Monday 12 July 2010

coracle

This is no obscene selfless reason, nor off the radar, does it stop at off or carry on for metres. She is the same snappy sole! Some makeshift boat, with equality and kindliness. Visions of one's sole, slightly closing one's eye. One is pleased you are never far.

Sunday 24 January 2010

morning

Holding patiently, waiting endlessly, worrying horrendously. Encouraging a choice to be made. Becoming absurd. Absurdly upset. Depressed?! Lost and found? Drunken, tired, empty. Resolved. Solution seeking, idea conjuring. Sad songs. Angry songs. Sleep. Thought.

Saturday 23 January 2010

a wounded stag

it was snowing but there was little snow on the ground, it was only just beginning to settle. crouching and creeping along a leafless thorny hedgerow, into an opening, the sandy patchy ground turning slowly white. the snow was blurring vision and was slurring thoughts and a drunk feeling came until another hedgerow, ripped apart by savage winds. stalking slowly and quietly and footsteps making the most noise like creeks of doors in old houses or sliding of draws in warped furniture. snow down collars and in hair and in trees and in eyes, blood spot. another spot of blood, a small pool. the signs of a leg being dragged. a wounded stag.

Monday 18 January 2010

day time II

Standing still on a white surface, leaning on a white surface that is itself standing still. His once again doing nothing, but sweating, he is burning from the inside out. His fingers and gray and read and his arms ache and his hair is tired. He can blank everything out, his gray eyes can't see them as they walk past. He is either organizing his thoughts or he is ignoring them. You can see him searching for breath and something to prize apart with his mind.

His eyes are rapidly searching the floor. He is searching but he can't see, he can't make eye contact. He can't see.

Thursday 14 January 2010

day time


A particularly foul stench raced through his nostrils as he inhaled the air around him, the mixture of tobacco smoke and the dreary dull perfume of dust. Intoxicating. Depressing, as his fingers plunged ever more into the packet for the finest of crumbs, searching for what is left to consume. The remnants still cowering in the darkest corners of his mouth, he searched for them and cleaned them away. The aching pains in his body were nothing. A box threw light from the other side of the room, bouncing off every surface but never arriving in his eyes; closed to the moving pictures and the sounds escaping into the atmosphere without ever being heard. The solace of warm coffee, warming his hands and warming his mouth and the steam warming his nostrils as the vapor danced around wiping away the sad odors.

He picked the sleep from his eyes and moved the hair from his eyes, he blinked his eyes and opened his eyes as wide as they would go. He couldn’t see anything he wanted to look at again.

Sunday 3 January 2010

scratches in dust

i'm scratching my eyes so i can see through the dust, to the north of the wall around my head and my lust. one can't always pick which wires one should cut, so dance, dance, be happy and learn, learn to....