A Collection of Poems #2: Second-Year University Edition.

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