I am a Wanderer of Peoples.
I travel cities and nations and
Behind me leave buildings, hearts
Burning and twisted by a
Presence it never needed to feel.

Across the sands I watch my footsteps fade;
I wish words and friendships faded with them.
Looking out to a calm and tranquil sea,
I long for its powerful waves to swallow me:
Make me become Earth:

For my mind is a cacophony of voices
Tearing and pulling in a thousand ways.
I cannot find solace in sleep or wake.
The ghosts of the Past
Infiltrate both, and they snarl.

I shake the hands of a new soul;
See eyes: alight with wonder; suspicion;
Friendship or a content heart.
I try my utmost, my hardest,
to make my gaze reflect theirs.

The Chronicles of Life are immortal.
They continue and expand and
I wish for them to complete,
if they cannot contract.
This feels endless.

I lived a life of Love; a life of Knowledge.
I fell in with Hatred; Paranoia became friend.
Now walking across the beach
against the still ocean, I see nothing
but juxtaposition: nature and I.

We are not one. I am one.
Gone are the days of a naïve youth;
where I saw plastic things, ice cream cones
and the wondrous anticipation
that only a child’s weekend can bring.

Today feels like a sinking ship:
Taking on water, but the passengers
won’t move. Trapped in cabins
and surrounded by the screams of their peers.
I feel cruelty in God’s Creation.

I fought a hundred times
to make things right: to mend
charred and broken cities,
and forgive them their trespasses.
(If they forgive me my trespass)

Rain begins to fall on the sands,
and the air smells of sweet finality.
Should sorrow swell to sonorous rapture
I should accept to lie here.
And wash away horror
in the sound of the waves.

Armed with lies and some devious smiles,
They’ll glide smooth; grip their hand on the vice,
They stake their claim to a place in your life,
Whisper words you can’t will to ignore:
They know your flesh and go straight for the kill.
Twist through your mind, exchange memory for tears.

Pity sighs – its just one wasted dream.
Then that thought echoes loud as you scream
What if I’m the cause of all the hurt and the pain?
And if I am, oh the pleasure they’d gain…

Am I a Knight sent to fall down from grace?
To harm poor children and to terrify men?
Will these conflicts ever come to a close?
Do I see in your eyes that you know?

I’m at peace with me.

People’s minds are too easy to break.
Hate to give and yet loving to take
All the wonders and sensations they find
Pack them up and with gluttonous time
Bathe and toy with the thoughts and the words
Meant for none: now they’ll all be told.

Now I’m free the world floats around me.
Flowing softly over buildings and lands,
I can’t feel anything that I touch.
I can’t feel when I give you your rush.
Now I’m taking what they all took from me.
I’d love to see the ecstasy in your eyes
I don’t care if I don’t feel it in mine.

I’ll move my tongue, bring your peace to an end
Mutter words bearing half-truths and lies
Don’t wait for justice or a truth on the side
I’m in control and that’s how it will be:
You’ll twist and turn and try to find a way out
Exits blocked and in the doorway you shout
Beg for someone to love and to hold
It’s just a shame I’ve left them out in the cold.
Barely conscious and I’ll take what you have
Make it mine with your head in my hands
All the words you can make in your mind:

They can’t save you now.
They’re all that’s left of a missing world.
Oh, how everything was forever.
Until it ceased to be.

The kitchen door was closed, last night:
Locked by the hand of a wicked master.
Jocund lips curved towards windows,
The feeble and famished fumbling outside.

‘Weak deserving of their hunger,’ he snarled,
Grinding a dull grey comb through dull grey hair:
A smooth layer of grease keeping it in place.
He drummed his fingers along the window pane.

‘Gorged with food and power’, ferocious whispers,
‘I’ll throw his hands to the wolves.’
Clambering, quivering, shivering masses.
The door stayed closed.

Winter was never London’s finest hour.
A deathly city ruled by faceless Kings;
Populated with shrivelled bones.
The future wasn’t bright, after all.

Slumped in streets of dying light, I spied hearts;
Bright eyes that shone through the darkest of nights,
I thought of false intentions and failed starts;
Safe and time-worn arms were my tragic frights.
From time to time that street lamp would flicker;
Our beating hearts never felt so alive.
Her shimmering eyes let hope grow dimmer,
And I drifted away, too drunk to try.
Arctic winter flickered past empty homes;
Sunrise lost far behind the horizon.
Walking directionless; I was alone,
And afraid with a tragic reflection.
I closed my eyes. Thought of home. Thought of life.
I lifted from Earth, and soared towards strife.

Spring air lightly fragranced with summer’s scent
I was a child; in crowds of aliens.
That building, the learning, the time I spent:
Synonymous with the fear of villains.
The nights were long, back then. Tears helped them flow.
Tossing and turning, replaying the days;
Hoping and praying for one day to grow,
Become like my captors, learn all their ways.
If prayers were answered, we’d live in a Hell
Where the victims of the victim burned luck.
‘It was an accident, I turned, I fell.’
(It was no accident. I turned. He struck.)
The best days of life; simple tragedy
Yet perhaps that’s the way they had to be.

I felt suffocated, some years later.
Felt nothing for the touches of her skin.
They said I was a Horrid; I hurt her.
Knew nothing of circumstance I was in.
It grew to become a list of hatred.
Lined with good intention and adoration.
The time would come, they said, if I waited
Happiness would replace aggravation.
But the wise were fools, leading mirrored lives.
Indulging and powered by cocanic dreams.
The wickedness in them would never die;
Never killed by the shrill pierce of screams.
I clenched by head; surrounded by disgust.
Hatred returned in kind – I had burned trust.

