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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.