempt to stand. Bloodstained yellow.
Soon it was only I who
remained in the barren wasteland of our pain
And I trekked evermore
across the land, below starry skies and God’s hand
Then I feel something
strange pluck at the strings of my courage
A rusted harp so close
to strings snapping apart.
I feel a weight
falling over me
Was this death? But
no… Lightness. Feathered. Floating. Free.
Now I float,
indiscernible from a stiff cold breeze,
Blow warm smog on the
window of home in wintertime.
And as cruel time
spins clocks ‘round that doomed date again
I descend, lay a hand
upon a fragile shoulder – I mend.
Then sometimes, when
desolate melancholy strikes, I rain upon the world.
Salt-water drops of
love, wrung from the denim of my shirt.
This was not a choice
that I desired to make.
Heterotopia
Heterotopia
The stillness in the room.
The ceasing of any ebb or flow, of any
liquid form of time or space or tempestuous desire, existing outside of the
confines of that one expanse in the realm.
An uncanny place that is “neither here nor
there”.
You stand up, unsure of your surroundings.
You are in a small and softly lit room, with light billowing in from a nearby
window, and you quiver at the strange and sullied notion that something is not right. You look down at
your wristwatch, the one that you carry around with you to tell the time and
inform the schedule which so ruthlessly dictates your days; the dainty little
thing, a circle of gold around the outside, leather on the strap; you hear a
ticking, and you see the watch move – but you do not know for whom it slowly
chimes. The wristwatch, it seems, ticks only for you. It ticks with a smile,
relaxes and stretches over the curves and contours of your wrists, and cuddles
the very skin of your flesh, beckoning you to unwind and take it all in.
You gather
yourself, and make your way over to the windowsill, covered by a curtain, one
with billows about as if affected by a light breeze. You feel light fall over
your face from behind the curtain, as soft and as velvety as the drapes
themselves. Small flecks of dust particles scatter about and dance playfully
within the beams of filtered light shining down upon you. You pull back the
curtain with a rustle – and are horrified to discover that outside of the
window there are bricks stacked high and mighty, and the light itself billowing
seamlessly like the velvet fabric of the curtain you so roughly pulled back, is
naught but an illusion cast upon you like a holographic dream. But you do not
fear being locked inside; for the bricked-up wall seems to smile at you, and
you know that it is stacked high, sealing you inside, locking you within your
strange and uncomfortable surroundings - only for you. For you and only you. It
seals you inside, remains sturdy and dependable, and keeps the warmth in,
beckoning you to stay strong and stand tall with fortitude.
You turn around
with a start, and look in front of you only to note a tall and mighty door
standing mere meters away, away from the bricked-up window with its daintily
wafting drapery. You take several uncertain steps towards the door, the
floorboards of your strange little room creaking in your wake, and when you
finally reach the mighty door, antiquated and battered, you attempt to pull it
open at the handle. It swings outward – and you are horrified to see that
behind it, stands another door, as tall and as mighty as the one you had just
yanked from its bearings. You realize, too, that the door you had previously
opened, the one with the rustic handle you held in your hands mere moments ago
– had disappeared. The door before you was indeed the same door you held in
your grasp. But you do not fear this elusive way, for the old door seems to
smile at you, and you know that it stands tall, a mighty way, a guardian – only
for you. For you and only you. It seals you inside, too, like the sturdy brick
wall, awaiting perhaps a word, or a phrase, or a moment in time, to swing open
and release you from your bizarre circumstance, beckoning you to make good use
of your time here.
Standing back,
and looking around you
You hear your
dainty little watch tick over and over again
And the delicate
drapery drift in the impossible draft
And the door
handle creak in suffocating anticipation
You realize
This place is
neither here nor there
This place is for
you
But ‘tis an
uncanny nightmare
