Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Forecast

The leaves are threatening to fall again,

dreich days replace the summer haze that I barely noticed until it was all I needed,

and then, suddenly, the sun was nowhere to be seen,

and the leaves leapt from the trees.

This does not bode well.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Cannibal Holocaust

I am human,

so they tell me,

dragged from the river,

forced into the ritual.

I heard a cheerful whistle,

far away in the trees,

a soul who had escaped,

perhaps?

Nobody who knew this horror could craft such a beautiful tune,

and let it escape from their lips,

into all this.

I want to be uncontacted,

untouched,

but the human race has hungry hands,

and I lay here,

with my soul and my insides outside of my body,

washed up on the bay of a busy town.

There’s more to life than books, you know,

but I don’t want to hear about it,

because the pages are the only peace I have ever found,

and, God, they’ve already taken so much,

so leave me with Carol Ann and my Marlowe,

let me rest in some kind of peace.

I watch cannibal movies, when the sun has gone down,

and a man who still holds onto my heart asks if I’m awake.

I have made many mistakes in my life,

and some may ask “What’s another?”,

“What’s the harm?”,

but God, he’s already taken so much,

so I stare blankly as arms are torn off,

hearts are eaten,

wishing that mine could be cuisine too,

so that I couldn’t hear her hopeful whistle every time I am drowned and reborn.

Could the ones we labelled as savages, do me this kindness?

They shake their heads,

shaking my hand,

offering a salad.

My girl is whistling again.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Swapping Stories With A Stranger

Last night,

the sun was still alive,

looming above,

but flagging with fatigue,

and the sky was a soothing shade of blue.

There were bottles,

broken and blessed on the brown and grey stones of the pavement,

as I crept past,

lighting up a cigarette,

hoping not to halt the slumber of a man who had clearly had enough.

Enough alcohol?

Enough of life’s endless cruelty?

It was hard to say,

but there was a story of great sadness in the scattered bottles,

that I wasn’t sure he was ready to tell.

His eyes opened, despite my best efforts,

glancing to the busy buses that screamed past, and then, with a smile, up to me.

I am not from the North,

so I find it strange to talk to strangers,

but I let him talk,

leaning up against the whitewashed wall,

one scuffed shoe poised at the toes,

like a ballerina,

as he unfolded the map that had brought him to that little corner of the great graveyard of Kent.

He said his mother prayed for him,

and I promised I would too.

He said I’d make a beautiful bride,

and I told him that I’d already tried,

but some things just don’t work out.

He insisted that it would happen,

and I insisted that we go shopping for sandwiches.

The bottles stayed scattered as we parted ways,

both walking down long roads,

with new stories in our pockets,

and less bricks on our backs.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Am Still Here

The sky was still blue and beautiful at six AM, when I respawned, refreshed and ready to try and live again, so, I got the idea that maybe the sky is stronger than I gave her credit for, and so am I.

The sun still rose. The cool but pleasant air of early spring still played with my ponytail as I walked down the street, so, maybe, just maybe, the world does in fact go on, even when you think it’s ending.

I am still here. I am still here. I am still here.