A fool's musings...

Mangoes

2011-10-23T19:59:00.000-07:00

Kisses sucrose sweet

Dancing across skin

Light caresses

Titillating, teasing

Fingers probing gently...

And then teeth plunge through the skin, into tasty flesh, juices running down your face.

I love mangoes.

she soars, she falls

2010-10-07T03:05:00.000-07:00

She jumped aboard the rocket ship

Without knowing the destination

A shortcut through space and time -

She didn't like her place and time.

She shoots about like a ping-pong ball

Subtle to physical to spaciousness

Where there is no body and is no mind -

To where there is the fragments of all.

Flash-forward flash-back in ricochet

A melding of experiences cross-wired

Of pain and pleasure: suffering-fired -

No I to grasp, no external.

Put to death all that you once cherished.

Put to death all that makes you you.

Freedom from the constructed world.

Freedom from all that can be held.

There is no ground in the vaccuous

There is no where to place your feet

Feet do not always exist

In the vastness of cosmos-complete.

She soars, she falls, she zings and zaps

She observes her wild path

Like lightening burning the sky's blacks

She sees the infinite earthly traps;

She sees the games as she plays;

She see's the mind's grand-complex ways;

She sees the suffering of the fool -

She zings, she zaps, she soars, she falls.

another Monday morning

2010-10-07T02:50:00.000-07:00

Rejoicing in glorious morning

Salutations to the sun

Serenading new day rising:

I am in love with life-

As Kerouac says you should be;

Besotted by the beauty

That exists so abundantly

Then work day starts

And stomach plummets

Miserably

Suffering desires unheeded;

Demons of the ego I call me

I desire not to be part

of an industry of death,

I desire not to be chained

To fax, computer and desk,

I desire not to keep my brain

Upon that thinking-calculating plane,

I desire to paint flowing colours

And write poesy as it comes.

I recognise these desires

Are self-created by me,

I recognise the aversion:

Poison administered by me,

How to turn on their heads-

poisons to antidotes?

I know this game is temporary-

Still I'm finding I can't cope!

Chant mantra for doomed fishies

And liberation for all living beings,

Work towards my freedom:

liberation for dear me!

And don't get caught in misery

Or boredom chafing life's sweet joy;

Like everything in this world

This job is temporary 8D

Coming home, light upon lake

Lucky to meet me with hugs and ball

I let go of all aversion-

That's for tomorrow's fool.

Canvases to paint,

Songs to create,

Food to be cooked

Graciously adorning my plate,

Giving thanks for what is,

For the lessons life teaches;

For the joy that exists.

Letting go is easy-

Until faced with another spreadsheet!

Angel's heart beating deep within my soul

2010-06-13T23:04:00.000-07:00

Final breath lingers on my fingertips Angel's heart beating deep within my soul

Final breath lingers on my fingertips
Angel's heart beating deep within my soul
Tried to breath warmth back into your cold lips
Cried to the Gods to make us again whole

And the misery was like drowning me
Hating what seemed lonely reality
Every breath was pain of missing you
Every new day too sad to be true
It was a nightmare I could not accept
Every atom of me did reject
Existing without your life here with me
Existing without you to touch, taste, see

But what's this me all fragmented and pained
A vessel in which my essence lain
Cosmic essence that is part of us all
Even this poor stumbling, wandering fool
I travelled our heavens but could not stay
Lone in this realm I got to find my way
But I know your love is still part of me
I know you exist in all that I see

And what's this wholeness I did lament?
Each of us perfect in every moment
Life is impermanent ~ Love Eternal
Love alighting hearts and minds of us all
You'll always burn bright in my heart and mind
You will be with me in all that I find
In the love I breath out to all I see
This self that you'll always be part of: me.

Though this self is impermanent as long as it exists the love of her Angel will be part of it ~ and as she exists, so will she love ~
LIFE IMPERMANENT ~ LOVE ETERNAL

No, it's not a cigarette I'm smoking, it's God.

2010-06-04T21:48:00.000-07:00

The latest price hike of cigarettes, taxing those too weak to say no to their desires, which includes me because I do like a smoke, has not caused me to give up even though I never have any cash. Can't afford to feed myself much of the time yet somehow I still smoke. I like to smoke. So not affording it, even more than before, hasn't stopped me but rather driven me to get a job though I don't like to work - but I do like to smoke.

So I decide another approach to giving up is necessary. I know that I do not want to quit. I've never been a quitter. It's the reason I have two degrees that are mostly useless - though once again providing me with the skills to pay the bills of my much loved habits. Habits some may call dirty or unhealthy, I'm not judging, I just do. And what I do I must pay for so I must dislike working less than I like such habits.

I'm not even going to try to give up. I will do what I want - and that is the key - why do I want to inhale these toxins? The relaxing, mellow sweet-scented toxins. I breathe in deeply, savouring the sensation.

I will smoke what I want as much as I want.

No, I'm not smoking a cigarette, I'm smoking God.

See, I decided to apply a Tantric approach.

I'm smoking love, smoking infinite.

One day I will be so blissfully satisfied, filled with love for all of infinite - all of Kosmos, or God or whatever you prefer to call it - that I won't want to light up. I will be lit up. Filled with an inner light, an infinite light.

For now, I light another rollie and inhale the Kosmos.

Yes, I'm smoking God. And God tastes good.

Her flight's unsteady.

2010-04-25T23:33:00.000-07:00

She's sure to crash a few times.
Wings seeming heavy
As they beat their path
As she learns
You can't always soar the wind
As she navigates
The obstacles that appear.
She shelters from the weather
Through a window sees another
Fed and warm and dry
Wonders how it would be
Served a meal every day
- but cages scare her.

a consideration of death

2010-04-22T21:30:00.000-07:00

Death not an end, rather a transition.
Each must make from this mortal condition;
No use crying to your God petitions
To change that which has come to fruition.

