That time of year again.

No real Christmas post this year. Tomorrow I leave to go see my family in Canberra, and to pick up Savannah and move her to Melbourne. I don't really have time for ranting about commercialism or bitching about how families always fight or hating the fact that I have to go back to Canberra. I think my feelings this year can be summed up in a song by Tim Minchin, though. So I'm gonna be slack and post those lyrics.

I really like Christmas
It's sentimental, I know, but I just really like it
I am hardly religious
I'd rather break bread with Dawkins than Desmond Tutu, to be honest

And yes, I have all of the usual objections
To consumerism, the commercialisation of an ancient religion
To the westernisation of a dead Palestinian
Press-ganged into selling Playstations and beer
But I still really like it

I'm looking forward to Christmas
Though I'm not expecting a visit from Jesus

I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun
I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun

I don't go in for ancient wisdom
I don't believe just 'cos ideas are tenacious it means they are worthy
I get freaked out by churches
Some of the hymns that they sing have nice chords but the lyrics are spooky

And yes I have all of the usual objections
To the miseducation of children who, in tax-exempt institutions,
Are taught to externalise blame
And to feel ashamed and to judge things as plain right and wrong
But I quite like the songs
I'm not expecting big presents
The old combination of socks, jocks and chocolate is just fine by me

Cos I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun
I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun

And you, my baby girl
My jetlagged infant daughter
You'll be handed round the room
Like a puppy at a primary school
And you won't understand
But you will learn someday
That wherever you are and whatever you face
These are the people who'll make you feel safe in this world
My sweet blue-eyed girl

And if, my baby girl
When you're twenty-one or thirty-one
And Christmas comes around
And you find yourself nine thousand miles from home
You'll know what ever comes
Your brother and sisters and me and your Mum
Will be waiting for you in the sun
Whenever you come
Your brothers and sisters, your aunts and your uncles
Your grandparents, cousins and me and your mum
We'll be waiting for you in the sun
Drinking white wine in the sun
Darling, when Christmas comes
We'll be waiting for you in the sun
Drinking white wine in the sun
Waiting for you in the sun
Waiting for you...
Waiting...

I really like Christmas
It's sentimental, I know...

Shades

The shade of apathy
Hides in reflection
If you don't meet his eyes
He wins anyway.

The lord of melancholy
Sits atop his horse of heat
He rides through
and sows entitlement.

The serpent of sin
is a scaled serenader.
He'll wrap you in strands
of finest silk.

The wreck of hunger
shambles
just over the horizon
and he raises a great cloud.

The liar of love
feeds you honey and mint.
He'll kiss you on the lips
and steal away into the night.

Want what.

You can't always get what you want,
And sometimes what you want won't.
If what you want won't, then what?
When do you want what you won't?

I am yours, but you have to go.
It takes a long time to deal with that.
I'll wed your presence and dwell with it,
But you leave and divorce what I want.

There's evidence of what I wanted,
Strewn around in the blistering heat.
All it takes is a look to the side -
An effigy to indolence.

I'll shift you to the back of my mind,
In the same way that an addict
Will shift a stick to the side of his mouth.
Substitution holds it all away.

I always get what I want.
But when what I want won't, I will.
When what I want won't -
then what will you want?
When you want, I won't.

Bad machine.

There's a machine that's fuelled by pieces of itself,
Chewed up small and forced into the flames,
To keep its product flowing in good health,
It occupies itself with sordid games.

It does things it surely wasn't made to do,
Like fill itself with toxic, evil fuel.
And though it had promise when it was new,
Now it obeys simpler, baser rules.

The product is contaminated, yes -
By this self consumption, sacrifice.
Mercy, love - it's chewed up like the rest,
No virtue undevoured by this price.

And then at last, when good is cast aside -
In favour of the cheaper cost of sin,
Then the machine has cause to run and hide -
Without the goods, the rust is creeping in.

Brainstream

Jen's doing stream of conciousness writing. I want to be like Jen. Plus, it has been a while since I've done that. I'm not expecting Prufrock, but I suppose we'll see how it ends up.

I really shouldn't listen to music while I do this.
It damns the flow somewhat. Keeps wanting me to become interject words.
Can't deny it. It's a shame though, because this song is about magic doors. They're opening all over the place, into Alice's head, and she's leaping through the air and suddenly there's ooze all over that pretty dress and she's slashing at the snails and they just
won't break.
And there's millions of them. Millions and millions, crawling all over her body, her desire, leaving their little trails of gunk over every surface within and without and you just know that you're not going to be able to scrub it all clean so you get out your flute and you play something and hope that somebody's recording.
I'm tired. I'm also worried I sound mad. I've been playing games about madness, I've been thinking about madness,
do I dare? Do I dare?
but I don't think I'm on the edge of that particular cliff just yet. It'd be nice though
to slide away
into dementia. Well, I'm smart. Maybe in a few decades.
Song finished. Interlude.

New song began. Same band. Named 'Hunter'. All I can think of is those blue and orange creatures made out of tubes, and you shoot them and they bleed all over the corrogated iron floor. The tone isn't like that at all. It's something you'd play in a boudior - spelling? - with a pale faced lady lying prone and listless on a couch nearby and I forget where I was going with this but she's drained of all her blood.
And there's a cacaphony of serenades competing for space on your tongue and you can't decide which one spews forth and tarnishes the air above her head, so you settle for none and you lick your lips and stare out over the unmoving world. Hunter. That sounds about right, doesn't it? It'd be cold. It's never hot in places like that. It's never hot here, come to think of it, not properly. I don't warm up like I should, like proper people do. Pat does. He's usually warm, and I'm straying into territory that could get graphic here so I'll make an effort to force my mind away from skin and sweat and bedroom and turn it back to things that are holy and sanctified like a woman being drained of flesh or a man having nails driven into his flesh. Hunter. That'll do nicely. Can't listen to this anymore. Interlude.

I was right. This wasn't Prufrock. And now the northern lights are shining on me and the tone is shifting yet again and dragging me with it.
And I'm flinging
fireballs
from the back seat of a moving bus
apocalypse
as the world slides into the grave
with a riotous sound
not with a whimper, but with a glorious bang,
an orgy of destruction and vainglory,
and I'm the destroyer
and the important thing is that everybody knows it
but I'll be home in time to raid.

That'll do, I think.

Well/Better and everything in between

Well?
What now?
A little piece?
For a little peace.
You'll hardly miss it, honest.
What's the harm in trading it?
Where's the suffering in giving it up?
You won't regret this choice for long.
Just a tiny, insignificant piece.
Nothing worth fighting over.
Hand it over.
That's good.
Better?

Time Enough.

Everybody's telling you that you can't,
As you're rubbing ointments on the wound.
Nothing ventured, nothing at the start,
You smile and duck your head and hum a tune.
There's no path around this here jungle that's sprung up -
No road to take you where you need to go.
There's a ditch that you'll abridge when you've enough,
And a jungle - that's a metaphor. Don't you know?

