The Wave

Water rushes through my sinuses, cleansing my nostrils like a nasal saline enema.
A soft whoosh portends the dull thud as board hits skull with the ferocious power of Poseidon's rage.
I emerge, bloody but unbowed, and set upon catching the next violently crashing set.

So much for good intentions.

It seems no matter how hard or fast the paddle, I am forever destined to be churned like so much milk in the froth, rag-dolled and spun heels over head twice, thrice, and again.

The energy sap is a drastic one, realised in the seemingly impossible slog against the current as I drudge body and board back into the line up, determined to make one last push for glory.

Here we go. This is it.

I see my chariot forming a short way off, a wall of green rising from the deep.
The edge curls, and my heart quickens as the water is suddenly crested with a thousand white stallions, thundering towards the shore.

Here we go. This is it.

PADDLE! My brain screams in perfect sync with the onlookers. I oblige, forcing my shoulders to serve their turn long after they are gone.
I engage in powerful, rapid strokes, propelling my board along. I check over my shoulder at the onrushing wave.

This is it. Here we goOOooooooo.

I am lifted by the racing swell, and sent skidding at a rate of knots.

Heart pumping, eyes blinking, seize the moment.

Arms extend. Toes scrabble for grip. Adrenaline courses through me, and it feels as though each limb, muscle, and ligament are acting independently, unaffected by each other or the core.

I pop up slowly, my tired body riddled with lactic. The back foot hits the board, and I bring the front forward.

Poor placement. Bad grip.

The board, still charging forward, vanishes as my foot slides across it. I fall, landing with a hard slap on my back, which groans under the stress of impact.

I am done, and attempt the brief limp to shore utterly drained and devoid of vitality. I narrowly avoid being grounded on the rocks.

Thus ends my brief surfing career, enveloped in ignominy and pain.

Old Friends

Two piles of stones sit like old friends, stacked upon golden sand, the ashes and remnants of their fellows. Their conversation is silent, drowned out by the repeated, soothing and methodical crash of breaking waves as the tide rolls in and threatens their very existence.

The afternoon sun peeks occasionally through the haze, adding a fiery glow to the impossibly blue water light-years below and a deceptive heat to the harsh April air. Droves of tourists have come and gone, and the coast is alive with only the sound of the roaring sea and the random calls of a few passing gulls.

The tide edges closer, and the stones maintain their silent vigil, awaiting the fate that befalls us all.

Modern Life

The economy, or so they say,

shall have its time another day, and

fighting back against the grain,

return once more, with strength again.

A job market less bare is now a mad scrabble

To win the contest, and to beat the rabble:

Qualifications, interests, and aptitude tests.

Passions, promos, past employers.

Questions, queries, soul-destroyers.

We leave our hopes in the hands of the senate

Cineri gloria sera venit.
Fame to the dead comes too late

and yet who are we to change our fate?

We are too ignorant to bear the brunt

Damnant quod non intellegunt.
They condemn what they do not understand.

And so we buy the latest Brand

of bullshit fashion, culture, politik

in the hope, one day, of becoming siick.

Like, share, tweet and favourite,

blindly follow, love it, crave it.

Saturation has us screaming out

for entertainment with more clout

and yet we face a desperate future

a gaping wound we cannot suture

as generations now and next

avoid real life and favour texts.

Sunday: a journey

I trudge the slow trudge home, joining an ever-swelling throng of defeated Sunday soldiers, boarding troop carriers and heading off to the next billing. The intimidating, too bright sunlight lends a deceptively warmish yellow tint to this cold winter morning, and the train rumbles on through leafy suburbs, their fields and woodlands a life-affirmingly vibrant green against the tired, milky-eyed sky.

Occasional vapour trails appear as bloodshot veins shown in negative, and even the great orb itself is an obscure, amorphous blob, unfathomable light years away.

The doors slide open.

I step out into the cold, bleak day, surrounded by my fellow revelers, each huddled and shivering against the fierce breeze and their internal demons.

The odd family group stand nearby, clearly appalled at the state of these weekend rockstars, some of the warmer-hearted dads allowing a pang of nostalgia to take them back to a simpler time, a care-free age where such gross excess and indecency was their routine.

The ferocious wind pierces thick overcoats and seeps through chunky pullovers with the malice and sting of a hundred steel blades in soft skin. I glance to my left and spare a brief moment's though for the few scantily-clad slappers tottering their way along the platform, a hazy memory of recent intimacy their only shield against shame and weather.

Refuge is sought and briefly discovered on the connecting service, and my ice bloc hands are flooded with painful warmth as my journey enters its final phase. This steamy hub of humanity features those reasonable, sensible (,boring) beings venturing out for the day, or travelling home from afar. I feel at last like an imposter, as though I am falling through the bottom of my high, regaining normality and failing to disguise my inner turmoil. I really need a drink. I feel like an impostor, an unwelcome, chaotic presence gatecrashing this world of order and structure.