Love does not die but like all changes form,
We lose those we cherish can't help feel forlorn-
On my soul yet another scar is worn
But as one life dies another new is born.

As I continue along cycle's ride
Accruing Angels of those loved whom have died
I often wonder why I am still here;
Mortality's end no state that I fear...

Yet my journey continues, I must abide
I order another beer with tired sigh.

No Hope {The Art of Picking Flowers}

2010-04-14T20:00:00.000-07:00

The art of picking flowers was explained to me as we sat amongst an abundance of wildflowers that coloured the meadow in hues of purple and red.

"You have to be gentle, take care, when you pick a flower. It is a gift and when a person gives you a gift do you snatch it eagerly or accept it graciously?"

She sliced a stem with a pinch of her nails, just above where the flower grows in such clean, deft action that to look at the plant you would not know it was less one blossom than a mere moment earlier.

"By giving, the plant produces more to give. That is why the gardener prunes the rose bushes: where before grew a single rose now blooms two. But if you hurt the plant when you take it will not give anymore. If you hurt it too much it will die before its natural cycle. Yet if we accept our gift peacefully with grace" - she picked another flower and handed it to me - "more flowers will always bloom for us to enjoy."

No Hope (part i)

2010-04-14T04:12:00.000-07:00

"And this is the section where we keep those with no hope left--" the kindly doctor informs us he leads us into a lush garden of enchanting atmosphere.

A young woman races up with the enthusiasm of a pre-schooler and hands us each a freshly picked flower. Blowing us kisses she skips off giggling and singing a nonsense tune.

My wife asks the doctor "What is wrong with her sir?"

"Oh I'm afraid she's addicted to nirvana."

'I'm not sure I understand.

That is a problem?'

"Well it is to function in society. All the poor girl does is sits under that tree looking blissful or running around being loving, gay and compassionate. It is quite disturbing for people. We've tried interviewing her when she's lucid but tend to lose our staff. Her last psycho-analyst became a monk in some mountains...

So it's easier to just let her frolic these gardens. She is happy."

"How do you know?" My wife seemed concerned, watching the woman now climbing a tree like a monkey.

"Well that's what the doctors say before they run away. You can try talking to her but I can't guarantee you'll get sense of her."

We approached the tree and she smiled at me.

'Uh how are you up there?'

I felt like I was an observer in a zoo -

"How are you down there?"

She answered back and I wondered if I was the observed -

'I'm good but I'm curious about you.'

"Are you really good?"

Her question wasn't mean or disbelieving but playfully inquisitive and I try to keep the tone of my reply playful too, as suits the tranquil setting-

'Yes. It is a nice day.'

"Why are you here? You do not hold worries for the future? You do not fear?"

I did worry for my sister who we had no choice to admit somewhere - maybe here. I feared the journey she has - and was her journey a danger for us all? I thought we all must hold worries and fears. I turned the questioning back to her.

'Why?- Do you worry and fear?'

"No but it seems maybe you do. I wonder. And then, what is this good you ask of – what do you mean by good? Do you mean like you?"

'Uh, I meant happiness. Happiness - we wondered if you are happy.'

She had me feeling uneasy, as I do after speaking with my sister, that I am unsure of all the words I use, becoming so careful of what I say.

She dangled from the branch by her legs, her face swaying back and forth to-from mine, her grin beaming - actually truly beaming, which one does not often see though may often read. She contempleted my aged self standing before her.

"Are you happy?"

And with a somersault from the branch she landed on the balls of her feet and skipped away to another tree.

My wife looked at me with perplexed eyes. A question lay hung unanswered in the air.

'Well she seems happy.' I did not answer the question asked.

the demon

2010-04-14T03:59:00.000-07:00

Somtimes the demon is sweet company. Left to her own devices she can concoct random bursts of poetry and tales fantastique to wander in. At other times left to her own devices you could find her concocting meth in the bathroom.

Sometimes she wants us to paint pictures so lovingly, gifts for others to brighten their homes. At other times she wants us to paint public property, to bomb the streets in colour.

She had been difficult from the moment she came into being:

"Who are you?"

"I'm you." she answered so stubbornly, certainly.

"No. I am your master. You are part of me."

"Perhaps the most important part of you-" she was a force of power.

She is a dangerous fool, this weaver of illusions, and I know not how many times she has deceived us.

Her company can be bleak, don't be fooled by the occasional sweetness.

She reminds us of all we have lost, recalling happier times. She drinks straight Jonny Walker with Pain and spends the night inside Misery. She reminds us of our failures, points out all our weaknesses and can be spoilt and petulant, wanting trivialities, nagging brattishly. The things she wants: the pleasures and perversions! And sometimes she wants oblivion.

She can be quietened with music ~ melodic caresses settle her noise that she may just get lost in the vibrations of hair on wound-steel strings ~ dissipating away amongst the waves of sound.

For sometimes it is best to let your demon dissolve.

And sometimes you need to brutally kill your demon ~ but you know it will always come back ~ malignant growths hacked away ~ and hopefully the lesson learnt and the demon better behaved. Yet change need not be always violent, ignoring the brute can teach a lesson too. For I am the master, the demon my tool, and I can choose to sit and breathe, to perceive untainted by her noise ~ to create> and then she truly is a part of me, a peaceful speck of what I be, in the hand that holds the brush or dances the fiddle's neck.

I am Master of my demon.

This chameleon beast, at times beautiful and at times ugly, is lazy and manipulative. Faced with a task she does not want to do she becomes her most inspired and charming. She tells us of stories that need to be written down, insists we must capture in best representation some insight, mayhaps imagic, mayhaps aural wonder. She wants us to soar free and if she does not get her way may rain down darkness and gloom ~ I too often let her get her way. I let her make excuses, let her weave more illusions that I can dance care-free through-in. Or I be strong a while and wallow in darker illusions, in a sea of self-pity or disgust. Not often enough do I wrestle the demon and tame her capriciousness, flaying her 'til she surrenders. Not often enough do I excercise masterhood.

