Scars of youth

It was everything all over again

The past as present, years had trickled by, but much as once was still is
Weathered and aged in form, yet essence un-dimmed
Scars of youth burning now as they did when cut
It is that battle we fight, again and again, it’s all we ever fight
Remembered but not learnt and so doomed

That hurt still hurting

Those eyes still smiling
What’s missing still left wanting
Journey’s taken but little distance covered
Hand reached out, ever reaching never touching

So creeps anger

On the fringes it sulks and seeps, creeps it covets
It can break
It can fuel
It is

If the past is a landscape, given relief by the follies and adventures of our past selves then anger is a harsh whipping wind

Flagellated but the moment never comes

Till the night

She drank.

A seductively curved wine glass raised close to her lips, it’s deep red contents gently rocking between the edges of the thin glass. The candle light throwing out chaotic dance steps of the light, keeping beat to a rhythm of its own; revealing colourful hints of ruby and black, in a myriad shades of red.

Raised, the glass is above her face, tilted back is her head with eyes closed. She waits in anticipation for the liquid to wash down her mouth, eager to quench a thirst. The elegance of her neck exposed, an unexpected consequence of her indulgence, with tender flesh and soft skin made easy target.

Curves more seductive than any glass, tantalising to healthy appetite, but hopeful she is: that one hand explores her tender stretches of skin, that kisses from a special one discover every nerve.

As she drinks, she wants; but speaks not. As she drinks she is watched, and wanted; but knows not.  

She would draw them in, but they remain just a sketch: form known but edges rough and indecisive. The precision she craves upon her, lost.

The night passed. Frustration remained.

Morning is greeted with a hazy memory of the tension of the night before, a clear filter applied by the bleaching sun and the day goes on.

A sobered mind regained control, till the night.

The Glorious Past

To the glorious past;
and the myth of half remembered yesterdays.
Where ground you can retread,
but whose prizes have long since gone.

To the glorious past;
where the dead still live.
We greet and not saying goodbye.
Opportunity has not yet passed,
and first impressions can still be made.

To the glorious past;
with blue skies and shining sun.
Of bodies tanned, toned and young.

To the glorious past;
and the moments before the plunge.
With the race not yet won.

Why would I not be in the glorious past?

To the glorious trap;
a labyrinth of chasing shadows.
Where grasping hands only ever clench smoke.
The shot but an echo and the powder gone.

To the glorious trap,
should never have looked back.
Went for comfort and ended lost.

To the glorious past, that glorious trap.

Heat

I hate the heat,
That gnawing, creeping thief.
Movement made a penitent act,
Where muscles moan and thoughts are fucked.
The soul is sapped, or so it seems.
I hate the heat that steals my sleep.

The night is nasty,
In this oven's embrace.
Flesh peeled free from where sin does seep.
Temptation a tease castrated by confines,
Of this damn heat that steals my sleep.

No sleep,
No dream,
Just the endless moonlit,
Boiling tomb.
Cursed by the heat, that steals my sleep.

Start

Broken hands that fumble with the pen,

Whose ink would flow from a broken mind.

Open, broken so such things could spill.

It's a danger,

Knowing too much.

Either you're knowledge to be silenced, or,

A knowing waiting to be set free.

The revolution hinges, not on capacity, but the willing to do. 

To use.

Revolution.

If only the eyes

If only the eyes,

Then you 'd miss the thumping chest, beating heart and straining lungs.

If only the eyes,

Then you'd miss the heavy beads of sweat rolling down the face, over chest, then to be lost forever.

If only the eyes,

Then you wouldn't hear the heavy, laboured breathing, spittling into the breeze.

If only the eyes,

Then your target has been met.

If only the eyes,

Had seen you staring back.

If only the eyes.

Fumbled?

It tumbles,

the leaf it slowly falls;

a graceful decent.

Slow swoosh and swing.

It tumbles,

as if the tree had fumbled.

Nature releases,

sometimes letting go.

From quiet extinction, to

violent armageddon.

Nature lets go,

for nature to grow.

Writing the Way, part one.

Countless words for countless times.

In stanza's long or simple lines.

With devices, tempo, scale and structure;

emotions are made and couplets rhyme.

With half a mind,

you'll have all your ears.

Yet it's not always enough to hear.

Words sung sweet can end in tears.

Style can beguile, with meaning lost.

In malevolent intent or careless construction,

we set sail on journeys of destruction.

Sin

Sin seeps, through time and choices.
Dripping it oozes,
Congealing on the turning points of life.

It's the little things, the white lies and half truths,
They drip, drip, drip through the pages of your reality.
Forming a turgid flood that awaits your falter.
A hideous punctuation as a paragraph ends.

It's the big things, the betrayal and deceit,
With their seismic shock that knocks you to the floor.
An eruption of destruction.
Sometimes the story ends.