A change of life would clear my troubled mind;
At least in theory, I live without traces.
Overwhelmed by smiles, handshakes and the kind
Embrace of fellow misfits; they found their places.
Isolation took two, I had believed.
Certain fault was theirs; it couldn’t be mine.
Cataclysmic change brought but brief reprieve.
The pattern continued. I walked the line.
Electronic mania; alcohol,
Fellow fragile souls, occupied my time.
I lost my ability to recall:
I needed Heaven on Earth to be mine.
Fight or flight; the decision time had come.
For all the want of answer: all thoughts numb.

So I’m walking in the street towards bed.
With true warmth safely indoors far behind.
Her smile and her eyes; havoc through my head
Her heart the one I’d been longing to find.
The cold winds snapped, tingling against my skin
My breath billowed in gasps in the night sky.
I wondered how fate conspired to sin,
Left me wandering in ice, high and dry.
I found my door, turned the key, left then right.
Heat wrapped around me, yet bringing no warmth.
Tonight was the evening I’d seen one sight
That would stay in dreams; regret and torment.
I saw two decades of time in seconds,
Reflected in her eyes; perfect weapons.

It’s a shame, in retrospect, to away
With little sense of any achievement.
The walk seemed like forever in a day,
Nursing the still-born that is bereavement.

Last night I spoke to God
With fluent and charming inflections;
It was a House of Pretense;
A waste of perfectly delicious Gold.

We spoke of life and time itself,
Riddling, joking; eyeing one another
With increasing suspicion and respect;
He played for fun; I for victory-
         “What insolence!“, Retrospect declared.

These were word games of a war;
My weapons thinly veiled; He deflected idly;
My life was a luxury, not a given; and
Power to take that away waved before me-
        harmlessly, without threat.

Last night I spoke to God
With a hollow heart and misplaced affections.
It was now a Paradise Lost, cracked open;
My evil intentions laid bare, waiting-
        the world strode by, and saw them all.

These are the lives we lead;
Embittered and passioned; endlessly
Brimming with promise.

I cannot imagine another existence
So wonderously full of hope;
That the poorest, weakest child
Born in darkest Africa,
Should grow to brush shoulders;
And debate the lawyers in Washington.

For here, and only here, are joy,
Pain and promise so tightly entwined.
I live to fight and fear another day,
Staring down the barrel of greatest uncertainty:
Hope, and all her friends.

Life is most beautiful; like delicate
Porcelain; the smooth-faced china doll;
It teeters between Heaven and Hell
with constant, infuriating indecision.

Just as well we observe, and do so well;
for drifting as we are is forever damning;
Hands held, smiling; walking on the tight-rope
following in our own constant: ignorance.

Just as well our lives are beautiful:
A distraction from futility, here:
Islanded in a stream of stars
endlessly, wondrously drifting.

In writing a reply to an evergreen man
I envisaged writing sublime quips
With free-flowing, heart-wrenching diction.

In writing a reply to the evergreen man
I stumbled upon meaning, and, for the first time in life
Words were lost on my tongue.

In writing a reply to that evergreen man
I spat down the pen; furrowed my thoughts;
And toyed with thoughts long buried.

In offering surrender to my evergreen man
I was trampled, beaten; but thoroughly relieved
Fed by a furious brother-in-arms.

Eighteen summers gone.
Lifetimes of broken bones, yet;
Hurt is in waiting.

A conspiracy of fate and motion,
All at once, it seized the notion
Of innocence and violence
Or heartbreak and silence;
Laid them in place for me,
Proud and defiant;
For you to judge;
For me to consider;
For all the world to laugh and wonder
‘What if that boy was given the chance?’

I heard a secret sound calling;
Those lies will never fade.
I hoped for comprehension falling;
For hatred to be replaced.

But strife is strife. The self-righteous are
Corrected only by the slash of a knife:
A loving, tender stroke to end all others;
My smile reflected in your terror; joyous and unforgiving.

When your throat is spilling, flowing, dancing;
Then you’ll know; you’ll touch and feel
The demon that drove me, feeds me;
Tearing apart your treacherous veins.

Enjoy, Sister; you’re one more demon in Heaven.

I remember you like a ghost;
Something ethereal, beautiful;
I remember you gliding, wandering
from heart to heart, peacefully.

I remember the games you played.
Sweet little nothings: words
that promised eternity then
burned out in single seconds.

I remember euphoria.
Shared adrenaline, bass-rhythms
and pulse-pounding drugs:
They kept me hooked on you.

I remember us sitting in the dark.
On the fallen trees, beating as hearts;
Watching the burning embers dance.
I never felt so alone.

In dark times, you told me your truths;
Becoming mine to share, to protect.
I tried. Friendship turned to duty
turned to obsession, and regression.

I held the world between fingertips;
But it was burning; limitless potential
Becoming something fleeting; escaping and
Floating into the dark with your smile.

I can’t shake this feeling;
This disorientation…
I was blinded by your eyes;
Felt I had a kindred mind.
Now I’m spinning, startled, reaching
Knowing nothing of your kind.

I had a melody not long ago;
A cradled chorus I’d sing in tune and time;
Now it’s one disharmony; a painful listening;
I’m fragile and I’m yearning.
Hollowed out and burning.
Searching for a lyric I can’t find.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
How did I get here?
Around hazy trees and forgotten garbage;
Fragmented echoes of smashed up lives.
Is that a comforting thought,
Or a fearful warning?

A wailing chorus of shrill sirens
And the scampered thuds of fleeing
Fools - this forest feels alien;
And yet, strangely, like a home,
As if I shared a bond; something communal;
With the thieves and villains, and their lair.