Through the gates, through the gates,
With nothing to stop you on your way
Nothing holds you back from keeping dates,
Nothing holds you back from yesterday.
You smile at the drones out on the street,
With vapid eyes and grinning lies and faded heart,
But there is nothing that constrains your depth or feet,
Nothing to suppress your soul of art.

Rejoice!; rejoice,
The world is your oyster - or mollusc of choice,
It's there for the taking, if you find your voice,
There's time enough for love, now,
Time enough for strife.
Time enough for husband and time enough for wife.
Time enough for suffering and time enough for scorn.
Time enough for happiness, time to be forlorn.
Time to lose the beaten track, time to take a toll,
Time to love the jungle, time to fill your bowl.
There's enough inspiration to take it from the soil,
Take it from your blogging friends and take it from your toil,
Take it from the end of something and from life anew.
Take it from most any source, but most of all, from you.

Sing, man. I believe you.

You've been let in,
And you're not sure how.
But you're steeped in sin.

There's a boy in the dark,
And he opens his mouth,
And sings like a man.

Something isn't right.
A feel, a thought, a dream.
Drinks during the day.

Suddenly, a power play.

The voices within,
Burst into song,
I'll sing along.

Something feels wrong.
The lights are off,
I'm not a good man.

Is this your plan?
Throw it aside,
It won't help you here.

There's nothing to fear.
Only your arm,
And force of will.

I can settle your stomach.

Dance with me, and I'll make you feel wrong,
To your very core,
To the depths of your self,
To the end of your health.
To the earth, to the bones,
To me.
I won't be a martyr.
It won't be alright.
But it might just be
enough.

Matter of Time

Always never seems to last.
We just end up here again.
I can help you if I want to.

We're just waiting for our meds,
Burning daylight till we sleep,
You mean nothing to me in the dark.

It's a good time until we close our eyes and fall.
It's a good dream until the dawning of the day.
It's a good life, but you know I can't stay.

It's a sea that we can never cross,
A word floats into the air and is burned away.
It's just a matter of time,
You've been running with the wind,
And now there are bars across the doorways to your soul.

And this might take a lot of our time to get through,
So don't fight against me.
This might take a lot of our patience and strength,
But you have the strength,
And you tear between those bars and you're free in the wind.

The sun is calling your name,
It's the time to be out in the world,
And you sing with your hands
and your eyes fall away.

Down here, waiting in the dark.
A world that's built from blood and shame.
And your breath falls across it.

Turn my face towards the sun.
There's a light in the gloom,
And all I see in it is your face.

Get the FUCK Up.

Blink,
Think,
Roll over and
drape your hand across the space where he used to be,
Let out a groan
as your body informs you
that you need to pee,
Shake your head
and banish the dreams that chase
themselves around your mind.
Force them back down
to your core,
where they can't
drag
you down in kind.
Take your other hand off your crotch,
Frown and think,
And fight against the resurgence
of dreams.
Who was I fucking? Why was he there?
Was I flying or acting or
burning
or writing something terrible
or singing a song
or kissing, always kissing,
there's so much sex in my dreams
and I have no idea why it is happening
oh god, I'm a deviant,
and my breath
is
awful.

Drag yourself upright.
No mean feat.
Stagger into the bathroom and spit into the sink.
Bleary.
Bags under the eyes
but I slept all day
oh
Fresh spots.
Fresh blots.
Fresh, refreshed.
Let's get clean.
Hot water can manage this.
But what about that dream?
Burn it all away,
Down the drain.
Time to awake.

Eat the Sun

Because I needed a second post before November ended.

Welcome to the show,
Stand up and drink it in,
We'll film it blow by blow,
We'll coat your soul in sin.
This is the new stage,
This is the broken score,
And the symphony is fading...

One breaks forth and we all turn north,
The show is overrun,
Fiends with faces from foreign places,
Our litany is struck dumb.

Why don't we head backstage?
Your chance to meet the star,
They're simply all the rage,
They've travelled near and far,
They are the new disease,
They always aim to please,
And they've got everything you wanted...

Two break forth and we all turn north,
The show is overrun,
Fiends with faces, foreign places,
Hide from breath that makes you numb,

And I'm not sure if I made the right choice,
And I'm not sure if you speak with my voice,
But that choice and voice are mine!

Three break forth and we all turn north,
Show is overrun,
Fiends with faces from foreign places,
The star breaks free, not overcome.
The breath blows by and leaves me numb,
And I stand tall and eat the sun.

Offerings Demanded

Ollie posted twice, the asshole. I'm not going to post twice. I'm going to post some stuff about my real life situation as per usual, and then I'm going to write something in italics. But to cut the real life stuff shorter, I'm going to do them in short sharp sentences. This'll prevent my usual rambling, I hope. Or turn it into something resembling

We've moved into a new house.
Blue couch, white walls, tiny fridge.
A place to smoke, a place to joke,
A place to feel trapped and pace about the place.
Internet's back, which is nice.
Hardwired into the core again,
Information sleeting past so fast,
Doesn't allow me time to stop and think.
Everything is done. The submission is in.
There's time to wait and worry about satisfaction.
And wish that you were drunk,
Or in a car, or on a train,
Or trying to remember who you were and what you wanted,
Before you moved in.
And then I shrug my shoulders and laugh and eat some chocolate.
And everything's alright again.
Tilting back on the axis of my life and letting me feel balanced.
I still worry somewhat the things I'm neglecting.
But everything is doing okay.
Family seem to miss me, which isn't very good.
Friendships are on hold, because of exams.
But I live and I love and I have something new.
And it seems to be what I want.
That'll do, right? I've summed up what I need to say.
Oh, also. I've lived here for a year now.
In Melbourne, that is, not in this house.
So the following is very loosely about that.
And in another sense, it isn't about that at all.
It's called Offerings Demanded.
My stuff doesn't often have decent titles these days.
But I quite like this one.

Offerings Demanded

I read today, about a
strong woman who could beat
her head against the wall while others watched
and didn't lift a finger,
and didn't care for her pain,
and didn't even care enough to laugh at her -
and keep smiling. I wasn't sure how exactly
that was supposed to make her strong.
It seemed stupid.
I think I'm a lot like that woman. Only
I don't think I'd be capable of suffering
that much
unless I knew that somebody was watching
and caring for it. For me, somehow.
Three hundred and sixty-five days
have gone past. I've seen myself looking back
from within the haze
of exhaustion
the steely-grey glimmer
of excitement
the smooth-skinned delight
of vanity
and the ugly-red mist
of anger.
I've seen myself in the mirror
and I've seen it all change, shifting
ever so slowly to the better
half of what it was supposed to be
or something.
Shifting from the person who stood and watched
and didn't care enough to laugh
or lift a finger to help,
or even to pay much attention
shifting from him, from that cold, cruel gaze
from those grasping hands
from that steely-grey haze
from everything that he was while he watched.
Shifting
to the woman who could beat her head against the wall
and keep smiling
because on the other side of that wall
is something that she cares about
more than herself, and the
meat that keeps herself in her body
and the bones that keep her meat together
and the face that lets us see her soul.
There's something that she cares about
that allows her to hurt herself,
to reach deep inside herself and
drag something out
it's a fire
I'm a fire
and I'm burning
for what's on the other side of that wall
and you're watching.
Don't stop watching.
I need to know that somebody is.
Or I'll stop
shifting
Into eyes
I can meet in the meat
in the mirror.