I know the demon but who is the narrator? Not Sense of Responsibility - that is just another face of the demon. The demon is oh-so-familiar but who is its master?

wanderings stilled

2010-01-26T14:02:00.000-08:00

Why do they call them finger prints-
When they take prints of your whole hand?
Fingers, palms, writers palms - I realise
I am going to have to start wearing gloves more
That if any mark of any part of my hand
Turns up somewhere suspicious
I will be, once again, done for

The mug shot aint never good
Dreads sticking out in all directions
Exuding feralness as I glare into the lens
He listed my occupation as artist
And I look very much the part
Of a starving artist, suffering the bends

As I adjust to the reality of the cop-shop
The endless questions I refuse to answer
The video recording of me trying not to giggle
Trying to look serious and keep my face poker-blank
Repeating like a mantra "I don't have to answer that"
But this is no meditative state, as my inner self wriggles

Aching to be free, away from policed-reality
Yet as I sign my bail release papers
Sign away my rights to go where I will
I realise freedom is months away
That out in the sticks I have to stay
The law enforcing my wanderings stilled.

the path

2010-01-09T04:29:00.000-08:00

How do I become wise --?
O Master, says the pupil.
Once you are wise, says sage soul
You will realise you cannot be.

Sands shift with ceaseless tide,
Even mountains shift with age.
Enlightenment impossible
Though you must always strive to be.

Eyes open, mind awakens -
The road can never end.
Satori is a state of mind
And death is a transition.

Can you keep always turned on
Or retain only a glimmer?
We can only do what we can -
Just be all that you can be.

vegetarian decision

2010-01-09T04:28:00.000-08:00

I do not feel I have the right
To consume another’s life,
But I realised in that thought
There is life in all I see -

Yet I need to feed this body
Or this self will cease to breathe,
Though I don’t feel that is a loss
I can’t kill intentionally --

Even this most wretched being
That houses the mind I am,
To not feed it is to kill -
I want no more blood on my hands.

So I will eat no thing that bleeds
Though nor do I want to eat
Of the beautiful plants and trees -
I guess, at least, they don’t breathe.

dream of an angel

2009-12-28T16:00:00.000-08:00

Necromantic dreams. Blood from cut nipples mingling with wine poured over flesh. You drink from me. Nectar of me and nectar of gods combining to salty sweetness.
You take me away into vastness. We make love in a cosmos of oil-paint-like texture. I paint my body with you.
No bed. No floor. No constricting environment. Just you and me. Our pleasure flows like waves, irradiating; warmth and brightness flowing out into the cosmos. But for us, just you and me. I taste you on my tongue, how can that not be real?
I feel you against me, around me, within me. Ecstasy fills our beings, intense and undeniable. Our song is pure pleasure.
You bite at me, so hungrily. I give myself to you to be devoured. Consumed by your love. So hungry, unending. I want for no other.
Your hair, your fingertips, lightly caress my skin. The trails of sensation left tingling at your touch. Your skin under my fingertips and mouth so perfect it brings tears to my eyes. Forever perfect, unblemished by age and hardship. You smiled your angelic smile upon the world, laughed at the human constructs and expectations, and left before it ruined you. Always to be perfect.
While I, left in this world, crumble to ruins. See life degenerate around me. But for now, it is just you and me. And to you I am an angel. And you; my god, my angel, my lover, I worship your being with all of my soul. We dine upon each other. We dance ecstasy upon the cosmic spirals. We make love, pure, absolute, eternal. Painting heavens with each other.

Fuck! Is it christmas?

2009-12-24T14:05:00.000-08:00

Fuck! Is it christmas?
oh what have we here?
Another hyped up holiday -
Why do YOU christmas cheer?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1zcUSiGiIE

The shops are bubbling

to almost overflowing --

can't you feel?

the christmas cheer

Celebrating -cruelty (?)

- crucified -

are you even christian?

oh christmas cheer!

They say he rose again

of course death is not an end -

do you even care?

just christmas cheer

And this guy Jesus Christ

- venerated man -

is it even his birth?

it's christmas sheer

Stirred to heated mix

until you cannot taste

what is the truth?

what christmas cheer?

And now who know

what it is about --

what are you celebrating?

the christmas cheer.

A look at Father Christmas...

He is grotesquely fat,
Hair covers facial feautures,
Thick clothes covering from neck to boots.
Such big, stomping boots
- yet a tread so quiet,
despite the hefty sack he carries over shoulders.
He knows his way in.
Entering your home;
this is not the first time.
Eating food that was yours -
now it is his.
Though he's already gorged this night-
Into your homes while the family sleeps;
He knows the way into them all
moving as if part of the cold.
Reaching sleeping children,
he silently opens his sack...

free

2009-10-30T11:07:00.000-07:00

Sweetness of kisses and touches of light -

Symphony of colour exploding my mind --

Waves of desire bathe my wearied soul -

Look through the door and what do you find?

Arms of comfort – I lay my head in

Free of worries and guilt and sin

Free of mortal pain that so ravages -

To dance upon – across nebula,

To sing with Angel voices in choir

In raining colour of cascading stars.

with me

2009-10-30T11:01:00.000-07:00

Melancholy tears welling in eyes – you are with me

Aching in my battered body – you are with me

I'm falling over drunk and you are laughing

I'm screaming at strangers, you are crying

But it hurts so fucking much

I've just about had enough

Just want to soar the cosmos bright

Throughout our never-ending night

In your arms forever you are with me.

2009-10-30T10:52:00.001-07:00

Hallucinations, delusions, disorganised thoughts...?

As she reads on she wonders:

Am I schizophrenic?

The voice only she seems to hear tells her that is impossible

because he is real, he is not a delusion -

An auditory hallucination? -

What a load of psychobabble-shite!