Friendly eyes twinkle in the twilight,
And my night-time companion lights again;
The spark revealing angelic complexion
Blurring into demonic, cratered surroundings.
Juxtaposition all too familiar:
I can’t shake that sense of fellowship.

Like a dream, in the darkness,
A man in a cap strides past, gazing down;
Fleeing from God knows what:
Problems, police, the past…
At least he has direction,
And a reason to run.

Those eyes twinkle again, smiling;
And like striking lightning bring life.
I feel reanimated; alive in a place of
Half life and hollow, promised existence.
She causes this: muffles my senses
Removes my fears, engages my heart.

And if what feels so real is for the best;
Time will tell all; the scars will bear the rest.

For that’s the promise our future holds;
A Golden Age; unimaginable feeling;
And yet a promise, unspoken, that no matter:
We will not have the gift of growing old.

There was a time I found solace
In twisted street-lamps and faceless people;
When moonlit public parks transformed to
Kaleidoscopic nightmares.

I used to sit by the river in town;
Huddle in disused stores and roofless abodes;
True comfort was placed on the tongue;
Swallowed, downed, inhaled.

Curious children would crawl to the light;
Breathless, mindless; we would snap and snarl
Until one took our interest. Initiation:
Let the ritual begin.

When I discovered these hooded, wondrous leaders
Had revolving faces with slivering tongues,
My interest faded somewhat. Pulse-pounding,
Alluring hatred became nothing.

Nothing.

Curved; elegant and poised;
A floating walk that strides over pain;
I adore the damaged you.

Touching your hand was not a dream;
It was perfection too fragile to approach;
A beauty held delicately in the distance.

How Poison is a wonderful thing;
Wrapped in feminine allure tingling
The tongue and singeing, playfully, at the heart.

True admiration is dangerous devotion;
Breeding in the recess of a damp, hollow mind.
You were and you are; you always will be
A heart beyond correction; too perfect for me.

My head lies the night before,
At the end of another long session;
Clawing at confused expressions
And closing my eyes to escape.

Did you and I crawl this far?
Our hearts beating sugar-rush
Candy and monotonic night-life.
The shimmering street lights sliver

Casting silent colours across an ashen
Twilight resting place; beautiful
Spinning; kaleidoscopic wonderland
Wondering if the world would fall away.

A blurred refuge; life’s traveller’s inn;
Glancing relief from the Raging Storm.
The peace, pulsing, stirs the addict in me.
Here is rest. It soothes me for a while.

I am a monochrome rainbow;
Arching on your dreaming confusion.

I am a broken record, playing;
Crooning the lullabies I abhor.

I am a record of loss, and yet
I am depthless creation.

I am everything you want to be;
Gladly, I am everything you avoid.

I hold lives between my fingers
And I toy, fixated, with their existence.

I am the God I see in you.
I am the Evil I see in myself.

I simply am.

Eleven o’clock is so drab.
One hour down, and two to go.
Head in hand, I scratched faded paper off the wood:
Now the poster-child for post-modern graffiti décor.

The rhythmic ticking and tocking undertoned
A chorus of scrawling and scribbling stories.
Jason’s nose sniffed: inconsiderate fool -
Disturbing my reflections.
Damned allergies.

Autumn days leave with different sunsets:
Resplendent watercolours; tragic summer shades.
Watching that life-bearing orb slip away, leaving behind
Trails of forgotten promise, and ushering in a colder night.

Is the road to Hell paved with good intentions?
Perhaps, but delighted hosts of starving vipers share the way.

I watched the News at Ten; watched how hare-eyed men
Left court with clung celebrity lives in tatters.
I saw the gluttonous hounds in London Town
Slaver and snap at foreign misfortune.

Though I hate to say it,
I teetered on the edge of agreement:
Busted: Bully Barton Bites the Dust
(And just right, too.)

With conscious effort, and troubled, I recalled
People are people, flawed and intact.
The angelic delusions that smother a billion lives
And vicious hearts, is a snare trap
Waiting to crunch the next unsuspecting flaw.

If such violence were fatal to victim, it would be appreciable.

I abhor it. It is poisonous dying, brief resurrection
Bundled together and thrown on a leash.
Received by whoever is desperate enough
To cast out that helpless hand.

At the stop of the stairs,
Troops of jesters chortled in
Malicious amusement.
Doubled-faced clowns with smiles
And frowns in constant cycle.
Oh, how I once loved the winter air.

I’m tired now. To Hell with intentions -
Heaven favours those who smile
For all the wrong reasons.
And the right.
Figures.

From time to time, in the witching hour, the countryside
Chooses to become a dark ocean of scurrying activity,
And tiny clusters live full-hearted lives in droplets of water.

In one of those drips, a square and unsightly house,
My desk lamp burned against the night outside.
A good work-tie lay scrumpled, as if demanding attention.

Ignoring it, I watched a housefly creep along the old picture frame.
I’d hung it years ago, against a now-faded wallpaper
Which screamed, quite clearly: middle of the road.

Half-eaten chewing gum wrappers joined some scissors,
Papers, electrics, books and coins on a table
Which, while untidy, was a crescendo of chaotic prospects.

With a heave, I spun the leather desk chair once or twice
Allowing the surroundings to become a whirlwind of colour;
The flashes and still images becoming a montage of shapes and memories.

Slowing, I was soothed by the whirring hum of a plastic fan
And turned with eyes strained by a harsh halogen glow.
Onto paper, I poured a pondering of expression and imagination.