Satisfied?

Time to write in italics. That signifies I'm moody, right?

Where the fuck is that sense of satisfaction?
Twice today. Carnally and mentally. Everything that should have given reprieve, release - where is it? Who the fuck stole it from me? At what point in this metamorphisis did I lose the ability to gloat? To cackle, to crow and to wallow? To glory in success, in the thrill of being right, in the release, in the breaking of the drought, the turning of the tide, the light in their eyes fading to grim understanding and under it all the knowledge that you wrought this, you and you alone, and that you did from the start and you knew from the very beginning that everything would play out the way you expected it to and now that you've taken what you want from their foolish eyes and their confusion and the cavorting of their bodies you can leave them in the dust.

So where the fuck is it?
You were wrong. I was right. That should be the end of it. I should be able to rub your nose in the mess you've made. Say 'Hah. You were wrong. This is what you get for doubting me. This is what you deserve.' And then I should be able to spin on my heel and walk away. Instead, I feel sick. Sick to my very stomach that you had to go through this. Sick to my core that something like this could come along and I would expect to feel satisfaction from it. Sick, instead of pleased. I would have been pleased a month ago. Why am I not pleased.

You stole it from me.
I don't think I'll ever forgive you for giving me dimensions.

Seven Opened

This was a creative response for a year 11 subject. I don't think I blogged it at the time, but I found it cleaning out my documents. So, yeah. Now it's here.



Seven opened his eyes.

It was precisely eight hours since he has closed them. His body had received an optimal amount of sleep and as he lifted his left arm and pressed the red ‘release’ button on his sleeping pod he heard the pneumatic hiss as the other pods in his row released. He lifted his head and sat up, knowing that on his left, Six was seated – and on his right, Eight had awoken. He did not bother to turn his head. That action had no logic – Six and Eight were both there, and there was no point in speaking to them or even noticing them.

His feeding tube snaked down from the trough that ran along the low-slung metal roof above their heads. As the pods began to slowly vibrate to further awaken their senses, Seven took his feeding tube in his left hand and placed it in his mouth. He felt the tube begin to pump raw nutrient paste and he busied himself with swallowing it mechanically. He noted distantly that Eight sounded like he was having some trouble keeping up with his flow of paste – perhaps a visit to the medical facilities was in order again. Physical inability would not be tolerated. To be imperfect was to be illogical. To be identical was the purpose of life. Eight would be assisted to equality or he would be terminated.

Seven blinked at a rate of eight blinks a minute, but he allowed himself a ninth in acknowledgement of his wandering mind. Speculation on Eight was illogical. He removed his feeding tube from his mouth after the Feeding Minute had passed, and rose from his sleeping pod. Taking three steps forward, he turned and faced left, looking directly at the back of Six’s shaved head. As the hatches above opened and the cleansing fluid began to rain down upon their naked bodies from the central tanks, he wondered if Six was female. It was a strong possibility – on the seven occasions he had glimpsed Six reach out for a feeding tube or a release button, the hand had given the impression of slim bone structure – something Seven was sure was a feminine trait, or at least, had once been. He reminded himself that unless he was selected to provide genetic material for the Fourth Generation he would likely never know what gender Six was, and as the cleaning fluid dribbled over his body and seared away any traces of body hair or imperfection he reminded himself that gender was a secondary concern. All people were ‘he’. All people were identical. To be identical was the purpose of life.

After the Cleaning Minute had been concluded and the ten people in Seven’s row had been prepared for the work of the day before them, they marched from the sleeping quarters – starting with the left foot, two steps to each second – and headed down the metallic corridor towards their working quarters. Here they met with other rows coming from their quarters and moving in time. Seven did not bother to look at them. His attention was focused entirely on the back of Six’s head as he – or was it she? – led him to the work station. After three minutes and forty seconds, Seven found himself standing by his steel-grey work station. It consisted, he knew, of a metal desk with a computer on it and a metal chair identical to the desk. There was no paper, no drawers, and certainly no walls. Walls were not required when everybody performed identical tasks. Seven seated himself with a mental reminder that he was truly living in paradise. Sleeping chamber, corridor, work quarters. His whole world.

The day’s work began. Seven reached down with his right hand and switched on his computer. His computer clicked on, as did the hundred other computers in the room. All but one. There was a delay of two seconds, and then the computer directly behind Seven clicked. The noise echoed about the work quarters and Seven knew that Eight had turned his computer on late. Yet another sign that Eight was no longer identical. It brought shame on Seven’s entire row and if indignation had been a logical emotion Seven would have been full of it. Eight was flawed and would likely be terminated. The most logical thing to do would be to apply himself to his work exactly the same way he did every day. Eight’s transgression would not affect his ability to contribute to the whole. To be identical was the purpose of life. Imperfection was illogical. Seven set to his work, as did all the people around him – hopefully including Eight.

If Seven had possessed the capacity for boredom, his work would have filled that capacity to the brink. His work – and the work of all those around him – was endlessly shuffling figures of columns from one line to another in repetitive and pointless displays of mathematics. Seven did not know what purpose his calculations served. The entire Third Generation performed the same work – or so he assumed. He did not wonder why. Such thoughts were illogical and imperfect. Seven applied himself to his calculations with no deviation and no flaws. He was identical to his peers in every way, and his life was devoted entirely to the community.

That all changed with the smell.

Seven inhaled through his nostrils at the rate of twelve breaths per minute, and in the third hour of his work on the twenty-second minute, his eighth breath registered a change in the air. Lungs that had inhaled nothing but circulated air for over three decades struggled to cope with this utterly foreign atmosphere. Nasal passages that had experienced nothing but cleansing fluid, nutrient paste and metallic cleaner for years sent frantic signals to Seven’s brain. This was something new, they said. Something different.

Seven looked down. There was a crack in the metal at his feet. Some pressure or weakness in the construction had weakened the floor just enough for a tiny crack to form, and from it drifted raw, pure air. Seven inhaled deeply, deeper than was logically required. The air smelt like damp earth, like rain – like plants. Seven hadn’t seen a plant in forty years, but he knew what one smelt like. He raised his head and stood up.

“I wonder what’s at the end of the corridor.”

A shiver ran through the assembled rows. Illogical! Imperfect! A heretic! They fixed their eyes on their screens and didn’t pay him the slightest heed, but he could see the distress in their eyes. He took three steps forward, and then stopped counting. He started with his right foot instead of his left. He sped up his pace as he headed for the door. His body screamed in protest but the scent was in his nostrils and he didn’t care. The door was open and there was nothing anybody could do to stop him. Out of the work quarters, into the corridor, down to the end of the catwalk. There was a door here, a door he hadn’t noticed in three decades of walking the corridor. A door with a red release button.

Seven opened his eyes.

Ascendancy

The first step is to stop waking up.
Walking the streets and smelling the air,
Air is the enemy.