And who is to say

that a hallucination is not real?

What others call delusions

can be more real than that they call life -

who are they to say

what is real

and what is not?

What others believe: -

Why would I want to believe a thing because others do?

I read with surprise

that not everybody hears music in their head -

Do you hear music?

Do you see music?

Do you hear an Angel?

Image: Angelic Choir Seat, by Julie Grace

Delusion: A false belief based on incorrect inference about external reality that is firmly sustained despite what almost everybody else believes and despite what constitutes incontrovertible and obvious proof or evidence to the contrary. How ridiculous!

Insanity lay ahead...?!

2009-09-21T05:28:00.000-07:00

Waves crashing endlessly, life within helpless,
Patterns within patterns, no reason, no sense.
Wish myself disappeared - make me selfless
   Or if time could be bent; now made whence!
    Earth turning oblivious, worlds spiralling
     Like wishes unheeded, floating in the wind.
      No escape, inevitability stifling.
     A past self was happy and laughed and grinned.
Insanity lay ahead, do I beware?
Find me a person able to define sane.
Measure my skull, quality of my glare;
   Can you count on my soul each of my stains?
    Another war declared; more innocents killed.
     A celebrity affair; it gets more news.
      The chaos continues, time can't be stilled.
     A cat eats her kitten, so quiet it mews.
    She-spider makes meal of mate once sated.
   And what do humans learn from history past?-
How weapons of destruction are created;
Skin burning of napalm makes peasants run fast;
That fear is a tool that controls the masses;
That people will always believe the irrational;
Power always lays in the hands of the asses;
   And people don't question the unquestionable;
    Young soldiers ever-willing sacrifices;
     Genocide is possible if you will try;
      Millions will always be slaves to their vices;
     Millions will never ask the quesion "why?".
    And so power is gambled, dealt lost and won-
The poor used up like just another resource

Yet the rich still die under the same uncaring sun

Irregardless of how splendrous was their course

Because we're all just blood and sweat and tears
All destined to one day be --- dust.
   We love hope and dream, hate and fear - what for?!
     The sparklingest metal still turns to rust
    History will forget you or misconstrue
Actions you mayhaps though noble or just -

Or maybe you just liked to go out and kill?

Maybe love's power is comparable to lust?
   How does any soul justify murder or rape?
    How can you go - obligingly - off to war?
     AAARRGH! From this existence I want to escape!
    Living has become not a pleasure but a chore,
   I'm tired of this world that just does not care:
I don't think I can make it a better place.

I scream and those around bemusedly stare: -

Perhaps if I scream loud enough, someone will care.

To Be A Poet

2009-09-21T05:18:00.000-07:00

If it is a poet you want to be
Into all you must be willing to see –
The darkness, the ugliness, all the shit,
And every wondrous, ecstatic bit.

Inevitable madness lays ahead -
Chaos overcomes all within your head:
Order and sanity deeply repressed –
Teetering from rapture - - - to be depressed.

A poet – why would a person choose to be?
It is not a choice. It is the curse of me.

* * * *

What is reality? What is a dream?
Your words cover pages, ream after ream.

Ecstasy lost; such treasured memories –
Worth more than all the nations’ treasuries!

What is yours can be taken from no-one;
What is not, will all, one day be gone.

   *   *   *   *

Time flowing like waterfalls, seas opaque,
Tides rising and ebbing, life gives and takes;
Unable to dam or hinder its course –
An unrelenting, all-powerful force.

   *   *   *   *

Powerless beings – what are we to do?
Are we just to – eat – sleep – love – fight - and screw –
Like driftwood aimlessly floating along?
No!   It is rather – an intricate song.

Complex masterpiece – tumultuous flight –
Sweet interludes; love, happiness, delight,
Melodies of sorrow, moments magic,
Harmonies of passion, coda tragic.

   *   *   *   *

The poet is scribe to the song that he hears,
Noting down verses of loves, hurts and fears.

Cartographer of the scars of the soul.
Dancing upon the universe’s pole.
Sailing the ocean of his time and space.
Exploring pleasures both profound and base.

The poet is scribe to ALL that he hears –
He cannot cower from the hurts and fears.

2009-09-12T16:48:00.000-07:00

Sword in one hand, poniard in the other. Upon the crest of his helmet, wings reflect the sunlight; shining. His steed is maddened and he does not attempt to control it, it takes him where he must go, driving down the heavens - the Spirit of the Tempest.

He is clever and subtle, fierce, delicate and courageous. Prey to his inspiration, he creates with skill and dedication. It is not from the conscious his inspiration comes, his designs not his own.

For he is at the mercy of the wind, the storm. It is part of him, the fiery part of air - the extended flame of mind.

Not his will - true will exploding the mind spontaneously.

Greater than himself, it is his honour to welcome it, to be courted by his muse. It is the muse - the inspiration - the essence - that is the greatness, not the artist. He - the artist, must ride the Tempest.

It is part of her, the fiery part of air - the King of Swords, the storm in thee mind.

From the Knight of Swords, rider of the Tempest, to the King of Swords, the voice in her storm.

She must create with skill and dedication. She must be open to the Spirit of the Tempest. No longer is there such a thing as her will - it is the true will. She rides the fiery part of air - the Spirit of the Tempest her maddened steed.

She must be worthy of it. She must be intelligent and courageous.

The words she writes, the images she creates - you can't give her the credit for them. The artist is not the greatness - it is the muse: the Spirit.

She watches wings beat the air and tries to do the right thing.

I cannot take credit for these words, though my pen wrote them and my hands typed them into existence. This is inspired by insight from an Angel, a message in Tarot and reading Aleister Crowley's writings regarding this card that always lays in my future, is always me - the King of Swords. The only difference between the minor arcana of my deck and one true to the Book if Thoth is that the Knights have become Kings. This is a natural ascension - the Knight of Swords is the King of Swords - is the Spirit of the Tempest.