The night was young, but the thoughts were old and
Unfinished; as if every time I came close to satisfaction or
Conclusion their essence would become vapour, drifting.

These are the hours of reflection; an uninterrupted private interrogation
Of all that we are, and all that we do, in a hope that
Eventually, one of our thoughts will inspire a change;

That the next time we depart of our hard-earned cash
It will be on something we can recall, and not an espresso
Tossed aside after a quick glug; the shell becoming our elsewhere.

If I were asked by an elderly gentleman in passing,
“What makes those young children in the park
Behave so badly nowadays?”, I would suggest
It is the fault of the infallible; not our parental shepherds.

Spraying misspelled misnomers with gleeful guffaws:
It seems to me a culture based upon indifference;
Where part-time mothers with part-time jobs whittle
Away benefit on Lotto cards and Richmond Menthol.

And where time-wasting students carry full-time knives,
Just in case that lad on Harbour Row needs some firm advice.
Shady lawns and rippling ponds are, I’ll admit, ironic settings
for such lifeless attitude; but then, surprises carry our fears.

So when I lounge in town with a lunchtime cappuccino,
I watch the movements of those curious creatures before me,
In many ways identical to myself, yet somehow, I watch
From the side of my own life, peering into tangled, confused haze.

Such attitude does not grow from half-hearted upbringing,
Rather from conscious decision to transform oneself;
Becoming an idolised silhouette that no one suggested.
I tried, but could not recall David Beckham wielding a Nike blade.

Maybe they’re content to glide from house to house
Watching day-time soaps, sipping discount cider;
If they are, all credit to them, I suppose. Enjoy.
But glance aside, from time to time - glance:

See the machinations of an immaterial world
Fighting to continue and prosper against virulence.
Glance, and see its boundaries shrinking, giving way
To yellow-stained wallpaper and decade-old carpet;
A magpie’s twisted world where if the gold shines
It must, by definition, glitter.

It had been three years since the summer,
Months of reflection, contemplation
Had moved me slowly towards conclusion;
Something had to change.

April morning, I took a walk along the sea front;
Watched my feet sink in warm, shimmering sands.
Children lapped, playing in erupting waves as
Seagulls darted through the town’s harbour ahead.

Glancing at the sea, the clouds lining the
Glittering surface of the ocean; it was an expanse,
Mysterious and untouchable, yet, somehow,
Full of living promise and tales unknown to ourselves.

The arms of the water rolled over the beach,
Erasing the past mistakes of the misguided,
Replacing them with opportunity;
A slate for new words and lives to be written.

The sun rose overhead, and I looked back
Towards the ignorant and the innocent.
With tentative, timid inexperience, I stepped,
Slowly, into the encompassing embrace of the Atlantic.

A sip of something like coffee,
A London Starbucks’ wooden décor
Reflects in the business woman’s eye;
Why is her son in prison?

Warmly smiling bus driver,
His black hair gently frosted,
Welcomes another schoolboy aboard;
He was never welcomed himself.

Westminster pen-pushers, brushing
Shoulders with ghosts of men
Gracing ancient, noble halls;
That’s fine - where’s the next spirit?

Petersborough Estate. Filthy.
Last night’s feud got a little wild,
And now the cleaner picks up glass;
Her father died this morning - someone’s gotta clean.

Rock God cradling metal,
The miracle of a tragic lifeline;
For a while he’ll forget the days
When everything used to be better.

Blackwood Studios, so that’s a wrap -
Comedian trots off set,
Lights another Marlboro, remembers;
Dad’s lung cancer’s N3-stage.

Six chimes from Big Ben marks
The nation’s tuning in.
The PM and Eastbourne Asbo
Lost their cousin today.

Postman wakes; leaves a drunken wife,
Sprawled with echoes of the night before;
Picks up his keys beside the grubby ashtray,
And leaves a fractured home for another day.

Examination results slip through the door,
Postman takes another drag; short and sweet, the day is young -
Charlie, inside, tears at the printed paper;
wishing against hope the fatal ink would shift.

Failed and wasted days vented
with each swift slice of innocence departing;
His mother’d have beaten him too, no doubt,
Had she not been beaten to ground by vacant Dad.

He’s putting together the new shopping centre,
Victoria Square, the final coffees of the night-shift.
Twenty-four hour labour justified: it’s needed fast:
Cloned customers with endless moneys to spend.

Dad didn’t used to mind the noise, the drilling;
But June left last month; a baby on the way.
She won’t be back; her co-workers had to laugh at something:
Her spherical disposition the source of insipid amusement.

Beautiful baby, innocent and precious.
She’ll stay that way too; until she sees paper perfection,
Telling her how to live; how to be, and then the eating stops:
She’ll fade until invisible… A distant Canadian cousin asked

A few months later, “How is she?”
But obese thoughts and clinical minds
Never put Humpty together again.
Her friends, devastated, naturally.

Jake needed time off, counselling and the like;
Got him off the coursework too, cunning lad.
But life went on, and the other kids kept moving
Toward something unattainable; perfection, happiness and glory,
Hoping against hope they’d get their first
Before all the others stop and stare, God Forbid.

The harbour was quiet.
The Green Fairy, hull faded to a sickly
Brown, slipped in and out of blackened, liquid
Mercury, wrapping arms with the pier.

Beneath carbon-coated, night-time skies,
I mused at shimmering reflections dancing;
Mirroring endless space, uncertain depth,
I watched relentless clashes of light.

Turning, I took a walk up Coastal Road,
Stopping by a steel-door Fish N’ Chips,
Inhaling the scent of the sizzling cod;
Gazing at gluttonous eyes, beading.