The second step is to lock yourself away.
Confinement is the pathway to the other.
Movement is chains.

The third step is to turn off your mind.
Those thoughts are often crass and crude,
The mind is a crutch.

The fourth step is to dream.
There's purity of purpose behind your eyes,
Flight, and flame, and power.

The fifth step is to rise.
Flesh falls away, the dross of your life,
Life is death. Die to live.

The sixth step is to forget.
What is, is what was, and what shall be.
You were nothing before now.

The seventh step is to raze.
Destroy all that could undo your work.
You're light and strength and destruction.

Three for Five

I'm going to try something different today. I'm going to post some pictures, and then I'm going to write three sentences underneath those pictures. Consider this a creative writing activity. Or something. I don't know. I just want to get some juices flowing tonight. Hear that, Ollie? You're making me get my juices flowing.



It worked better than I had hoped, hunkered down as I was behind the gaping maw of madness. I thought for sure I'd be singed, or simply that it wouldn't work. I didn't know what to do with it, but I knew it felt good.





Bruised, battered and broken. Not quite done yet, though. I still have something left.




I'm finding that I don't feel the same way I used to feel about you. The pieces don't fit together so well anymore. I think I'm in the grip of something beyond my comprehension...





"When I snap my fingers, you'll be afraid to think!"
"I wonder what I'll cook for dinner tonight?"
"That's the spirit."



It raised a bald, feeble head and blinked eyes fresh from the birthing vats, already adjusting to the purpose I had instilled within it. I robed it in the uniform of my House, the garments of an honoured servant.
"What is your will, Master?"

So it isn't pure genius. It -was- kind of fun though. Try it sometime if you can't think of anything to write. There's at least two short stories in that.

Something Benny Said

Needed to save this. Somebody put how I'm feeling at the moment far better than I ever could have.

My dear Jason,
You are a creature of ridiculous, yet beautiful, contradictions. The vast and various energies bouncing around inside of you - which sometimes seem to me to be almost too much for your body to handle, bursting at the seams with them - are often diametrically opposed: severe melancholy, but boundless joy; an affected arrogance battling with a vital desire to love and be loved, to care and be cared for; a modesty that verges on self-destructive next to a confidence in your considerable abilities that makes you near dangerous (in the best of ways, of course). Creative and destructive forces, engaged in the constant battle which shapes your fluid, dynamic, engaging and arresting personality and gives you such a strong presence and charisma that it's hard to look away, literally and figuratively...
But perhaps what I love most, is that when all these forces become too much, when you become overwhelmed, you give in to that vulnerability, revel in it, and then with determination, you pick yourself up and start again, rebuilding from scratch until you are once more a force to be reckoned with. It's an inspiring way to live and be, all that I've listed here, and I love it all.

Beauty

Your beauty,
Isn't for me,
You will give it to the whores,
The disenfranchised and forlorn.
You grace the loud Americans,
You smile at drunks in stinking dens,
You're dazzling and ablaze,
You leave them lost and dazed.

Your beauty
Cannot possibly,
Be free of charge.
It's just too large!
You'll give it to the crowding mass,
Their probing eyes, their minds so crass,
And then the lights will all come on,
They look around, and then you're gone,
A fleeting glimpse, a stirring word,
A snatch of laughter's all they've heard,
And I want more, I want it all,
But if I reach out I'll surely fall,
To others you come easily,
But you're just out of reach for me.

Your beauty,
isn't for me.
I'll turn my mind to spite and scorn,
To multiple partners and internet porn,
To closed off minds, to tattered hearts,
To nights that can tear me apart,
To hate and rage and solitude,
To an angry, sullen attitude -
If I can't have you, what's the use?
Henchforth my anguish will serve as my muse.

Your beauty's all I've wanted,
Ever since we kissed and parted.
And you'll grace the world with your devotion,
But you made me feel emotion.

Of Forgiveness, Love, and Creation

You're so busy living your life that you don't have any time to record it and that makes you sad. Do you have any idea how monumentally strange that is?

Hoo boy, it has been some time.

Months, in fact.

Let's try and debrief a little. Or a lot. Whatever happens, right? Then I'll write something down in italics to make it seem deeper than it actually is (already done once, but what the hey) and then we'll call it an evening. Christ, where to begin.

And there's a myriad of things left to do. Spiralling and spinning around, eating up the hours like the fish you keep in the corner and you're the feeders.

I suppose I should start as far back as I can possibly go. Much Ado About Nothing finished. I didn't do a post when it finished because I was blinded with rage/ill with tonsilitis. The show was as always an incredible experience, and not just because of the people involved or the script or what-have-you. I was stabbed in the back rather heavily during the afterparty, but good came out of it, so I can't hold hatred on the matter. Much Ado showed me that I can be a good person. I can agonize about hurting people, I can compromise, I can work with people who are insufferable at times and I can love with every part of me so hard that nothing can stop me from truimphing. And if that all sounds utterly wanky, that's fine, because it probably is. I'm just trying to express that for me, as always, a play is a learning experience and a chance to grow as a person, and I'm certainly doing that.
I forgave somebody. With no spite, no malice and no promise of further retribution, I forave somebody for wronging me. I hope that future me will look back on this post and not understand why this is such a big deal. It is a huge deal. I don't think I've never been able to do that before.
Also, Shakespeare was quite satisfying and will probably continue to be a love of mine on stage for a very long time.
And on the subject of love...

He thickens the air you breathe, a cloying, confounding musk that threatens to overwhelm you. A vapour that can change the way you think. A virus that can change who you are. Something that cannot be resisted and is pleasure to endure. You're wide open and vulnerable.

I'm in it. Disgusting, I know. I've been living with Patrick for three months now. We've been together four. We're currently househunting. I am dangerously close to sharing his bed (this may not seem like a big deal, but for future me, it will be). We lie awake at all hours talking about the world and eating chocolate. We watch television, we play computer games, we kiss and fuck and go out drinking, we plan plays, we hate each other's parents (okay, I just hate his) and we dote over our pet fish. He's found himself growing more vicious and less forgiving, more willing to be conceited and scornful, more willing to punish those who transgress against him. I've found myself softer, more willing to let somebody in, wanting to please somebody just because I can, doing things because it will bring a smile to somebody else's face. It's pathetic. We're entwined. I think I'm happier than I've ever been. It's exhilarating. I never want it to end and yet sometimes it threatens to tear me apart. This, my friends, is living. And now I'll stop talking about him because there's nothing I can say in words that will encompass how I'm feeling. Greater men than me have tried. For now, it is enough.

These monologues are threatening to explode out of you, like a geyser of cheap verbosity and poisoned penmanship. You fall asleep at night and dream of men whose skulls are gripped in vices and their skin explodes off them like a potato in a pipe - and deep in your soul you know that you dream of yourself.

I'm still caught up in The Case - which is the play that I'm submitting to be put on next year, dear reader, if you have forgotten. I feel as though I know these characters I've created better than myself some days. Their motivations are clear to me, their paths laid out, their ends inevitable. It's neater than my own life in a lot of ways, as depressing as that sounds. I don't quite know what I'll do if my submission is rejected. I have a burning need to stage something, anything - to run a process, to create something worth creating. You, my blog, are something to treasure, but you are not a play, and you are rarely if ever viewed. I hunger for more. I'm praying to whatever god will listen that I get it.

