21 February 2011

This Here Train

runaway_train_black

The sleek for speed, liqourice black, steam powered, fire breathing loco-motive thunders down broken clickity –clackity tracks rending the night with her steam powered scream. She’s a blazing steel wheeled meteor crashing through the night - a great iron nightmare dragon derailed. It’s hard to see with a head of steam, or feel with iron skin. The fire in her furnace supplies the power to piston, but sheds little light within.

THIS HERE TRAIN

WILL DRIVE ME INSANE

THE STEAM IT RELEASES

FOGS UP MY BRAIN

THE TRACKS THAT IT CREASES

IN MY CEREBRAL VEIN

ONLY INCREASES

THE RAGING PAIN

THAT NEVER CEASES

There’s a dead man at the handle of the down - bound train and on the foot plate there’s just a bloody stain. There’s no engineer in the back head of the firebox - the fireman is gone, but the train rolls on. They jumped train a while back, this loco-motif is a runaway, and it don’t need no crew. Her injectors are red hot and her water gauges are dry, but she keeps on rolling and no-one knows why. The tender is exhausted, she don’t have no fuel. The sand box is empty, yet she sticks to the track. The cinder guard burned out many miles back this engine breathes fire from her smoke stack. The throttle lever’s jammed open, the regulator exceeds all regulation. This runaway train’s on schedule for devastation when it eventually reaches its final destination.

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You Have To Kill A Lion

male_lion

You’ve got to kill a lion – if you want to be a man. You’ve got to climb Mount Zion to the summit if you can. You ought to stop complaining that it’s always raining. You ought to seize the day, the light’s already waning. You better find a way with the time you have remaining. Get out of your room and out into the light, or sit there in the gloom – safe out of the fight.

Quit your navel gazing, there’s no time for introspection. The world outside’s amazing, roll the stone away - it’s time for resurrection. You got to kill a lion, no time to cogitate - you’ve got to get a move on, the hour is getting late. You could spend a lifetime longing for a mythic golden dawning, while you lead an existence that leaves you cold and yawning. Or you could kill the beast, come and join the feast – the celebration that awaits you on the day that you’re released. You’ve got to take control. It’s time for your parole, to get out of your hole and climb towards your goal.

You’ve got to kill a lion, take your vision quest. You have to make an effort if you’re going to do your best. Some blood must be spilled - nothing good comes easy. You’d better quit right now, if that thought makes you queasy. They say that rites of passage are for the tribal cultures, but this vicarious living has turned us into vultures. You’ll never fight the battle if you’re an absentee - you’ll never taste a victory if you watch it on TV.

You have to kill a lion if you want to seize the throne. The rules that tie you down aren’t written in stone – they’re spoken. They’re the kind of rules that are meant to be broken. Recognise it’s fear that keeps you in their thrall - and if you argue for your limitations – you get to keep them all.

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18 February 2011

Out Of Time

Hamilton_pocketwatch

You’ve skimmed across life’s oceans like a brick - with all the grace and charm of a great white shark, gorging yourself sick on the hapless victims of your affections. Nothing could ever gratify your need for attention - no love on Earth will ever satisfy your greed. The world might revolve around the sun that shines from your ass, but you still don’t cast a shadow. When you script the movie of your life you’ll cast yourself the hero and the victim, but you’ll end up with a bit part – just like you always do. You’re a shadow puppet, a projection of your aspirations – a fictional character in your dull, predictable daydreams.

That quill in your pocket doesn’t make you a writer, borrowed words and stolen motifs make you a plagiarist, not a poet. You say you’re an artist, but scribbling graffiti on other people’s work isn’t the new medium – it’s the new low. Go mix your paints and see how many new shades of black you can come up with – layer it thick and interesting over the gaps in your life. You chose your identity straight off the peg in a thrift shop – second hand, like your dead men’s ideas. The last libertarian; stood on a soap box in someone else’s clothes preaching to an empty room. Oh you’re free, but all you do with that freedom is despise and chide the rest of humanity. Women are betrayers all, men are merely serfs. Yours is the superior intellect – you’re a genius out of time. The world has yet to recognize your worth and you know it never will. Meanwhile, you are king of the mountain, but it’s a very small mountain – a hegemony of one.

There’s no escaping your fate now, you’re in too deep. I’m not a resurrectionist - so Lazarus heal thyself. I never was your jailer and I didn’t lock you in your basement, or stick you on your shelf. I don’t work your graveyard shift or carve tombstones for my bedposts - you dug that shallow grave and you dug it by yourself. You’re the ridiculous dandy, clown prince of your own world. It’s already too late, you are the walking dead. The last stage left town ten years ago and you’ve been peering through its dust ever since. When the last hour chimes they won’t even bury you – they’ll just wheel you off to the museum and place a placard around your neck that reads; ‘OUT OF TIME.’

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16 February 2011

Poppies

Poppy_Field

Poppies red as blood spatter the sun baked Afghan hills like the stained tunics of Flanders fields. The heavy headed opium sleep of death visits misplaced youth camouflaged for martyrdom in this barren foreign quarter. Fat generals and zealous mullahs sprinkle cardinal petals over the recumbent forms of collateral flesh while they intone a mordant litany of necessity and sacrifice. Tears stain the ground where mother’s sons and daughters shed their last full measure in the cause of freedom. They are confined now in the cool earth, the consecrated champions of a grateful nation. The placebo of patriotism will not heal the pain, nor dry a mother’s tears. The harvest of poppies is acrid, black and bitter.

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5 February 2011

Weathered

cuban-hurricane

The storm outside is raging, its warring winds howl and groan in mournful wrath to worry rafters and its vicious tears beat the window panes with rattling fury. Her name is Tempest; she dances in a whirlpool of chaotic dervishes with the air. Her voice is thunderous; she booms her angry message and rumbles deep distain across cringing creation. She cracks the sky with lightning forked breath, flashing electric blue and white luminance that bleaches the instance and throws transient shadows flickering across the earth. She rolls sheets of stinging raindrops that splash on the ground like whiplash tails and soaks with icy chills.

The storm inside is raging; sensations collide and rebuff colour and contrast in kaleidoscopic patterns of ragged significance. Nuance and shading are drowned in great tsunamis of emotion, tidal waves of raw sewage dredged up from the deep bowels of being crash upon the jagged rocks of consciousness, leaving tidal pools if instance and circumstance on the shore. The incessant pounding of the ocean wears our granite headlands into pebbles and the pebbles into sand - each grain a moment of our lives, the beach - the number of our days. The wind that blows the froth upon the waves animates the finest grains in little vortex whirls, scattering them as she softly sings the song of our days. She breathes in sighs of fond and bitter remembrance. She weaves the fabric if our scheming into the cloth of our existence, the flags of our victories – the shrouds of our despair. The storms that besiege our islands are but part of the forces elemental which sculpt the topography of our lives with blades scalpel sharp and blows hammer heavy until we are revealed in the fullness of our spectacular and terrible beauty.

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