The centre was quiet at night.
A mournful, abominable abandonment,
the vitality drained from bustling streets. Ah,
I miss that blood-pumping cocktail of emotion.

Dead in daylight, the moonlit park’s alive, curiously.
Riddled with phantom, laughing lives and bursting
Out of life’s constraints; fuelled by fire
and that precious, precious crystal.

Outwards, a long-forgotten office block with
Carpets of broken glass and beer cans
Match a graffiti décor; hatred of nothing in particular
Oozing down the writhing, peeling walls of Accounts.

Tired, I veered onto safer streets,
Uniforms scolding a drunken girl, singing;
Propped against a chorus of electric neon lights
And rhythmic basslines pounding the nightlife.

In the shuttered, drugged-up suburbs,
Silence. Another is violated; lured into
Cacophonous houses and assured that, without doubt,
The Twinings is of highest standard.

I’ll sleep in the old hospital; it seems fitting.
No nurses to nuzzle, prick and prod perfect health;
The old wards transformed by skeletal Russian spirit,
And it seems the perfect stop; a concept I can control.
A world I can survive in, unaided,
Untouched by the chaos of the night.

An empty vase with shrivelled stalks
Asked nature, through the window,
“When is the rain going to end?
It’s miserable in here, and dreadfully dry.”

It had a point, it must be said;
His bedroom, cluttered and desolate
With out-dated wallpaper, ragged bears
And a bundle of grass-stained jeans.

He only visited a few hours a day.
Lectures and leisure entertained him.
He lay to sleep and rose to leave,
As the room fell into disrepair.

The vase, I tell you, in its prime,
Was a joy to behold. Splendid
In vital life exuberant. Until
Someone lost the water, it presumed.

A captive as life slips away,
Agreeable to the last.
With a resigned shrug, a heave and sigh,
Asking nature, just one more time,
“When will the rain ever end?
It’s miserable in here, and dreadfully dry.”

The world gave me my inspiration.
The world gave me the pain.

The world gave me free trials:
Gift-wrapped in loving colours.
No obligation to
Buy a glamorous new addiction.

The world gave me a catalogue
Of discount friends and enemies;
Mix-and-match to build
Your ideal soul-mate.

The world gave me ideas
Bright, shining wonders
Powers to rebuild the greatest
Monuments; unproven potential.

The world gave me that twist;
A chaotic U-turn to surprise
And hold an audience enraptured.
Figures…

The world gave me someone
Whose eyes could tear me apart,
And a smile that, after everything
Could take away my life.

The world gave me my inspiration,
And the world took away my pain.

Tiny food for thought,
And keys to mythical freedom
Washed in a man-made ocean;
Currents carrying users to Heaven.

And that’s that.

A heap of broken hearts
Black and purple rings
Slouch against tiled walls;
Ceramic sliced and slivered.

Life-beaten fingers push
A hurried message to friends, lovers
Separated by shores and miles;
Who knows? They might glance over it.

A tenglass drained for comfort lying
Sideways, swimming on the floor
Back and forth, cradled;
Poisoned chalice for a desperate queen.

Evening summer sunset
Should be warm – shouldn’t it?
Through iced windows, it’s oppressive;
A fire revealing frailty.

It’ll be gone soon:
Colder would be nice.
Darker would be nicer.
No one sleeps in heat;
It always leaves a mess.

That’s just common sense - isn’t it?

Bridges and broken foundations;
Carrying scorpions, our lives
Towards brighter, better places.
The storms get worse as time goes by.

Survival of the fittest,
Means the deaths of the weakest;
Thunderous thousands began the march
Twelve crossed the final line.

The others seized by narcotics,
Their naive hearts engulfed by strong
And vicious promises of highs,
Blurs; kaleidoscopic dreamland.

Bass lines, rhythms and lusting eyes,
Synchronised in consistent chaos.
Eternal nightlife reigns supreme,
Troubled cars with paralysed children.

Feel a marvellous medicine
Sliding, unravelling the mind.
Did you ever see the leaves shimmer?
They shimmered like forgotten ghosts.

Those were the childhood days when actions
Led to nothing but the right to
Forget.

All in all, it was passable existence.

Rainfall patters; shimmering down
Glistening glass, bending the light:
Casting the fingers of a God,
Dancing across the sobbing room.

Ashtray abandoned; scratch-card life,
Some empty coffee cups lie here
And there, the taste of the lips are
Long forgotten. Coffee’s cold now.

The final embers of the fire
Flicker out; the hungry cat whines,
She curls up again, searching for
Warmth in a room devoid of care.

Blanketed in a caring dust
Pages of Tennyson remain
Unread, strewn along the leather.
It used to be black. It’s grey now.

With a mew and a final try,
She tries the door one last time,
As if, by some miracle, it
Would open to freedom, she hoped.

It doesn’t, of course. That won’t change,
The rain doesn’t stop, and he’s not
Coming back this time; they’re gone…
Separate ways, carried by wind.

Tempestuous seas
Overflowing with warriors raw
And inexperienced, poured
Into the Desert tenfold.

Thunderous, charging
Over villages, splintered lances
Tearing through the hearts
Of savage, innocent women.

Welcome to Earth.
Welcome to society.
Welcome to the brutality
The blood-driven love that will never perish.

Onward like a storm,
Piercing the heart of African soils;
Driving, driven by electric intensity,
Feasting on the spoils of war.

So the Desert cried,
Shrieking desperation across her heart,
Demanding response, urging care;
The nations of blind and wounded beggars.