Certain turns of phrases are from Crowley (Book ot Thoth): "the extended flame of the mind"; "true will exploding the mind spontaneously". The essence is from the Spirit of the Tempest, the voice in the storm. The scribe deserves not credit.

Voice in the Storm

2009-09-12T16:04:00.000-07:00

Chill breath upon frigid skin
Resonates with the darkness within.
Ghostly wind laments – sad tune –
Beneath a pallid sliver of moon.
Ocean in the distance sings -
Softly. Hushed lullabye of soothing.
…
And a voice, whispers, only she can hear –
From beyond death’s bounds but so very near.
The voice, it laughs, teases, debates and chatters –
He talks to her of all manner of matters.
…
Pelting harsh, rain begins,
Battering into delicate skin –
Bare beneath darkened sky,
She ignores the rage-ful heavens’ cries.
The wind – now howls angry –
Screaming madness – like wild banshee.
…
And a voice, whispers, only she can hear –
From beyond death’s bounds but so very near.
Necromantic endearments only for her –
Inciting longings she can take no farther.
...
Red, raw, pimpled with cold.
Storm of violent magnitude unfolds.
Trees flung like saplings young.
Nature’s wrath so ferociously sung.
Branches snap, from trunk torn.
No inch of land left free from storm’s scorn.
…
And a voice, whispers, only she can hear –
From beyond death’s bounds but so very near.
As her lifeblood slows the voice becomes clearer –
As body freezes; her lover comes nearer.

Heatwave: 2009

2009-08-22T08:11:00.001-07:00

For more than a week the heatwave unceasing oppresses, stifles, offers no relief.

The night is hot and sticky. Sweat beads between my breasts and along my brow despite my naked form, despite the cooling fan.

I can’t sleep and give up trying. It’s as if my body can’t believe it is the earliest of morn when the heat is greater than most mid-afternoons’.

Dry grass crackles underfoot as I wander around the fruit trees and vines and the stark, empty clothesline in the backyard. The moonlight illuminates my white skin yet the air is hot and heavy that the night feels surreal. The mercury still reads in the high thirties though it is almost three a.m..

My ears hear a truck in the distance, raised voices slightly closer, vague murmurs of life too distant to distinguish. All not quite right for this hour, for this sleepy little town usually so still.

* * * * * * * * *

Bright lights reflecting off white tanks – a fluorescent, lit-up world incongruous against the black of night.

The heat stifles in the still, almost sauna-like air; the long-sleeved work shirt smothers the skin, the drone of machinery a constant companion.

Eyelids heavy fight to stay open. Sleep deprived and dehydrated. Disorientated.

* * * * * * * * *

The silent alarm flashes on off, on off, in the almost deserted nurses station startling open the eyes of the night duty nurse. She gives an unconscious shake not realising she’d been slipping into sleep.

She takes in the light, blinking once again. Apprehension fills her. Though the corridors she walks down are air-conditioned cool the old folks she cares for don’t seem to be able to cope so well with the unceasing heat – she notices even her youthful self feeling lethargic of late.

Relief fills her to find that it is only a request for more water – and an unspoken desire for company in hours difficult to sleep through.

* * * * * * * * *

.. ..

Lovers giggling seek fresh air. Seeking escape from the stuffiness of their bedroom. The absence of their bodies leaves damp shadows.

Outside offers little relief.

Bodies almost melt together.

Heat. Hearts racing. Perspiration pooling. Lithe forms tangled. Skin clammy, sticking. Coming together as one. Panting. Breathing as one. Seeking refuge in each other. So hot.

Bodies pull apart. Lightly touching, lain apart. Their hair caressing each other.

* * * * * * * * *

The news reports tell us over twenty deaths this week still to be investigated…Heat? Suicide? Murder? All three?...

A father throws his little girl over a bridge – as if debris from a car window?

Death rates soaring. Crime rates soaring. Job dismissals soaring. .

Water shortages. Drought. Electricity shortages.

Money shortages.

Fruit growers watch produce burn or over-ripen. In the rush to get what they can picked they then find heat-stricken workers have absconded.

Yet those who found their Christmas holidays were permanent redundancies are still finding themselves out of work.

Worldwide the news is no better and brings us stories of oppression, wars and famines too…That I almost dread to turn on the television for the atrocities I will hear.

* * * * * * * * *

I finish my icy vodka and lime and flick a mosquito away from my bum. I turn back to the house to the quiet hum of my fan. My cat joins me, rubbing sleek fur against ankles. Indoors the air feels more pleasant with at least the man-made breeze so settling myself down again amongst silky cushions and thin, cotton sheets I close my eyes willing the onset of the so dearly cherished sleep.

Love Scenes

2009-08-22T07:29:00.000-07:00

Join my song?
Is it truly me that you really love?
Or is it your idea of who I am?
You say it's me that comes first and above
All your other priorities, and Damn!
I don't want to be on a pedestal,
I do not want to be your sole purpose
For that seems a long way to fall
And I don't want you to feel like surplus
Baggage that I am carrying along.
I want this to be an equal affair,
Our voices combining to make one song,
Forming a harmony unique and rare.
Entwine your fingers with mine, take my hand,
Together we will explore this vast land.

Lovers Dance
Pleasure tingles my each every nerve
Like lightening shoots through our bodies both
Delighting along sleek, sensuous curves
Devouring like starving man at a loaf
Of bread our bodies are to each other
Staple food we rely on to survive
Though no more luscious taste than my lover
Exists in this world of which I'm alive
Sweet and salty upon each other's tongues
That explore every valley and groove
A harmony sweeter than ever sung
Emanating from each every move.

A dance that climaxes to create one
Body of sexual-chemical fusion.