Yet sin does not exist,
Guilt is not yours and blame can go away.
Your actions, at worst, just distractions,
From the things someone thought you should have done.

Through commission or omission you are you, what the hell did they expect?
Your actions just gave satisfactions to your person clear and true.

You'll disappoint and you'll offend those so called love ones.
Left in tears they chose their reality of you over yours.
Their sin?

In choices, decisions and actions we may have erred.
Mistakes are ten a penny.
We need no gods to tell us this.
Yet liberty is ours to squander,
and we pick those loved ones,
to share the pages of our reality.

Then sin we do, in our liberty and freedom.
Our Godliness is our power to create.
Possibilities and hope exist on the precipice of doom and destruction.
Our sin is to sink into one expecting to swim in the other.

The early morning

Early morning darkness,
in swirling misty grey.
Ideas are ghostly phantoms;
that have come out to play.

Not just there to scare,
though fear may grip your bones.
They'll tantalise and tease,
and haunt the very things
that play upon your soul.

You'll get itchy fingers,
a fidget plagues your skin.
Can't sit still and wont think straight.
In early morning darkness,
when everyone else does sleep.

A tingling knowledge of what should come,
it whispers to your mind.
Jump or leap, nudging you to the edge...
But cold take over and the morning  does arise.

Ghosts become echoes and memory fades away.

In the early morning,
when all is grey,
the possible may come to life.
An infant fire, easily extinguished by the waking mind,
may through primal embers carry a fire.
And in the waking day time,
things may burn again.

Write back

It’s not me staring at a blank screen but the blank screen staring at me, that most alarms me. There comes a time, though, when it doesn’t just stare but taunts and jibes me; and then it moves. The screen warps and weaves, pulses out and ripples back; slickly transitioning from convex to concave, a rippling wave of sinusoidal snigger.

Reality swings back and all goes cold. Silent.  A white void before me, an open expanse of temptation – the arena of dreams, thought and imagination. A universe inviting creation. Such promise, such possibility ill met with silence and inaction. Frustrated desire to let the forces of creation let rip, energy burning itself spent.

Soon night time has arrived and the void is not yet filled, nor dented, marked or encroached upon. Hours ticked by, frigid torment not laid in release.

Back in the dark

Bin away,
but not thrown away.
Recycled or just returned,
not rubbish anyway.
A denizen of the dark.
A heady swirl serves a savage welcome;
with vapourous cosh a welcoming smile.
Home returned the gloom greets.
A denizen of the dark.
So back in the fug,
senses stymied and output obscured.
It's the same old, same old.
For a denizen in the dark.
Back to tread to streets of grime, no shine;
Pen hits paper, thoughts unwind; but we're in the dark, this could be unkind.
Pace and rhyme just metrics in time, and we'll be on the run; we'll be victims and crime.
A denizen in the dark.

Idle time

Like a whore, whose legs are swayed by the jingle of a purse;

So a flag flaps funny in the wind.

No mind, no integrity its pimp like mast erect to its brazen flutter.

Choices we like to think that are made with the depth of integrity, the fulfilment of soul and being;

They are but prostituted, flapping in the wind.



Us many, we deluded mass.

We hope in fear, and fear our hope.

Freedom is a bestial prison of choices.

We dare to dream and damned in a nightmare.



Give us each day our daily poison,

Keep the mind and body feeble.

A tablet, pill or lie.

Tax in life and tax in death.



Ramble and roam with thoughts,

Fall down a rabbit hole.

Wherever that may lead.

We’re gone.

Good intentions

My good intentions lay crumpled and dirtied,
cast aside, scattered to the whims of wherever they fall.
They'll be discovered soon,
shamed memory will cosh my mind.
My good intentions on the floor,
my good intentions laying in the gusset of your knickers.
Your knickers laying stripped and forgotten,
with my good intentions,
on the dirty, dirty floor.

I stood proud with good intentions,
Yeah, we know what goes before a fall.
With those good intentions I would be home soon.
Guess I clung with vain hope to those good intentions.
I had good intentions, but I needed good deeds.

The first beer was not a mistake,
but after the fourth not to have a fifth would have been the mistake.
Or so it seemed.
Not sure a drunkards perception counts for much,
not as much as the credit limit on this card.

As her hips gyrated and the music thumped,
I ordered another drink.
Well I tried, the order was lost between the hoped for promises of her surgeon sculpted breasts.
I ordered women and wine,
my good intentions falling closer to the floor.

I never made it back to your door.
Got lost along the way.
Had good intentions,
they got crumpled and spoiled on the floor.

Hit by a car,
smashed, up-ended killed against the floor
Walking back, at that hour,
trying to salvage good intention.
Scraping what I could from the crumpled gusset of the knickers,
of some whore.

You never knew what kept me from your door,
what late night errand had me in that part of town.
Do you suspect of my sin?