This transition portends my return to the realities of the edge of this day. Monday is soon upon us, and the sweeping view of the CBD as the train races by only serves to solidify the dread. It sits like concrete in my guts, weighing me down.

"We are approaching our final stop".

This day burnt briefly bright, the green flash before the week's impenetrable darkness.

Je Suis Ahmed

A quiet Parisian backstreet, enlivened only by a running engine
and gunfire.

An image beamed around the world.
A totum in the war for free speech.

A lone brave man, lying prone on the ashphalt,
facing down evil
in the knowledge of certain death.

I do my duty because I am a gendarme.
I do my duty because I am a good man.

Je suis Français.
Je suis Muselman.
Je suis Ahmed.

Je Suis Charlie

Who would have thought that a few little doodles could inspire such hatred?

Cold-blooded murder, was it really provoked
by a few clever Frenchmen's satirical poke?

Fear spread through Paris at the speed of light,
But we can't let the terrorists win this fight.
Revenge attacks are just what they crave,
But the the people of France must stand tall and be brave.

Remember the artists and all that they've given.
Remember the radical changes they've driven.
Their biting satire and taboo-smashing content
was delivered with verve, they've no need to repent.

Remember Cabu, and all that he stood for.
Remember Tignous, with his drawings so raw.
Remember Wolinski, how he raised the bar,
and then think of Charb, who always took things too far.

The cartoonists' response has been swift and been just,
The strength of the pencil used to remind us
not to discriminate on the basis of race
or of religion, or the shape of a face.

This issue is not one of France versus Islam
but rather the fight between terror and freedom.

Observations on a Warm Day

As I lie among the overlong grass, I stare up into a vast expanse of open blue sky, pierced only by the fierce heat and light of the giant supernova, and a few listless streaks of cirrus.

Spring has sprung, and the leaves are regaining their colour and vigour. Winter's bare branches give way to quasi-autumnal hues of brown, red and green, punctuated by stark contrast to the rich azure above.

The park is busy with the whoops and cheers and hollas of children at play. The distant sound of a practicing steel band drifts across the plain. Bicycle bells ping and toll as men play with balls and women prepare picnics.

A married couple stroll by, as so many before, proudly pushing a pram before them.

Dogs of all breeds, shapes and sizes freely frollick to and fro, frantically chasing sticks, balls, birds, and any other object charged with the audacity of motion.

Bees float around, the zip of their flight providing an occasional burst of terror for those who hear it.

Boys and girls in fluorescent bibs show off their silky skills as the wind's gentle but relentless breeze adds a welcome coolness. Kites and planes soar overhead, speeding toward their unknown fates.

The red buses unload a steady stream of revelers, each looking to make the most of their days of rest. Hangovers are cured by illicit barbecues, and a few solitary individuals bury their heads in books, oblivious to the beauty of the world around them, or perhaps all too aware of it.

The bootcamp fitness session helps a middle-aged man's rehabilitation, while a young child takes its first tentative steps between the open arms of overjoyed parents, and another learns to ride her first bike.

Ducks flap their wings as their feet skim and paddle across the flat and filthy pond, watched by onlookers sat at benches commemorating so many of their bench-sitting forebears, now deceased. A rare spindly tree hangs yellow flowers in a conspiratorial contrast to the dull lifelessness of the water's surface.

The park, on this sunny afternoon, is at once alive with the vibrant urgency and motionless peace of the season, and each fragile moment holds a special significance for those involved.

She

She's the one who sits there, watching the world go by
She's the one who sits there, morosely asking why
She's the one who feels this way, stifled and striving for something to say.

He's a man who wanders, wilfully whispering words
He's a man who wonders what it is with the bees and the birds.
He's a man that spots her, soaring high above
He's a man that sees her, swooping like a dove

He's the one to notice that she's the one for him
She's the one who knows he'll be there through thick and thin.

He's a man emboldened, who tries to approach his dove
He's a man impassioned, who thanks the stars above,
Because when she smiles her wonderful smile

He's the one to know
That she's the one he loves.

Heartbleed

My heart bleeds,

But this is not a virus.

The aching wound drips

Pain on my papyrus.

She has brought a ram to our collective memory,

Like a wrecking ball, smashing apart shared moments

And exposing my vulnerabilities.

My passion’s open source

Shall no more remain exposed

Lest further piercing damage

Should destroy the mainframe.

The time has come to hibernate

To shut these feelings off.

If not a full reboot, then

A pause.

Some time to reflect, and

Avoid Romantic ideals.

To dodge further pain and a

Potentially fatal shut down.

I Have No Need

I have no need of poesy's arduous thees or thous.

Rather I write with urgency, of me, of you, of now.

A blind man in the gutter, can look a bad man in the eye,

And by each subtle stutter,

Tell honesty from a lie.

No need have I of novels,

Those ambient, well-worn books,

Filled with men who grovel

And baser, low-down crooks.