If anyone listens to the sound of the Earth,
To her purest, sincerest whispers;
Respond with sincerity and an intent of gold,
To grasp from it the incorruptible sinners.

Take a look at the book, dear Sir
And tell all it is you see;
Dreamers have seen fortunes rich,
Demons have seen your heart.

Pull back the brittle cover, Sir
And read the wisdom hence;
The book, it told me once to die,
A moment later to endure.

The author lived a thousand years,
And found trust in them not once;
Creation was the friend he loved
The words he dared not utter.

I ask you, does it stand the test of time?
Does it leap from centuries past and breathe?
Does it grip you, scream to you, teach you life?
Does it lock its secrets from you, and lie?

The candle flame it flickered, trembling wind,
The comprehension of a troubled mind,
Made clear only in a winter twilight,
Locked deep inside the fortress on the coast.

Close the book, truth is difficult to take;
Do you understand now, Sir, do you see?
Some day all you feel will be known and shared,
And maybe then, dear Sir, someone will care.

Put on your mask.

Write down your lies.

Corrupt the sympathy of the innocent.

Make them believe you didn’t mean it.

Make them think you love them.

Put on your mask.

Laugh with malicious intent.

Clutch their hands as a weapon.

Make them believe it was an accident.

Make them think you hate him.

Put on your mask.

Let your heart ebb and flow.

Let it roll with the tides.

Make them think you stand firm.

Make them see what you want.

Put on your mask.

And no matter what happens.

Never let them see the truth.

Make them see what you want.

Kill the ones you love, in fury and spite.

Dreaming angels,
Drunk on the sight of God,
reveling in the glamour of perfection;
Holding VIP tickets to a broken world.

Dreaming angels,
Vodka cowering in paper quilts
Streetlight rest in the nighttime freeze
Their crime the vehemence of denial.

Dreaming angels,
Warmed by a living room fire;
Tucked in at night by the Father,
Mind moderated in an imagination fictitious.

Ascended angels,
Freed from the shackles of modesty
Embraced by venomous adoration
And touched by the warm fingers of death.

Fallen angels,
Trial by popular jury cradling a broken mindset,
Illusions shattered by reality, and where is Jesus now?
Shaking in a war-torn foxhole, edges frayed.

There’s a heart,
It’s so tired;
A cold room
With no fire.
Watch verses leap
From the soul:

I’ve fought wars
With no hands;
Spilled fresh feelings
Like none can.
They tell me:
What I do is wrong.

Yet I see them,
I beat them;
In my mind,
Defeat them.
They fight with words
Fired like snakes.

I
Have prayed for sins to fall
Upon you, around you, inside you
And I hope that it bends and it breaks you.

Knocked off the track,
All covered in ash,
With the scars
Of a thousand snarls.

I open the wound;
Fresh food for your tomb,
And I hope that a cold frost
Betrays you.

All the truths,
All the lies,
All the falsehoods you cried,
So many
Caught
In a cross-fire fight.

Without want,
Or intent;
Your furious vents,
Swarmed around
The pure
To decay.

You’re abused;
You’re misused;
I’m stood here and accused;
Yet you want me to act
Like a man.

You’re a curious waste;
Bound and disgraced;
All stricken with hate;
And you look
So out of place.

And have you heard
Of that place?
Where we all
Fall from grace?
Oh, I dream
That I’ll see you there.

Welcome to Hell.

There ‘s not a word of wisdom
In any single thing you say.
You’ve spent three full years at clutching;
Fighting towards another day.

You shrugged me off with contempt;
You cast me to the side,
All your woos of blood-deep friendship
Were whispered uttered lies.

You could talk like you’d understand,
Even though you haven’t got a clue.
You sat in carriages as the trains flew,
Yet all you saw was you.

Pretty angel dreamer,
I can’t help but wonder:
What goes on inside that pretty mind,
To tear all men asunder?

So tell me when you grab a halo,
When you can sit enshrined in peace;
Cause in the meantime all you’ve got
Are pawns; crawling a war zone.

I’ll pray that someday soon they’ll see
That between your heavenly chorus,
They’ll see the venom pulsing,
They’ll know you held a gun.

There’s a power there to twist some things
And ruin many lives.
We all pulled the trigger;
And told so many lies.

I’ll be damned and stricken,
It’s a truth I’ve grown to fear,
But I’ll be damned more so,
If you can dress in white.

Six months down the line
And I can’t help but wonder,
Where it all went wrong,
And how I grew to fear you.

A thousand lies and a thousand truths
Leave more damage than a thousand wounds
In a storm, battered and repeated;
I tried to stand my ground.

You feed from an arsenal, infinite:
Filled venomous intrigue.
And for weeks and months
You struck like artillery,
Interrupting a soldier;
Falling into a long-awaited slumber.

Every time those dreams arrived
You twisted and connived,
Until another twisted fabrication
Poured from smiling, war-torn eyes.

And they say revenge is a dish best served cold.

Every time you spoke,
In a greeting alive or dark,
My heart; it used to skip
Jolts of electric affection;
Now I feel it freeze
Like all I had is lost in a wilderness.

All you say; your words hold nothing
But a barrage of funeral fire.
Lying in waste, struggling in faith;
Against a world you tried to repress

Six months down the line
And I can’t help but wonder
Where it all went wrong
And how I grew to love you.

There’s a journal of secret words;
A log of a tired hearts,
Bound and tied by bittersweet memories,
And torn apart by uncertain futures.

And as a candle flickered and died,
I read the paper’s closing words:
“And into Eden we must surge,
Like warriors to a Golden Plane”.

The light was silenced,
And the room fell dark.
The mirror by the bedside showed no evils,
And the pages of the Book told no lies.