Or,

Is all you hear a silent din.

Wolf

I'm running
You can hear, can't see
If you'd stop you'd smell
That is your own fear


Not stopping
Always hunting
Not in forest or wilderness
In your mind


All teeth and snarl
Claws sharp too
Etching in your mind
A primal fear


I'm strong and wild
Free and lose
You're caged and weak
Bound and restrained


I can smell the morning dew
Touch rays of sun in morning's reveille
Become alive with nature
Know who I am


How many shackles jangle when you wake
Do you yearn to forget the identity that waking reveals
Can you feel the golden glisten of nature
Do you know who you are


?


I am the wolf
Predator
Wild and free

Vice

We all have our vices,
 and we all pay our prices.
Treasure 'n' blood, or maybe just psychosis.

Million reasons not to,
just takes one to do.
Our honor and pride, we just let it slide.

Under the rug,
We fear a revealing tug.
Exposure is closure, yet it makes the vice more nicer.

Lurking in wait

Time falls,

and the deadline looms.

A banished barrage hails no boom, boom, boom.

Silence.

An eerie smile portends a knowing beast.

You've made your choice,

rolled the dice.

Coin tossed and cliche ticked.

It knows your fate.

Hidden.

Teasing and peering;

out of sight, is not out of mind.

Waiting, it's hoping.

The stumble, the tumble, your fumble to it's rumble of delight.

Embraced.

Your doom in an embrace of bloody delight,

shredded flesh stripped from a tormented soul.

Fucked.

Woken.

Petrified perspiration from a possible fate.

Head in a spin tying guts in a knot.

Decision awaits you.

And a beast lurks in waiting.

Past

What did you utter, into the night?

The same moans and groans as you do with me?

Did you promise your body; your soul; the earth and stars - and all that falls between?

Have his fingers walked, stalked and pressed the paths of your skin; those highways and byways, the roads mine now travel?

To your pleasing smile, was he led on?

Do you whisper in my ear like you whispered in his? Same words, same entice, same device.

It's me that touches you now, but who do you imagine is holding you tight?

Betrayed to a ghost of who I replaced.

So who could you lay with where the words would ring true?

You couldn't trust the time that we now share.

And heard only echoes when I spoke my heart.

Well could you trust hers?

Did she give you something that was lacking in me;

or, was she just a service so you could fuck me?

We all have a past; but not a virgin, not a whore.

I gave you all and it drove you mad.

Just whose at the wheel as you car crash your life?

Will she nurse you better, as your madness subsides, 'cause you wont find me there.

A whore!

You're a fool!

I gave you my heart.

You lied and deceived: stole to amuse.

Well what do you want, a girl with no past?

I wanted you; but you're smoke and mirrors.

He said you're no good.

So you've spoken to him, the proof of your lies.

Get a grip, a word's no fuck.

Well here's a fuck you, from my little friend.

You quoted Pacino!!! As you've shot me dead.

Now my throat's as tight like my trigger finger.

Well another fuck you, no crappy film quote, your lunch that I make: I've poisoned you dead!

Fallen Angel

Nothing to say,
nothing to see.
Heard only whispers, and
touched only dreams.

A deed to be done,
commissioned and flung.
For an itch needed scratching;
a rash not yet sprung.

Temptation is torment, and
release will reveal.
Tis a foolish fandango,
that speaks the sins of your soul.

Waiting, and waiting.
Fidget and think.
Fingers get creepy:
when they can't keep still.
Up and down; over - across;
the terrain of the table.
But that is no relief.

So plunge not yet taken.
Transgression tomorrow?
Will the light be the same as this dark electric hum.
Fear the rocky, rapid moment
that wrestles, rips and tears.
Taken, taken over, the edge.
To the abyss.
You'll fall down, be pulled down:
down deep, down quick.
No rest, nor release.
Just a broken, fallen angel.
An echo, like so many, that have fallen here before.
------------------

Where were you my brother?

Where were you my brother,
when our mother died?
Where were you my brother,
when the walls came tumbling down?
Where were you my brother,
when the rape and torture came?

You cursed and marched,
burnt flags and cheered,
at the foreigner far away.
Invoked kith and kin,
claimed all was one,
and told of how to fight.

Were once united
and marched 'cross sand, through heat:
a hazy dusty trial.
Yet united and myth created:
of a family arm in arm.

Now my brother,
our brother is at my door.
With evil eyes and blood stained hands:
he's hammering to get in.

Your lie was sold.
I believed as told,
that we were all as one.
When evil's done and at our door;
Your silence speaks so loud.
A foreigners help is blunt but needed.
And yet you would curse at him.

You my brother were not there.
Your lies are just like theirs.
No helping hand,
We fall not stand.
A family? No, we die alone.
So, where were you my brother?
------------------