Nevermore the mutual contented sighs
Ivy growing before your open eyes.
Ceiling dissolving amongst screams of love.
Crescendo then mutual satisfied sigh
Then floating loveliness somewhere high above.

Memories achingly sweet steal my thoughts.
Self-induced torture I succumb to again
To forget the misery tragedy brought.
Lonely pain flows from the nib of a pen.

Sad girl-woman sits and cries. Tears hot.
It hurts too much to let them fall from her eyes -
They burn her being for all she is not.
Nevermore the mutual contented sighs.

Life's bleakness seen from a sole set of eyes
Missing those days of beauty, of shared sighs.

A sad lament
An apotheosis of beauty: you
Rambunctiously energetic: you.
Do you now soar on angel wings above?
Do you hear the laments of those you love?
Dancing your dance through memories and dreams;
Elusive amongst the daylight sunbeams.
Do you taste the tears that I cry for you?
Do you feel the love that is just for you?

The Battle Inevitable

2009-08-22T06:41:00.000-07:00

The bird swooped sharply down. The sleek, steel-grey skin stretched tautly across the outstretched wings. A classic nose-dive.

“Cap’n! Cap’n! Wake Up!”

The first mate shook his captain roughly, panic causing his usually deep, gruff voice to waver tremulously.

Cap’n awoke with a jump, his eyes opening to be confronted with the red face of his burly first mate; eyes bulging, sweat trickling down the crevices of his wrinkled skin.

“Aaargh! What the hell is wrong!?” the instant reaction is to push the first mate violently away. His bulky form is flung backwards, his head thudding against the bulkhead with a clank.

The other officers in the bridge look nervously away, pretending not to see. Though Cap’n is the ranking officer, her small, lithe frame is almost a third of the size of the stocky first mate. It is never a comfortable experience to see their stout, muscled bodies thrown about by someone so relatively minute – and female.

The first mate rights himself and readjusts his uniform, addressing his captain crisply;

“The enemy has been sighted sir. Twenty-four degrees, starboard side.”

He gives a brisk salute and seats himself on his polished brass stool, behind the captain’s line of vision.

“Ygads man! It is he!” The captain’s voice fills with excitements as she peers into the telescopic view finder, looking directly out the dark bird’s bulbous eyes.

Her wrists flick the steering handles; the bird soars upwards in a graceful movement.

“Are we sure it’s him sir?” The ever-exuberant Markyle asks in hushed tones, staring at the viewfinder as if that will grant him the vision of the captain.

“Y.” steadying the bird’s flight, the captain winds out the telescopic view, honing in on the hulking form in the waves below.

“It is he. We been chasing him for weeks, all the while our head on a swivel watching for their sly traps. Well, we finally got him in our sights – just a pity he took one of us down already.”

At these words the officers on the bridge put their hands to their hearts and begin muttering the ‘rest-in-peace’ platitudes ingrained in them at Officers College. Markyle realises too late and jumps in at the second line though he forgets to place his hand on his chest. Cap’n smiles warmly at the boy; adopted by the Squadron, he would never be an officer, always relegated to the cleaning, the menial repairs, the jobs too dirty for others to want to do - yet he was Cap’n’s truest confidante. She swivels the eyepiece over to his freckled, eager face;

“Isn’t he wondrous?”

Markyle’s eyes widen. He has never seen a ship so big before.

“What do you think boy?” Troy, the cartographical officer slaps him on the shoulder, just a little too hard to be friendly, as he asks.

Markyle removes his face from the goggle-like eye-pieces and the cutom-made chin piece – too small for any Officer’s chin. He looks around at the officers, his eyes coming to rest with the captain’s.

“It looks miserable” he declares.

“Cap’n! I’m detecting activity.” The first mate’s voice has regained its confident roar. The dials in front of him wobble rapidly and his chubby fingers delicately tweak levers and knobs in response. The bird hovers for a moment and swiftly diverts it’ course, floating into the centre of a vast, fluffy cloud.

"We need to decide on the weapon.” Cap’n commands.

“Fetund, what are your thoughts?”

The weapons officer’s lips flail rubber-like as he struggles to answer;

“Uh, well, gr..um. It must be devastating.”

Cap’n looks at the officer disappointed but not surprised. Her officers are impressive to look at but unfortunately most seemed to lack some integral workings in their brain housing. She despairs getting a new crew however – when her current team is at least a score times more efficient than the previous bunch. She does not bother to consult any of the other officers.

“Markyle what do you think?” she turns to her always-trusted boy.

A smile dances upon his lips.

“I think he needs a shower.”

Cap’n beams in delight. A perfect suggestion.

“Brew the acid. Pack the pods. Get missiles aimed. We have little time here men!”

She barks out the orders and the bridges bustles with activity, officers leaving from every exit. The space is still.

“Wonderful idea Mark” she compliments her sole remaining companion.

He beams happily, no words adequate for his elation. Looking around the bridge he finds it hard to imagine a time before his adoption. The day came when he was delivered to the base, bundled into a box-like cart, powered by a creaking, groaning crank pumped by a silent and awful-smelling slave. The journey seemed like it was not going to end. When he was let out, it was into the shadow of a terrifying, thunder-coloured avian beast (for he could not yet think about it as a bird – at its sheer size, it did not strike him as bird-like).

Then from the belly of the beast unfolded a spindly, shiny leg. The foot planted itself on the tarmac and a petite woman dressed in dark, grimy coveralls began climbing down.

In very little time she has landed at his feet.

“You must be Markyle.

I picked you myself you know.

You better not let me down Y?”

He had gaped at her.

“Don’t say much do you? Well you’ll probably find that easier, not much enthralling conversation aboard I’m afraid. But I shouldn’t say that, you haven’t even started. I do hope you’ll like it.” She was already climbing back up the leg as she finished the last sentence.

She stopped when she realised Markyle was not following.

“You coming?” she had called down, then shimmied up without waiting for an answer.

