Tuesday, 19 August 2014

Vessels on Vessels

Near-endless rows of red chairs. What secrets are absorbed in their thick fabric, along with so much sweat and dead hair? We are merely two of millions. What care has the carriage for us? Our relationship is fleeting, yet without it we might not survive. What care has the carriage for our woes? Vessels carrying vessels, it is a cycle we are unable to break, for now. Are we desirable? What if we cease tomorrow? I may try. I will do no such thing.

This track is our rock. Less exertion on the muscles, but comparable views. A darn sight more chimneys, perhaps. But hard to begrudge others of heat.

Again, with the long deep dark in place of the ground. Rows upon rows of... inanimate beasts. Not monsters. Not now. We are joined by more vessels. Countless. Just so much sweat and dead hair.

Green. Green. Brown. Green. Green. Green. There is an undeniable beauty in nature, yet I cannot describe it now. Passing through. There is no time to lose? A task for the wicked, not the pure of heart. On the contrary, time can only be lost. We must not win.

Wednesday, 6 February 2013

Sand

These walls, they stand
All by hand and by sweat
Guard, my forgotten land
To them is owed a debt

Brave now all, for quiet
Labour's cost will tell
Bruis├ęd brow, beyond duty
These lips they shall not sell

Vigilance, it now approaching
Mother's lonely night
These ramparts still enduring
To my failing sight

Crack, aheard from far
Tis a rumour to be feared
Make grasp and to tremble
For this world to disappear

As the eye, o' wandering vagrant
With joy I do recall
What pride must accomplish
For the mighty great to fall

And lo, now come the Heavens
So sudden, yet expected
At once horrified and
Relieved; elated and dejected

Thursday, 14 October 2010

Two Believe (draft/unfinished)

Can you believe it?

Always, you know that. Consternation isn't nearly as effective as acceptance.

One day it'll blind you, and I'll be here.

Oh, I wish you wouldn't. Can't we get along for once?

Then refrain from baiting me. You know I can't help it. I'm not the cat, I can learn.

Can you? On what is this assertion based?

Well, it's based on my conviction. Do I need anything else?

You might not, but I certainly do. Isn't that important to you?

Of course! But I've got to come first. Who will benefit if I don't? I won't, and how will you know different anyway?

Your words may not be clear, but your conviction is. I'm sorry for pushing you. I should know by now that the cause is floundering, if not entirely lost.

Thank you, really. Is that the first apology you've given me? I can't recall a time...

Oh no! I am always and forever apologising. My tongue wags from the continual strain. But I do not blame you; someone has to wear my shoes. I'm happy to take the pain.

Again with your shoes, why don't you see someone about them? It might keep your tongue in your head long enough for you to speak sense the next time it comes out. I never understand you.

Who would I see? Who could I see? Impossible. My shoes and my tongue are perfect. You'd have me gag! No conception of reality, that's your problem. That's why I can't get through to you.

The cheek! The drama! Who am I to you? Not your equal. How could I be? I'd have to believe it to be your equal. Ah, it's not fair.

We are different. That's why we work. Please don't make this personal. Can you imagine how boring - how utterly depressing - it would be if we were the same?

I suppose you're right - I didn't learn - you always are. Does that make me a liar or a fool? I just wish...

Finish your sentences, man! Good God…

Wednesday, 11 August 2010

... and the Students Dance

The librarian has absolute licence to kill.
"Jump up and shoot me at any time!" exclaimed the shaky lecturer with the nervous walk. Shakespeare did not write about himself, at least during his lifetime.
Perhaps he died from sheer pressure, the weight of literature - present and future - on his soul. An academic, this waverer is; yet he speaks as if one struck dumb.
We listen, though. We do. A tide of whispers may rise and fall in regular turns; but we are respectful, it is the least that we can be.
Remember who we are.

Thursday, 29 July 2010

Ever Nothing

I am alive! Now that I know I feel so free. Yes, yes, "the nature of freedom" and all that... but let's not spoil things just yet. Allow me my moment of joy, won't you?

I realise that I am perhaps speaking to no one, but no one is sometimes the best one to speak to, no? You can never respond, thus you can never inform me (honestly or not, thankfully) that I am wrong, or severely misled. Hallelujah.

Would you betray me? Ah, but you cannot betray me; the best friend one can have! Though... you cannot feel for me; my joy is sinking in. Quiet jubilation, my cross was very thin.

I should return to my freedom, or rather my sense of freedom - for nothing is really free - but that is precisely my point, don't you see? You must see. That I feel free is far more relevant to me, and you, than any argument that I am not free. Who is to say? What evidence is there? What evidence can there be? Can evidence be? Perception is king. Here it is, I am it. I do it, and I cannot stop. Perception is.

If I stop perceiving when I die does that make it any less real? What if I die? What is real when reality is irrelevant? Who are you? No one. Just the same as me.

Friday, 16 April 2010

Nothing, Lost and Never New

In the morning light I saw
The prints of your feet
And fear was with me then
I dreamed that you'd
Been carried away
By madness or bad men

As the day grew longer
My fear did too
I couldn't see
What was in front of me
Only what was
Far and long gone

Grasping at straws
In hallways and dark doors
Nothing did slowly return

It said to me
"You, be free
Desperate and young
And, son,
I'll always be waiting"

Saturday, 13 March 2010

What is or can Will be?

But it still leaves the
question, as it remains;
what is this paralysis
- this waking death -
that cripples me,
and only does not when
I turn to confront it?
Doth it play with me, am I a
pawn to its orchestrator?
Laughter do I hear behind
the curtain, while flailing
I burrow further into
this terrible illusion.
So it is. If my actions are moot,
my mind can be free, hopefully.
Dreaming this ignorant bliss.
What of the mind as it seems?
What is the mind? Is the mind?
Trapped in ignorant bliss.