And now, snapshots, cameos of a life well lived, driven by that burning need to note it all down lest it fade into nothing and be less than nothing when you move on from it. These photographs in sentences will not suffice, and yet, what more can you do?

• I have seen some very good plays recently. Pirate Rhapsody, Measure for Measure, Frankenstein in Love. I also saw Spring Awakening and I could not stand it. It does me good to say that, even if everyone else seemed to love it.
  
• I want to lie on a beach and drink lemonade. Read a book in the sun that makes me think and go for a dip in the shallows and feel the flesh on my back slowly roast and know that I'll pay for it later.
  
• This Saturday I am going to inspect a two-storey townhouse to see if we can live in it. It is beautiful on the outside. I think I can make it beautiful on the inside too, with a bit of work. Kind of like myself, really.
• I am, as ever, surrounded by beautiful, engaging, insightful and intelligent people and I could not ask for more, because there could be nothing better.
• Cave Johnson is the name of the aforementioned fish. He is an Oscar and he is a greedyguts. I love him very much and I hope that the pH problem sorts itself out.
• IT shops are rip-offs and should not be allowed to stay open, the thieving bastards.
• I am still not speaking to my brother, and this will probably continue until I go back to Canberra in November.
• My parents have moved house, from the rental in Gordon to a bought house in Banks. I hope they are happy. I think about them a lot.
• My father told me last week that what I do with my penis is no concern of his. It sounded like a plea. It also was very touching. I'm not quite sure what to make of my father now that he's clean and sober. He challenges a lot of my preconceptions about him.
• I miss Savannah very much and cannot wait for her to live with me.
• University is secondary, which is unfortunate.
• I should resolve to stress less, and in all honesty, blog more. This has helped.

And now, cast this aside and return to bed, alone for the first ime in weeks. Seared in the flames of your thoughts, allowing yourself to be tormented by an insignificant absence, by a void. There is nothing wrong with you. You feel so strongly there is no room in you to doubt yourself. I love you.

I suppose that's all for tonight. I might try my hand at writing a few more songs this month. No promises, though. There's Case monologues to work on and subjects to finish and a house to move into. There's no room for sorrow. Life is being lived.

She and He

I don't really know what this is.

She comes for you with gnashing teeth and the flesh of the others on her claws. She comes for you with wailing and with lamentation, she comes for you with the force of a hundred thousand, she comes and she shakes the earth and hearth beneath your feet. She comes and shatters all bonds. She comes to herald the god who never was, who breeds the weak and eats the strong. She comes and there's a darkness, a smothering, a shattering, a pestilence. She comes and brings frenzy and famine, rape and ruin, wrath and wrack and war. She comes and she clenches her fist around your beating heart and licks the lifeblood from your face. She comes and nothing will bar her way.

He comes for you with hands outstretched and the scent of lilacs on his tongue. He comes for you with praise and with glory, he comes for you with the desire of a thousand sighing courtesans, he comes and he opens all doors and hearts with his gaze. He comes and he binds you in threads of shimmering steel. He comes to herald the goddess who we all see, who smites the godless and exalts the holy. He comes and he brings peace and prosperity, happiness and holiness, smiles and sun and celebration. He comes and he wraps his hands around your body and holds you close. He comes, and nothing will keep you from him.

A little sickness.

I've had a crippling sickness for almost a month now and the boyfriend is absent tonight for an extended time. Hello, teenage angst. Can't get away with it for much longer.


A little sickness here and there,
Is really rather nice.
An illness is beyond compare,
A fever thrilling, unaware
It floods and overcomes.

But when the illness lingers,
In your froth and in your fingers,
In your breath and in your bone,
And in the malignant monotone,
Of weakness and of lacklustre poise,
Your guts will rumble, make a noise,
Your neck will pulse, your throat will tear,
And you're no longer unaware.

A lot of sickness, near and far,
Is really rather shit,
A plague, a rot, a falling star,
A suffering that's beyond par,
And here's the fuck of it.

You're all alone, all in a flash,
Your frail flesh crumbling to ash,
Your hope gives way, your flesh ignites,
Your blood and brain no longer fight,
Abandoned and ignored in grief,
The sickness is beyond belief,
And nothing makes it go away,
So close your eyes, and weep, and pray.

He will return, and morbid thoughts take wing,
And banish the shade of suffering,
He'll touch your back, he'll soothe your fears,
For your sorrow he'll be all ears,
But till then, the light off silver screens -
Your words are not quite as they seem.
And though you quail, and weep and wail,
You shall yet live to tell the tale.

Turning

Fuck, I need a drink.
Greasy haired and sick of all.
Catch this, and you fall.

The Witching Hour

It's that hour between twelve and one.
You're splayed across the scene,
Shapes across tiles,
Crooked, late smiles.
Something's wrong with your hair,
And there's blue in your stare,
And everything is strange and twisty-wrong,
Like the words to some half-forgotten song,
That they sing over the graves of suicides,
And there's blue in your eyes.
Spilling over, round and round,
Your body twisted through the air,
Razor thin,
It draws you in,
A stranger looks back from the mirror and you're caught by him,
But he can't see your feet and you try and keep them
from him, he can't see them yet,
this isn't your time, your place, your hour,
it belongs to him.
And there's blue in your stare,
and there's magic in the air,
And everything is tangled.
Stretched taut-assured
and twisty as the tunnels that ants dig beneath your feet
that he cannot see.
And you don't even recognise yourself.
What sex are you?
Why are your eyes so sunken, your flesh so shrunken?
Why do you grin and blink out of sync?
And why is the blue seeping over your face?
That's entirely out of place.
But he'll come out in the wash.
And swirl down the drain.
But you're not quite the same.

Double over and you'll be fine.

Curtains

The curtain's about to go up.
Or rather, I'm about to go under the curtain.
Under the knife, cut into slices and diluted under lights.
Things are such a sight, and I'm not sure if I can hang on.
Because everything is ruined if you over-think it.
And you can a be one-dimensional bastard on stage,
With your red tie, and sweet hat, and tidy lies,
But if you try and keep that out of your life,
Things go under the knife.
Can you really go against your nature?
Nothing certainer, nothing stranger.
And here's the rub -
You want what you can't have,
Fingers, where there's a nub,
Another when one is in your bed,
And all the extras live inside your head,
And can't go on the stage because they didn't get the lead,
Adulterers, take heed.
A dash of honesty early will save shattering later,
But you can't give it up,
You're weak.

The curtain's about to go up.

Fragments

There's something tragic about a tank without a fish,
A meal without a dish,
And a life without a wish.

Buy me a hat,
And take my photo at the seaside,
And feed my words back to me disguised as your own,
And we'll miss the boat.

I am going to hug the fuck out of you.

Half a beard is rather weird,
But half a mind is taken in stride.
Beards and mind collide.

