Monday, 13 December 2010

Zeus's Sixty Sixth Affair

Cold glass clinks together,
grown fat with red wine and--
hands intertwine in the night
of a suburban morning.

The music and dance, chosen specifically to
endanger, and to mourn their passion is
followed by moonlight binoculars--
the wife watches from across

the barren road, unwatched like
Medusa in the shadows of a car.
She drinks a coffee; a stain upon
her white shirt. Hate bellows.

Deep breath--a kitchen knife in the
back seat. The house is silent--
wraiths writhing in the dark;
fumbling, squirming.

The wife is at the door and she
rings the bell. The wraiths
turn to stone.

Blind Man's Beach

I can see,
                what you see is a shoreline:
washed up old bottles and
golden copper clams blubbling
up from the mints deep below.

You can hear the wind,
                                     hooting its bagpipe choir,
swooping over with the seagulls.
A fleet of sunbeaked scavengers,
scourging the skies.

Their bodies:
                     Cannonfire launched into the sea;
their bayonet beaks
spearing colourless fish until
their fins are shredded dust.

Gasping for breath on the beach:
bulbous eyes bulging,
a lame dance of mercy,
                                    the prey dies.

I can tell,
               what you see is a shoreline,
A grey beach. A grave.

Monday, 15 November 2010

Go Swim Home

He’s drowning in the sea
El no puede nadar
Nadar hasta la orilla

The fish,
Riot fish wearing placards of
                Go Swim Home

‘Cause he’s been rode so hard and put away wet
And they can smell ya
Hear ya como una ballena.

Fish beneath
                   Help him float.

But others who believe
                          Gils are gold,
With their placards of
                          Go Swim Home.

They tell him
               Swim swim.
But he cannot swim,

He has no fins.

Saturday, 30 October 2010

Soon, November, soon.

So, yes, I will be taking part in the 2010 NaNoWriMo contest.

Fifty thousand words in a month.

I'll tell you the truth, I've attempted it twice before and the highest word count I've reached is in the thirteen thousand mark. A huge disappointment, I know. My attention span can be minimal, so to compete this year and beat my score, I'll have to keep things fresh with new ideas. The plot can't be samey, the characters have to develop instead of being carried on cheap gimmicks; I've got to keep myself going, y'know.

So, while I prepare myself for November, here's a poem:

Orange Beaks

Orange beaks in the black of night river
They pick at the bottom step
For breadcrumbs forgotten by servants
In working vests of sunset plain

Underneath the black of night river
Where the swans do feed
Aquatic flora fall under the march
of Latin seaweed

The ducks cackle and wallow in
The last swans before them mournful
Crumpled like paper

Their wings fold back circular against
The sun--
A final strain.

Beaks crumble
Turn grey

Yes, not much going for it. It needs a ton of editing, which will happen. I like it.

Thursday, 21 October 2010

"I was born when she kissed me. I died when she left me. I lived a few weeks while she loved me."

A terrifying ride. - Gloria Grahame (left) and  Humphrey Bogart (right)

I drew Humphrey Bogart yesterday. Horrible, horrible portrait because I'm no artist at all. Unfortunately, since I haven't retrieved the USB from the depths of Hell yet, I can't upload it. Another time, maybe.


Because I watched 'In A Lonely Place'.

A classic 1950 film noir directed by Nicholas Ray, starring Humphrey Bogart as an out-of-work screenwriter named Dixon Steele with a cynical and violent temperament. Hell, only in the first few minutes of the film he's gone out of his way to try and beat two people senseless.

There are two themes/stories going on throughout the film. On one side, Steele is suspected in the murder of a woman (his cynical, eccentric nature doesn't help one bit, I tell you). On the other side, we have the love story: Steele falls in love with his neighbour Laurel Gray (played by the fascinating Gloria Grahame), a seemingly stony individual.

I suggest watching this film. I really, really do. Especially if you enjoy character-based films.

Wednesday, 20 October 2010

There is poetry and music near you
"Wot, you must be lying!"
Nay I am not you silly sod
"I will not listen to your lies!"

20th October 2010. What a funny day it is.

Why? It just is. It's the twentieth day of the month, after the nineteenth and before the twenty-first; and I'm still going and going and alive. It's good. Very, very good.

I like to be optimistic.

Here's another piece to fill the gap.

Literary Friend

Friend, what will you write today? 
Have you stopped altogether?
Have you put the pen to rest?

You know how I am
The rival, the jest
I mocked your words
You called mine foul

And we laughed
Because we can
Because we can

Monday, 18 October 2010

The Lamp Post

She stands by the road
Alone, tall and skinny
Still. Like many others.

A man, seduced by the drink
Sings a collides with her
For she is inconspicuous but bright

As a beacon, casting simple lights
To see everything. For her purpose is
Served. She was put there.

And she stays there. Watching
The foul danger embrace her
With fingers sharp as hurting flint

Then morning comes where
The world forgets she
Exists. Until the day fades away.

So she stands by the road
Tall and skinny
Still. With many others.

A first poem (second draft) of many that will eventually litter this new blog. Because, you see, recently I found a love for poetry--hell, I can't give you a list of my favourite poets off the top of my head, but it's there. 

A goldfish has better memory than me.

Anyway, this blog won't only include poetry. It'll have some prose too, articles that interest me, photos and all the nonsense one would expect from a hopeless romantic like me. WE SHALL SEE.