He awkwardly jumped aboard the leg, finding the metal surface cold in his hands. He slipped at first and retried, gripping with his thighs and wrapping his hands firmly about the shaft. It was a slow and arduous climb, his upper arms burning by the time he reached the top.

The sight that greeted him distracted him from his pain.

He had thought the leg had been shiny but it dulled in comparison to the interior. Metals of every colour gleamed around him. Hulking men in impeccable uniforms manned an array of levers, dials, knobs and wheels.

The woman who had greeted him earlier reappeared.

“Oh hi, you made it, good.

Follow me, I’ll show you the way.”

She disappeared up the passageway.

The curved, tunnel-like passage had clear walls displaying thumping pistons, spinning sprockets, flowing liquids, bubbling, the gaseous balls shooting down thin shafts, cooled by misty sprays, the balls hardening on their way, their electric blue hue becoming subdued and greyish until they disappear into the engine house. He remembered his amazement at his first sight of the main passageway – he had not seen its curved ending and had walked into the wall.

The captain had stood in the alcove to the left – which he had missed – not looking amused.

“Enough of that boy, I chose you because you were smart.”

She turned on her heel and opened the hatch to the bridge.

The bridge was a combination of the wondrous and the officious. The space was long – a rectangular oval. The bow end was almost wholly covered by two large, circular, black plates he later found out housed giant mirrors and a complex system of wires and transmitters – a technology foreign to him. A large leather-bound chair dominated the centre of the space. At the head of the walls were a series of framed maps, all dissected with multitudes of fine, curving lines. The rest of the walls housed more gleamimg controls – fewer than in the belly but more complex. Silk-like wires threaded through various dials and controls, linking them to the giant plates and parts of the engine. The engine housing was a rose-gold metal of a globe shape (though he was yet to realise that from the small portion he had viewed). The engine was known as the brain of the bird and had to be carefully cared for. Minor changes to the levels of acidic and alkaline solutions alternatively fed to the brain could have serious implications for the reality of all on board the bird.

Markyle had been in shock most of that first week, barely speaking in that time. He was awe-struck by the precision of the engineering, amazed by the beauty of the machine, astounded by the small, feminine captain who kept her burly crew under control. It was so foreign to him compared to the almost prison-like life he had endured at the Institute. His loved his new life and loved his Cap’n.

And now all that was being threatened. He took in his precious surroundings with a gravity he had never felt before thinking this may be his last view of them.

As if Cap’n sensed his thoughts she squeezed his shoulder – gently, as a friend;

“It okay Mark, we will be victorious.”

A crackly voice sounded over the intercom.

“Missiles ready sir. Storm can be activated in forty.”

Cap’n squeezed Markyle’s shoulder firmer.

“Go for it Fetund.”

The rain is launched.

Drops shoot down like minute jets, a harsh spray moving at intense speed.

As it hits the gloomy, grey hull, the ship rocks violently as the acid eats into the skin. The scaly exterior bubbles and swirls, chaos spiralling along its spine, irradiating down its’ sides. The black grey scales are transformed; greenbluepurplepinkfantastic, an explosion of colour, of texture, of sound at the head of the ship, shockwaves burrowing down into the brain. Gases of pink and orange, red and yellow, fluffy like fairy floss, churn up the clouds above, centring a cyclone upon the ship below. The waves encircle the ship, sensuously yet violently tugging and pulling at the hull. The waves almost gain stickiness as they pull, the hulls shape stretching, melding with the ocean. And snapping back, tipping the ship over. The rainbow bulk bounces capsized in the sea spinning about it, teetering faster, faster, and the cloud above begins to spin too.

“We’re losing it Cap’n” the voice of the first mate crackles through to the bridge.

Her hands grip the controls with determination. Markyle looks on in fear.

“I’ve got it. I’ve got it” she reaffirms to herself through clenched teeth.

And then a splashes of acid lands on their bird’s breast and there is a flash of pure white and the bird is plunging down.

The nosedive is not graceful. The beak spirals, the body follows waveringly, plummeting though the churning winds.

The sharp, pointed tip of the beak pierces the hull, breaching the beast’s pineal gland, serotonin and heat-regulating oil bursting out: a blast of colours copious and morphing, flowers blooming, pot-plants popping, whole worlds coming into existence and blinking out within a microsecond.

And so the beautiful monsters – the lovingly created war-machines – sink below the waves. The storm subsides. The acidic gases dissipate. Far below the juxtaposed wreckage settles upon the ocean floor.