It can be easier to pretend to be somebody else,
When you're not happy in yourself.
But as the headache fades it gets harder,
So don't take the pill.

A vial of green goo,
Why would anyone drink that?
You're full of red goo.

There once was a man called Idoo,
Who featured in a haiku,
He was a little bit arty,
and boring at parties,
And nothing about him would do.

Even kings have to eat.

Crass. Crass. Crass. Crass. Crass. Crass. Crass. Crass.

I do not think they will sing for me.

Professional Writing

Clear cut keys tap away the seconds,
As the whirring air conditioner siphons away each breath.
The silence hangs heavy, pallid and profound.
A shroud upon the bloated corpse of thought.
A world where the written word is king,
And governs almost everything you do.
Is studied and examined in the bowels of buildings bare,
Just read it once, and sigh, and then you're through.
For the whispered words of people used to shouting,
Make for awkward sounds for minds to grasp upon.
And for students of the word to fail and be silent,
Lends little hope to set this down and done.

This bodes even more ill.

Sevenfold secrets surrendered by sorrowful silence.
Terrible terrapins, toasted towards the turning.
Loudmouth larrikins, leaping and lowering lungs.
Bastard boys, blighted and blessed before.

Up

You wrote a book of adventures and kept it on a shelf,

sealed away with secret plots and plans to escape.

Robots made of pots and pans and monsters made of felt,

You bound them all up in a book and left them on a shelf.

The seasons turned and tumbled, the golden years go by,

Nothing that we did was wrong, sordid, or unsound.

The dust in the corners of our world would pile high,

And then you died and I was forced to put you in the ground.

And then I went to that house that used to be a home,

And then I ate my breakfast, tied my tie and ran my life.

And in clearing out the cupboards I chanced upon that tome,

And remembered - remembered you, my adventurous wife.

If only I could fly away, and leave it all behind.

Coz the pots and pans are moving and the robots are alive.

And monsters made of felt arise, are marching through my mind,

And the world is softly buzzing with the buzzing of a hive.

So I'll sail away from all this, and see uncharted shores,

The places where no man has ever tread,

I'll sail away from nay-sayers, from bureaucrats and bores,

And sail with you, the lover in my head.

And the skies will be blue,

And the clouds will be white,

And the winds will be fair,

And we will both be beautiful again.

Caught, Spread, Fold.

Caught up in the words.
Spread them before you, exalt.
Fold away inside.

Comatose & Prone

Comatose.

Prone.

You're half covered and all exposed.

Gash, bright in your head,

Splayed, out on that bed,

Shattered helm, seeping red.

A cloying, stifling smell.

White bone, obscene under your pale face.

It made me feel dirty, somehow.

Like seeing you without your clothes,

Or seeing a woman without makeup,

After months of buying her face.

I suppose we're all whores underneath.

The dark fingers have put out your eyes,

The dark hands have closed over your throat,

But they weren't mine.

Never mine.

I never touched you.

I just sat and sipped my drink,

I suppose I didn't think about what would happen next.

But now it is done.

You are done.

And I'm left with the shell, your discarded clothes,

as you escaped free and clear into the night.

Damn.

Damn those dark fingers, those dark hands.

His dark body drove out your light.

And now you're such a sight, tonight.

Comatose and prone.

Of Lovers, Acting, and Housing

Little Suzy Stardust, with the nova in her eye,
She flew over the seas and she flew under the sky.
And all who saw her loved her so she came to little harm,
And she touched down on my doorstep and she fell into my arms.

Happy birthday, Savannah.








But sorry, you're not getting a whole post to yourself.
I'm in a curious mood. Curiously furious, hah-hah! But seriously. I'm discontent. I can make no use of my discontent, look at me, I'm quoting Shakespeare! Alright, enough of my rambling, let's type. It's been ages since I wrote a deconstructive post about my life, so let's do that.

First off, Much Ado About Nothing rehearsals are well underway. And what's more, they are WONDERFUL. The cast is lovely. Funnily enough I've never worked with a cast I don't like, though, so that might not mean much. But I spend most of my time laughing in rehearsals, so nothing could be better. I am suspecting as time goes on that I don't have the knack for performing Shakespeare - not that I can't do the lines I have or play the character I have, but that the sheer head-crushing depth of the lines is difficult to commit to memory. "I know not that when he knows what I know" is deceptively simple but took me WAY too long to memorize. I can only imagine the brain processes of the more major parts. But I digress. I am content with my role (El Bastardo, yay!) and I am content with those rehearsals.

But.

But, there's always a but, isn't there? But right now I'm way more engrossed in my own work - The Case. I know, I know, I'm turning it into an obsession and I'm setting myself up for disappointment if MUST don't pick it up but good lord it can be a good show, and good lord I want to put it on. I only hope that I can keep it together right up until I get confirmation or rejection, because right now the narrative is threatening to explode out of me and I want to wait until I know birthing it will have a purpose. Still, we'll see. Are you getting the impression that my life is a lot of theatre? You'd be right.

What else? I have decided that I do not like my sharehouse. My room is strangely oppressive, uni hasn't started yet so I haven't felt the benefits of living so close to it, and my housemates don't know how to use a rubbish bin so the place is always a tip. It drives me nuts (and angry letters from the landlord about the state of the place aren't helping my nerves, to be honest). But in all honesty, the only REAL reason I'm not happy with the place is because it isn't Pat's place.

As you can probably tell from my last post, I'm still with Pat. I will try not to gush too much. But honestly. Two months now, and I not only want to move in with him, I want to share a room with him. It baffles me how much I've changed over the past year or two (for further evidence of this change, see http://jasiondrake.blogspot.com/2009/09/i-experiment.html). I'm in love. I told somebody I loved them and so far it hasn't exploded in my face. And I can't remember how it felt to be alone. If he leaves me I'll be so ridiculously wounded but I don't think he will, and somehow that makes me happiest of all.
Hopefully the first two of many, many months.

I suppose that's all for the evening. Or perhaps not. A haiku!

Not easy to love,
I tried, I failed, and I fell.
And then you were there.

Forth Floor.

You're resting in your underwear,

Your flesh is sticking to the chair,

The lights are bright, the music's on,

The breeze is drifting in through a cracked window.

Four floors up.

Shores you up.

As the sound of youth echoes up towards the balcony,

And your lover sighs and turns a page at the edge of hearing.

As you drain your cup of juice,

And type away the night,

With dregs of meals past and passing spilt upon the floor.

As you tap out rhythmic signals to a light outside the door,

And the breeze sighs through the pot plant and catches your eye.

You can't say why,

But you feel at peace.

And if this is all there is,

This room on the fourth floor,

This breeze, the ease in which you sit your chair,

The ascent made by lifts with feet upon no stair,

If this is all there is, your lover in the bed with a book

And a hook to draw you in and make you forget who you were,

If this is all there is and nothing more,

And you are washed up upon the shore of the fourth floor,

Everything you were is nothing more,

And this is all there is.

Then you'll be pleased.

The lights are bright, the music's on.

The page turns,

And he sighs away your life with every breath.

Ecstatic death.

Fisher

More work on The Case. Incredibly rough draft.