My energies are draining,

I feel my life blood sap,

‘til, waiting by the window,

I hear the curs’d tip-tap.

Hot rain reflects my feelings

As the tears run down my face

Her words, they sent me reeling

But life proceeds apace.

I miss her gentle touch, her soothing voice,

The tender curl of her gorgeous lips

As she smiles that warm and knowing smile.

I miss the bliss of knowing she’ll be there

To catch me when I fall, no matter where.

And now to learn she found it all a lie,

A blip, a time to cast off and forget,

Is painful, as I watch love wilt and die

And thank the Lord there’s nothing I regret.

I’m doing all I can to carry on,

To keep the pecker up and soldier through.

But life is not so easy once love’s gone

And all you thought you had is proved untrue.

Nonetheless I must march onwards,

Through emotional sleet and snows

And hope I emerge a better man

Who prospers, learns, and grows.

I have not the moral fortitude to take the noble route

And even if I had a gun, would not know how to shoot.

My thoughts, they are all jumbled as I paper over cracks

And pray against all hope that one day she’ll come back.

Haiku?

Containing one's thoughts
In seventeen syllables
Is not always easy.

Razor

Water, a sink, and a crude cutting implement.

As the lather goes on, the blade's moment is imminent.

Warm metal on wet skin.

One deft flick and it's over.

One small slip and it's over.

Fluid ribbons of bright crimson

Create a balm of smooth viscosity.

Hello once more, old friends.

First of all, an apology. I am sorry to say that I have neglected this blog for too long now.

I have been somewhat remiss over the past two years, scribbling away ideas, poems, short stories, and plans for longer works (and a novel), but not posting anything on here. The primary reason for this abject absence is probably that the last couple of years have been a time of immense change and turmoil, of sad ends and fresh beginnings, of love and of loss.

In fact, it is the latter that brings me here once more. I have recently suffered the most agonising heartbreak I hope ever to face, and my coping mechanism has been to turn to the blank page and release my most pressing and intimate feelings onto paper. For very obvious reasons, the majority of this rather personal material will remain in the pages of my notebook, but it has spurred me on to return to my all too neglected blog, as part of a concerted push to improve my creative output.

So, once again,  here goes, I'll dive in, pen in hand, dipping pink toes in that inky-blue sand.

J
x

Late Night Train of Thought

Feverish dappled sunlight

streaks through the tunnel of my mind,

focused solely on its goal, and what it might find

buried deep within the recess of a faded, ancient process,

that old familial brain lapse

as i feel the clicking synapse

that forms the thoughts within my head.

Or so say the theories I have read.

So I sit, I wait, I wonder, watching

the world slide by, stare into the eternal

yonder, and realise I'm living a lie.

'Tis not the life I'd wished for, many moons ago;

No wife, no kids, no bills to pay,

nor nothing else to show

for these short few years my fuse has burned;

old age and regret are all I've earned.

When all is said and done, through battles lost and won,

there's little left to do, but pay off what is due.

With muscle soft and sinew flailing,

I feel my body aching, ailing,

and that which keeps my mind from failing

is the vision of a happy face, smiling

from some better place.

Some higher value there must be

in writing down all that we see,

and so we wander, seeking all,

until we learn of Kublai's fall,

and then Man's folly comes to roost,

wiping out our spark, our boost.

Creative edges, tho long blunted

by inaction,

strike one final, taut

reaction

to send synapses snapping,

and the 'modern poets' rapping.

Wading through this stagnant brine,

we search forlornly for lifelines,

until we are tossed a single rope

that we can cling to, and call

hope.

Search and Destroy

This is a monologue I wrote for a good friend of mine, who used it in an audition. At some point I want to expand it into a full-length piece, but for the moment this snippet shall suffice to satisfy those with shorter attention spans.


The narrator has been found hiding in the rubble of a collapsed building, and is being asked why she was there, if  she's infected, whether anyone else was with her, and how she got in: 

How?(cough) How did I get here?

Listen, I’d focus less on the how, and more on the why, if I were you. I’ve been hiding from the local mob. Twenty-four days I’ve been on the run, ever since the spill. Those of us considered unclean have been hounded, and ‘eliminated’, like the disease we carry. (cough) Breaking in is easy if you’re desperate enough. (hacking cough)

Why did twelve respectable people feel the need to flee? Ever since the event it’s been pollution this, infection that. Enough is enough. There’s a civil war going on outside, and all you lot do is sit there twiddling your thumbs waiting for a disaster so you can come with your stupid clipboards and ask your stupid questions.

The twelve of us, the lucky twelve who got away, knew we needed somewhere to hide, so we snuck in one night. They knew. They always know. Destroying the (cough) building was just an attempt to flush us out.

Anyway, how do I know you’re not one of them yourself? You may wear that uniform, but uniforms mean nothing now. Law, order, peace. Just words fluttering in the breeze.