For an instant, there was no world.
There was no crowd of social aficionados-
They were in some black of their own;
Alone with their dreams and their fears.

This was the time of a thinker;
A philosopher; an intellect;
To tinker with musings and reflections
And to shape them into something living.

I can’t remember how long it lasted;
What do you measure in a darkness?
It was peaceful and as still,
As a snow-covered forest floor.

I don’t know even when I made my mind,
To fashion and craft a gift to the World.
And as the morning bells rang out in London,
I sat beside the Mighty;
In a throne far over Westminster,
With the peace of a Dreamer.

“And how many miles to Carentan?”
Asked the blind man to the beggar,
“It’s been ten days since I’ve eaten,
And all I see around me is lifeless now.”

“I’ve seen you pass by before,
Or one and the same,”
Replied the beggar, the Oracle
“And you speak like you need forgiveness?”

“I was blinded for a sin,”
Spoke the wearier of the two,
“I stole from God, and as a host
He is unforgiving.”

“Everyone thieves”
Laughed the Oracle,
“You stole from me,
And everyone stole from you.”

“Yet I am the blinded,”
And he threw out his arms,
“I am the blinded in a warfield.
So can you call that righteous?”

“Righteous?”
Cackled the Oracle,
“You preach of righteousness,
You - a thief, a sinner.”

“I told them – steal from a thief
And you steal the last thing they have.”
Reasoned the man,
“For it is a cardinal sin.”

“Your sin was eternal.
And your judgement is eternal.”
Spoke the Oracle
“You deserve it, and I abhor it.”

“Alas, then tell me,”
Sighed the blind man,
“How many miles to Carentan?
And I will join the lines a wounded man.”

“You wait for fire to heal you, fool,”
Called the Oracle, as he rose
“It won’t heal you anymore than I will,
But you’ll burn in company deserved.”

“This is the stop”
Said the blind man risen,
“The Front awaits,
And I’ll see you soon.”

“Wait,”
Said the Oracle, and raising its head.
“Did you pay your fare,
Son of God?”

“Yes,”
He replied,
And he looked towards the ruined town.
“I paid my fare.”

Chris McQuillan

All your endless dreams;
Your hopes of toys and tiny things
To take away all those means
By which the people lost their Kings

It’s the dusk of an old season.

Your life; it ended three weeks ago
In a dark back alley in San Francisco
You watched them walk and turned your back
And all the things you loved went black

You tore apart the seasons.

You sipped on trust and dined on lust,
You rang and lied and said you cried;
When all the while your thoughts were numb
And in the end the world was dumb,

To what you thought of me.

I rang My God, I needed directions;
I pled and bled and uttered my confessions,
For though a sinner leaves a trace-
My saviours never walked with Grace.

And do you even hear me?

A long time’s passed, and life moves on
Another day, another dawn
There’s a sweetness in the air I’ve never known
And though it equals all you’ve shown

I hate you in my head.

It’s time to walk and cast you back,
To live and dream and never lack
An aim and way and path to walk
And all these thoughts I try to block.

I want you out of my head.

I’ve held new hands and borne new truths
To me the dreams I held as proof
Are memories of distant times
And into her I bear new rhymes

I’m glad you’re out of my head.

Currently listening to: Bon Jovi - It’s My Life

It’s been a while since there’s been a proper entry here.

Since the place had descended into depressive drivel, I’m going to at least attempt to rescue it.

A new found optimism has taken over my life - despite a new full-time job, a recent break-up, and a shortage of chocolate chip cookies, I am not letting such things get me down.

Out goes the bad habits and the frustrating metal music, and in comes dance music and sports cars! Well, no. Not quite that far.

I am doing something far worse - writing a play. It’s Beth’s fault - honest! It’s another murder mystery (and it needs a lot of work before it’ll be ready), but I’m optimistic. Look for it in the Spring of 2008 at the Riverside.

Now, enough of that shameless advertising. Get back to whatever it was you were doing! Those noses won’t pick themselves, you know.

Glistens,
And falls;
A mist of rejuvination?
A blessing from the Divine?

It tingles, shimmers,
Echoes in city streets,
Refracts tense and bitter lies.
Does it gleam for you, now?

Perhaps not…
Time has dulled its solemn smile,
Its sweet and tragic embrace,
Drained by desert, by pain, by war.

Pitter patter, 1913.
Tired soldiers, starving men
Cling to filthy rifles in blitzkrieg hours
A European sunset, and the clouds are drained of tears.

Our sins are reborn,
Our pasts are recycled,
And as we lumber forward,
The earth boils, and the skies grow darker still.

And in halls lined with gold
Did the forefather of the World
Lift up his head, with weary eyes
And cast in shimmering words
The rules under which
All his citizens must abide.

A voice thunderous
Laced on a silver tongue
His forked words snapped to those
Bowed in endless lines;
Their rows were flawless,
All beneath his plated feet.

Yet, eternity takes a toll.
The Hall of Rulers rusts;
Her royal walls wilt incarnadine,
The grand pillars, carved
Sculpted by ancient craftsmen
Flake along the edges

Natural order perished here…
Like emotion, sun and rain;
An ancient world left to age.
Her people withering,
Her leader following
A fading pathway.

For so many centuries.
Into a dying sun.