Alleys! Vermin! Filth and decay!
This does not suit.
This will not suit.
I am of quality stock! I am the best breeding!
A man with a pedigree.
Blood as blue as the sky.
Rolling in refuse with the rats.
But I must. I must.
Fisher I am, and fisher I will be,
In sewers, in streets, in cemeteries -
There's gold in the dross.
Diamonds in the muck,
And power to be had.
You shouldn't mistake me.
I am not what I seem.
A mogul, caught up in wealth and wealthily caught up.
But for a man of my breeding,
A man with a pedigree,
Blood as blue as the sea -
For a man of my breeding it isn't about the money.
These hands were made to rule.
This face was minted for coinage,
This brow for a crown.
I want.
I want to be powerful.
I will be powerful.
And if power's price is rolling in the refuse with the rats,
Then this blue blood will mingle with muck,
And consider it cheap at twice the price.
Alleys! Vermin! Filth and decay!
When I'm in power I'll sweep it away,
Jonathan Fisher will dawn a new day!
Cheap at twice the price.

Minus the Mask

Shunted down railroad lines,

Sardines in tines, towards the fishery.

Get off at Southern Cross and climb the stairs,

Ramps and concrete everywhere,

Up, along, down.

To the milling masses in masks,

Cavorting and yelling and making a scene.

Somehow all beyond reproach thus far.

Scan the crowd, roll your eyes,

For this, you decided to rise

out of bed.

They hurt your head and you haven't even descended.

And you're counting down the seconds until this farce

is ended.

There's a pair of red and black pants in the throng,

So come along. You've got a friend to meet in there.

Descend the stairs, let out a sigh, give him a hug.

You've brought a gift, aren't you lovely?

He likes it. That's a plus. And then somebody comes along,

and reminds you bluntly that you're not

one of us.

You stand about the place for a half hour,

They get louder, cruder, shouting and singing.

For this you decided to rise.

And then at last you start to move,

Over roads and down the street with you at their head.

Better to be at the head then in the midst,

You wouldn't want to be drawn in and then ejected.

Your companions notice that you're dejected,

and try to make you smile -

And you do, for a while.

Until you realise that these cavorting, masked masses

are boarding a tram.

And you have to get on with them.

And listen to their conversations,

Spouting memes as if they invented the words,

Bitching about everyone they've ever met,

Cool story bro,

And she's a ho,

And did you see the Facebook page?

Or all the rage on the Youtube stage?

You pray you weren't as bad as all that

at that age.

And then you get there.

A few more streets.

A few more moments of sheer horror,

At the sheer vapidity and crass

nature of the milling mass.

And you arrive and ascend the final stairs,

To flashing lights and a sea of balloons,

And you realise that you're surrounded

by bodies awash with chemicals and motivations

that you long since discarded.

Turn your tail and flee.

Go! Get out!

Forget your companions,

They're lost in the roiling mess.

And you'll be next.

And the worst part is that the majority are masked.

From train station to tram to deafening club.

And somehow this makes their pathetic jibes,

their disgusting idiocy and youth

all the more horrific for the fact that you can't see their faces.

Can't see their eyes,

Can't remind yourself that they have souls,

and that they are like you.

Perhaps that's for the best.

Labyrinthine

Lips aquiver,
Arm akimbo.
He leans foward and creates fire.
Lights my smoke.
Cracks a joke,
And then starts talking about some bloke,
Named Tyler, Larry or Hussein.
I don't know, I wasn't really listening.
I was lost in the shape of his body,
The fall of his clothes against his skin,
His shoes on his feet,
His eyes in his head.
The little things that are big enough to take up the whole world
if you focus on them.
I'm sure that whatever he was saying was fascinating, really.
And not just for the words he spoke,
About this bloke,
Named Harry, Kyle or Mussolini.
Whatever. I mean, I'm sure he's dreamy,
But I got caught up in the way his mouth formed the words,
The way the sounds were punctuated with little flecks
of spit that spattered on soaked concrete
as if to drown the sound upon impact.
The little things about speech that have nothing to do
with speech at all.
Almost labyrinthine, really.
I don't think that anything was meant by it.
Nothing out of the ordinary was said or done.
Nothing was overly cruel or fun,
But he leans forward and waves a hand,
As if to say 'look, here's the thing
I'm talking and you're not listening'
And I kept my silence in silence,
And watched his words meet words that weren't heard.
About some guy, some foreign, fucked up guy -
Named Boris or Steven or Stalin -
Somebody far away who had some things done to them.
Or did some things to somebody.
And served as an anchor for these heedless, empty words.
And then at last the ashes of the conversation
Fall from our mouths and are ground underfoot,
And we go inside to pretend to be people we're not again.

Thank God for that. For a moment there I thought I had noticed something relevant.

A Space In The Bed

Okay Jason. Last song for a while. Tomorrow night, you WILL write something different. You know exactly what style you're thinking of. That's an order.

There's a space in the bed.

And a hole in my head.

Hot drinks, cold sinks,

Come lay with me instead.

My words are softly spoken,

But you're not coming back,

And I am all alone here,

But ready to attack.

You yet cast a shadow,

Upon the window pane,

I lie without your body,

Driving me insane.

Take you to the sky,

to the barbed wire,

The light shines off your glasses,

My soul is set afire.

We'll live under the sea, dear,

The waves will keep us free.

If you'll come back to me,

So come on back to me.

My legs are crossed,

My fingers too.

My heart is tossed,

Right after you.

Bound up in chains,

And cut in two,

There was a fire.

Burning for you.

My words are softly spoken,

And you're not coming here,

The bed is lying empty,

As if you disappeared.

The shadow is lifted,

You're in another room,

I lie here and hope that,

You'll come on over soon.

He Came To Me

It is 3am, and this is my third post for the day. But it wanted out and it wanted out now. I think I underestimated the value of singing to myself in bed.

He came to me,
In the silent street,
He was after me,
No one else was there to see,
And for all of me.
I never want to be,
But he made me see,
It wasn’t up to me.

All those useless lives,
Just guarantee that you won’t deny,
All those useless verbs,
Just assure me of the written word,
Just assure me of the written word.

We’ll be,
Oh we’ll be free.
In the silent street,
And he took my feet –
And he made me run,
Run under burning sun,
He had a loaded gun,
And it was so much fun,
Oh we,
we will be free,
It wasn’t up to me,
Because he made me smile,
And then we ran a mile,
Oh child.

All those useless men,
Just didn’t know it was all pretend,
And all that useless world,
Just close your eyes and tell the girl,
Just close your eyes and tell the girl,
She’ll whirl.

And then it came to me,
As he kisses me,
And he made me cry,
And then he took my eyes,
And he made me see,
That there was more to be,
And it was all I need,
Something else to be,
oh free.

Oh what useless lives,
All these useless lives,
Just crying out to battered wives,
Silent streets all hypnotised,
Silence in the streets, we’re hypnotised.
Oh what useless curves,
Oh what lovely curves,
Curves in the road of a shattered girl,
Curves in the load of a different world,
Oh girl.
And then he came to me,
In the silent street,
And he had my eyes,
And he had my feet,
And he smiled at me,
And he held his hat,
And he turned to see,
Can you imagine that?
But it was plain to me,
There was an end to earth,
It wasn’t up to me,
No someone else’s turn, oh no,
And that was all to see,
It wasn’t up to me,
And he was after me,
I never want to be.