Pain and claws and sharp, sharp teeth

2009-08-22T06:23:00.001-07:00

She can’t sleep for the sound of scratching. Tiny paws upon linoed floor. She gets up, cautiously walking to the kitchen, hoping to scare off the nocturnal invaders. Each step is tread with fear, loathing, a deep aversion and hesitant apprehension.
She reaches the doorway. Her fingers flick the switch, knowing where to find it in the dark. Fluorescent light floods the room; horror floods her psyche.
Tearing at tomorrow’s intended roast, sat to defrost on the kitchen sink, are at least half a dozen crazed, furred rat-monsters. She hasn’t actually seen a rat before but surely this can’t be normal?
The creatures look at her with their beady eyes, blood dripping from sharp-toothed grins.
She screams.
She didn’t realise she could scream so loud. She isn’t sure it is her at first.
Some of the rats jump, though do not retreat. One of the rats hisses at her. The others begin hissing at her too and keening a squeaking, sinister sound. More rats come from the open doorway of a cupboard. It is her crockery cupboard, where she keeps the glasses and mugs they drink from, the plates and bowls they eat from; she gags as the trail of rats continues, at least two dozen crawling up to her kitchen sink.
They cover the stainless-steel of the sink, a mass of maliciously staring monsters. How can a rat be malicious? It was ridiculous. And where did they all come from?
She could see their fat bellies moving as they breathed, smell the stink of flesh upon them.
She reached for the biggest knife in the knife block. The rat that had first hissed at her – she was sure it was the same one – began snarling. A high pitched imitation of a bull-dog’s growl.
She glanced at the knife, not sure what to do, too scared to get any closer to the snarling, hissing rodents. She threw the knife at the biggest, the one who had started the hissing and snarling.
The rats surged forward. The knife clattered upon the grooved, stainless steel scarcely scratching a rat in its flight. A splatter of red lay as proof to its grazing while the wave of rats surges relentlessly forth.
They sweep up her legs. Biting at her toes. Gnawing at the skin of her feet, her ankles, her calves. Clawing their way up her thighs. She screams a scream of agony, of horror. Blood pours down her legs, gushing over the sea of slithering bodies, painting the scene ever more horrorful. They chew and claw through the fabric of her panties, climb into her dressing gown, biting at her belly. She falls to her knees, screaming at the terror, at the obscene pain.
More rats come at her; an unceasing torrent. Their claws tear at the soft skin of her breasts. Sharp teeth bite chunks from her flesh. She screams at the pain. The sharp, intense pains all over her body, feeling thousands of needle like teeth tearing at her becomes too much; it all becomes one entity of pain and claws and sharp, sharp teeth.
The rats move up the quivering muscles of her neck as she screams like she never knew possible.
Her mouth is wide open, a siren of terror. The lead rat plunges in, claws in tongue; that pain she recognises in the daze of agony. She tries to close her mouth, to spit out the vileness but it is too late, there are too many of them. Delving into the cavity of her throat. Teeth tearing at her lips so she cannot close them. Ever. Her uvula is ripped away from the her palate as a frenzied rat pounces upon it, jaws embedded, shaking it’s head violently to win the prized piece of meat for his own.
She passes out at the pain. At the knowledge there is no hope, there is no possibility of recovery. This is it.

The smartest person I know

2009-08-22T06:17:00.001-07:00

My grandma is the smartest person I know.

My mother became angry when I told her that because my grandma has Alzheimer’s Syndrome. My mother doesn’t think Gran can be smart and have Alzheimer’s. Mum thinks because Gran doesn’t know what day of the week it is that she does not know other things too.

I wonder sometimes if Gran just cannot be bothered to remember what day of the week it is. I lose track of what day it is in the summer holidays when days of heat, ice-cream cones, water fights and bitumen sticking to your feet merge together and it all becomes, simply, summer holidays. Only boring adults keep track of what day it is and Gran is not a boring adult.

Gran can talk for hours about revolutions and reformations, wars and battles, truces and amnesties, sieges and surrenders, moments that changed history, the great ideas that shaped the world, the leaders that inspired and those that wrought destruction. I don’t think she ever gets a date or name wrong; every one I have checked has always been correct. And she will talk to me about novels and poems, about theatre she has seen and concerts she has heard. My grandma knows a lot.

My grandma doesn’t always know who my mum is; sometimes I’d like to forget who mum is too.

Gran always knows I’m her special boy – I don’t know if she remembers my name or when I was born but such facts do not matter to her. She remembers that I’m her special boy. Sometimes she checks that I know this and asks me who I am – I say
“I’m your special boy Gran,”
- and she says, “Of course you are. Of course.”

She remembers what is important. She remembers love and beauty and things grand and tells me of wonderful, joyous times. She doesn’t remember things that aren’t important, like bills. That is why she had to come live with us, because she could not pay her bills. I liked her coming to live with us because she tells me fantastic stories and helps me with my homework. Mum didn’t like her coming to live with us (although she would never say so), so Mum bosses Gran about. When Mum bosses Gran about Gran forgets who she is and sometimes yells at her like my teenage sister used to (before she went away), she yells -
“You are not my mum! You cannot tell me what to do.”
Sometimes I’d like to yell at mum like that too.

My mother told me Gran lost it after Grandpa died. Grandma prefers to believe Grandpa is still alive and I think that is when other people lost touch with her – people who insist on telling her he is gone. She does not want to live in a world without him and so believes he has just gone down the shops but the other adults cannot accept that; they insist on telling her that he is dead. So they say she has lost touch but it seems to me that they have too.

They said she stopped caring about keeping the house clean and paying her bills but I do not know why you would care about keeping a clean house and paying bills. They seem pretty boring things to care about to me. Gran cares about helping me get my English homework correct and her football team winning (real football that is; she barracks for Man U) and giving me advice on how to get Jamie-Lee from school to notice me – she cares about interesting things. Because she does not care about boring things other adults do so they say she has lost it.

I do not know if I want to find it. I do not want to care about paying bills and what day of the week it is; if that is having ‘it’, I’d rather be lost.

Gran seems a lot happier lost than my mum, who thinks she has it. Sometimes Gran frets about Grandpa and worries that he hasn’t come home and then she is sad. When she is sad I play chess or the Nintendo with her and she soon smiles again – so long as Mum does not tell her Grandpa is dead. Mum does not smile. Having ‘it’ does not make my mum happy or make her smart but she seems to think Gran needs what she has lost – that ‘it’ that makes adults care about boring things.

Now mum tells me Gran has to go away – that it is too difficult to look after her. It doesn’t matter that she tells me stories of princes and kings, of far-off lands, of warriors and emperors. It doesn’t matter that I am her special boy. Mum says she has to go somewhere where they will make sure she has three meals a day and where she will not be able to go wandering whenever she feels like it. It makes me sad for Gran that she will not even be able to go for a walk when she wants to so I asked Mum what she had done wrong. Mum tried to tell me it was not a punishment, that it is care – but it sounds like punishment to me.

The smartest person I know is going away tomorrow. They are locking her up because she does not care about the things they do; because she does not care what day of the week it is, so they will put her in a place where other boring adults will care for her. Why someone has to care what day of the week it is I still do not know. When I do, I will have ‘it’, but I’d rather have my gran.