Dear Tesco Coleraine Management,

I am writing to complain vehemently about the standard of your checkout tills. While this may seem like a trivial complaint, I find the current system prejudiced against the younger generation. Now while I appreciate that this is Coleraine, and there are a plethora of low-life scum ravaging the streets, I fail to see how preventing myself, an upstanding citizen of the community, from purchasing one 500ml bottle of Coca Cola aids this preventative policy. I have been in your store twice in two days, buying on one occasion one bottle of Coke Zero, and on the other, a large bag of Doritos and two tubs of Ben & Jerry’s delicious ice cream. However, on both occasions, I was treated as though I was attempting to bomb the tills with alcohol and told, politely and not so politely, to fuck off and go to another till. When I enquired as to which till I should instead purchase my assortment of unhealthy items, the staff shrugged at me, looked around, and then sat down. They looked like a typewriter, without the keys - completely lost and dysfunctional in their natural environment.

As you can clearly see, this policy is flawed. All it achieves is alienation of both your human and sub-human staff, and their polite customers. Both are treated like villains, especially me, who one would be forgiven for thinking I had some form of alcohol ASBO attached to my being.

I hope that in the future, you will amend this policy. Indeed, I have had no difficulty in purchasing a number of illegal items from other Tesco shops, and yet when I enter Coleraine, I am almost ruthlessly gunned down for buying some food.

I expect you will soon realise the complete lack of thought put into this new and “improved” system, and I hope that in the future you will shoot yourself in the foot for being an utter wank.

I must now attach a subnote, to ask why my two friends who visit regularly, and who are much younger than I, are not quizzed for passing through the same tills. To me, this seems both illogical and unfair. I now expect a lifetime supply of Pringles and Soap, lest I contact the proper authorities

Please die slowly.

Best,
Chris

There’s a whirlwind.
Dancing, and shining.
It darts and shimmers
Around me with dreams
And times long gone.

It carries them in embrace;
Wound in burning intimacy,
It slavers at me, smiling
With a vampiric lust…
Warm… enticing.

Terrible, yet I do not fear it.
Shores cannot evade the tide.
It lingers and soaks,
Refreshes and cleanses,
And this is my hour.

The hour I become one with the world.

And it washes me through time
As if I were the dust in desert winds,
And settles itself, for some purpose;
Beside me,
Curled like a cat,
Waiting for human to wake up and play.

After all, who could foresee:
Contentment in knowledge,
When ignorance is bliss.
I guess that’s just for absolutes.

Forms and rules lend themselves poorly
To amalgamations such as these.
They order a chaos that strives to be chaotic.
Scholars, poets, philosophers;
Search for a form to summarise our lives.
There is no form. Only chaos.
Sweet, peaceful chaos in golden incarnadine.

Embrace it.

Haven’t written anything for a bit, so here goes:
=================================

A man sat by the fire;
His skin worn and wrinkled,
The flames flicking shadows
Into trenches scattered along his cheeks.

His clothes looked dirty in the darkness,
And his eyes peered into the igniting embers
With pale and hollowed whites,
His chin nodded limply against his chest.
Like an aging Emperor of Rome
Resting yet,
Fallen from grace, his throne room
Covered in dust
His crown dented and smeared.

Nonetheless:
It was comfortable here.

Wispy hair combed to the side
Months ago, now…
Did it really matter anymore?

Long-extinguished cigarettes slept
In a crystal ash tray
Passed on from a Colonial uncle.
Abyssinia he believed,
But he could never be sure.
It was hard to remember now.

And how his teeth were yellow,
The palms of his hands cluttered.
Last week’s paper stuck loosely
To a lonely finger,
One last connection to the world.
Mussolini had done something
But he couldn’t remember anymore.
It seemed unimportant.

A knock on the door
Peter, back from the village
Peter
Philip
No, Peter
A pause
A blurry figure opened the door
Moved
But the last embers fizzled out

There was a reflection once.
It shimmered in the alley,
Twin hooded figures danced
As poison passed between them.

There were lovestruck teens
Slouched against the movie wall.
Their lips were smooth and still,
Their hearts were shrivelled black.

There was a night in haze
That snatched a lifelong dream away,
Threw it to an eager shadow
Waiting for one more run.

There was a time when lives were full
Pink of tender flesh; vibrant at heart
Before the smoke, the poison, the love
Ripped those dreams apart.

Rather, they drew breath and lived.
Ripped a hole, a hole, a hole widened,
The world’s colours repainted
And the foundations relaid.

There was a new world, blind and true
Where no liars slew the victims’ hands
What was true before, laid as memories.
Shadowed were new friends, solid the past.

There were voices, so many voices,
Choirs of contradicting commands
Whispering in harmony to desperate ears.
Shadowed moyens, the ways of life.

Except now, there is no life.
There is no real world.
Just characters; drawings in a story,
Movement vague and clumbsy.

There is one painting. A new world.
A safe world. A controlled and silent world.
Black, grey and greyer still the sun shines
Yet it brings comfort, for it is all that’s left to give.

A six-year-old girl has caused a conundrum of global proportions after her attempts to send a message in a bottle to Norway ended up in New Zealand.

While on holiday with her grandparents on the north-east coast of Scotland, Keely Reid tossed a plastic water bottle into the Moray Firth in the expectant hope that the tide might carry it as far as the shores of Scandinavia.

However the girl and her family have been surprised to discover the bottle ended up travelling more than 20,000 miles in 47 days to be washed up on the beach of Whangamata on the north island of New Zealand.

The discarded bottle was apparently picked up by another six-year-old, James Wilson of Whangamata, who discovered the message inside and immediately wrote to Keely with proof that he had found it.

It is estimated that to find its way to New Zealand in such a short time the bottle must have travelled an average of 425 miles per day at almost 18 miles per hour.

In the 1860s, the clipper ship Thermopylae created a new fastest time from London to Australia of 63 days.