All those useless worlds,
All those useless words,
Just so we fall into lovers arms,
Just so we keep ourselves from harm,
All those useless lines,
All those useless lies,
Just to keep us hypnotised,
Just to keep you in disguise,
Just to keep my thoughts in time,
Oh time.

The Cradle & Named

It's time for a double post. Hurrah, hurrah!

The Cradle

The air is cleaner here, you see.
The land is clear and green.
The tree roots roil and turn the soil,
And choke up where they've been.
The air is full of life, you see.
The water churns the shore,
The streambed fills and overspills,
To where it was before.
The air is deathly still, you see,
The rot and sweet decay,
Hangs misty in the morning light,
And drives us all away.
The air will never change, you see.
The time just cannot pass.
Things are born, they grow and die,
And then they feed the grass.
The air is choking us, you see.
The cradle, strong and sure.
It bore you to ignore you,
The filthy, verdant whore.
And now the air is clogged, you see,
With smog and smoke and ash,
The sprawling city is so pretty,
Toxic loving, loving trash.
The air is far away, you see.
In hills and shaded dell,
You want me to go back there?
I'd rather go to hell.

Named

One name.
Three words.
Seventeen letters.

One name.
Three words.
Seventeen letters.
Nineteen years.

One name.
Three words.
Seventeen letters.
Nineteen years.
Eight hundred kilometers.

One name.
Three words.
Seventeen letters.
Nineteen years.
Eight hundred kilometers.

One man.

Eight hundred kilometers.
Nineteen years.
Seventeen letters.
Three words.
One name.

One.

By A Witch

Surrounded by people who kill,
With consummate, wonderful skill.
Ugly smiles in beautiful faces.
Men slit by knives and stove in by maces.
Ugly smile, ugly soul, bodies in a ditch.
Liars all thrown in a hole, slaughtered by a witch.
Flashing lights, shocking sounds,
Slayers, slayers all around.
A serpent does the murder, take him for a fool,
Mocking tongue and madness, jackdaw's rule.
Count up the stitches and chase down the stairs,
Spring the trap, cut the rope, catch him unawares.
No more use for tears now, no more use for life.
Death is at the doorstep, take her for a wife.
Blood is unbecoming upon your pale skin,
You ate all the food up and let the shadows in.
Grin, the show is over, and nothing's on display.
Eyes are glazing over, lights out - that's the way.
The spark of life, the seed of it, something you can borrow.
Departing with the sunset, leaving for the morrow.
Surrounded by the killers, happy as can be.
Surrounded by the skillful, powerful and free.
Surrounded by the smiles, ugly and wrong.
Surrounded by the faces that won't last long.
Surrounded by the liars, bodies in a ditch.
Surrounded by the fallen, slaughtered by a witch.

The Railroad of the Mind

There is far more than you'd hope to find,
Aboard the railroad of the mind.
Your hopes, your dreams, your fears, your love,
From darkest depths? Sent from above?
Sneak out while they sleep,
The traintracks go deep,
No need for fare,
Just empty air.

Powered by flames that you left behind,
We're riding the railroad of the mind.
All those things you locked away,
All those thoughts are here to stay,
Burnt to ash,
Under the lash,
The train goes on,
The wrongs undone.

Maybe you'll be met in kind,
Aboard the railroad of the mind.
Held with love, and met with faith,
No need for pity or for haste,
Hold his hand,
You'll understand,
You felt this way,
It's here to stay.

But all the passengers are blind,
Riding the railroad of the mind.
Out the window, tilt your head,
The fields, forests, are all dead.
The tracks go deep,
Where giants sleep,
The landscape wakes,
And then it breaks.

There is far more than you'd hope to find,
Aboard the railroad of the mind.
Things that you weren't meant to know,
Places you weren't meant to go,
It lives within,
And wants to win,
We're all aboard,
It's our reward.

Nothing to Lose

If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand crimes, my dear,
Be certain you leave not a mark as you fall through the air.
Somehow I knew from the start that you needed to fear, my dear -
Your teeth gleamed out bright as your feet kicked away the chair.

You must have looked lovely, that night in the snow,
Your tongue flashing quick as the shadows do grow,
Lovely and vicious and soft as the fog,
Upend the bottle and drink all the grog,
You stumble and fall into covetous eyes,
Enveloped in hands that seek your demise,
Blink back the tears and never be free,
But you'll leave all that to me,
All that to me.

If I've told you twice, I've told you too many rhymes, my dear -
Be certain to take all you can, possessions are rare.
I tried to say from the start that you would end here, my dear -
Smashed all to bits, broken beyond all repair.

And this isn't quite what you expected of me,
And this isn't quite what you wanted to be,
Lovely and weak as if wed at sixteen,
Full of false hope and incurable dreams,
Hips bulging outward, breasts weighed right down,
The dancer of springtime has torn off her gown,
And you'll take it or leave it, you won't understand,
This is according to plan,
According to plan.

If I've told you thrice, you've gone too far to hear, my dear -
Be certain to stifle your cries, the children will stare.
They didn't know the machine would break down right here, so queer -
But that life is done and the sightless eyes bulge and despair.

But your body was used up, alone and forlorn -
Lips painted red and body's all torn,
Bred for good breeding, a forgotten horse,
Couldn't live long once it can't stay the course,
Wouldn't fade quickly and die in due time,
Write a suicide note with a terrible rhyme,
Ascend the staircase and hang up the noose,
Smile once more, that there's nothing to lose,
Nothing to lose.

The Frenzy

The street was dark, by darkened footsteps trod,
My step was light upon the grime, my purpose rather not.
For I was in the service of a wicked and grim god,
Who was mostly all-concerned with death and rot.
But the wicked are not bowed by guilt and pointless shame,
So I was light upon my feet, my hands were quick and strong.
I passed some shapes, their ends and means the same,
But without the understanding that we're wrong.
We're wrong and we do wrongs,
We're the monsters in the songs,
And we do not belong,
so come along.

And so we began to swarm, in the darkened street.
A swarm of men, I think you'll find, is quite a sight.
A school of small piranha fish around a slab of meat,
And when the meat has names, it tries to fight.
The frenzy may seem as though it won't arrive,
But it washes over the mob with great haste,
And though the meat endeavours to survive -
Well. Such a pity. Such a waste.
We're wastes, and we make waste.
And what a change of taste,
But they can be replaced,
Without a trace.

The sun won't rise - not for them, and not for us.
In punishment for the horror on our hands.
To think that we are monsters? Ludicrous!
I do not think you seek to understand.
For you condemn our place in all your hearts -
A bacchic wish, a cutting blade, a scream.
The frenzy that descends is expression of art,
A bloodlust, given form from formless dreams.
We're dreams and we can dream,
We're violently redeemed,
And we aren't as extreme,
As we seem.