Silent Defiance

His jaw visibly tensed. Knuckles white, his hands clenched to fists. The laughter, growing louder as it reverberated through his mind.

“What the fuck? just ignore them... It doesn't matter.. just ignore them.. who cares anyway?” The voice of reason trying to overcome, subdue the laughter. It was failing. He could feel himself slipping into the rage, could feel it pulling at his shaking fists tempting them to action, running down through his legs, turning them to jelly.
It crept into his belly, unsettling, unnerving. He wanted to shout, to scream, but dared not for fear that his own shivering voice would set him off. Rip the sanity from his already tentative grip.
So, he remained silent as the barrage of taunts was flung at him. He bit his tongue as the first of the tears cut a winding path down his face to drip silently to the floor. He wouldn't speak out as he stared at the jeering crowd through blurred vision.
Even when the first blow landed he uttered not a sound, neither crying out in pain, nor roaring defiance. He merely absorbed the physical attack as he had the verbal ones preceding it; Silently. The caged anger building, but held contained, within him.
As he fell to the floor - feet and fists lashing out at him, bruising bone and cutting skin - his one consolation; indeed, the only thought he could focus on was his own private triumph, the only dignified defiance he could muster.
While his body was battered by booted blows and his heart rent by laughter, not one sound passed his lips, neither plea for mercy, nor even so much as a gasp for air. He hadn't screamed blasphemy at his assailants. He hadn't promised revenge.
They couldn't break him.
He remained silent.
Bleeding.....
Shattered....
But Silent.

Solitude

Solitude.
You're alone, you live alone, you die alone and you spend all the time in between trying desperately to convince yourself that you're not. You pick your poisons, your delusions. How do you choose to hide the truth?

Do you scurry in the shadows? Taking the company of the other degenerate dwellers of the dark, banding together, comforting one another with sad tales of the misunderstanding and abuses of the rest of the world? And what comfort do you find in that? Does it help you? Does it make you feel somehow closer to the light, without the need of ever having to venture out into it?

Perhaps you find your comfort in the indulgence of the flesh? Fleeting pleasures, easily forgotten, easily replaced. Never get too close... That might require some effort, some commitment, some risk on your part. So you live as a coward and a leech. Take what you can, bleed them dry and then run away before you feel anything, before you have to face yourself and the truth of what you've become.

And what of your belongings, your possessions, the cold, hard love of the inanimate, providing comfort and status while you live out your days on this world. But “live” is a very subjective term, isn't it? You don't live, you simply die slowly, gathering to you, as much as possible in the futile hope that the more you own, the more worthwhile your existence would feel. Then, at the end of your days, all your possessions surrounding you, looking on with the cold indifference of the dead, it all becomes clear. You find your answers just in time to appreciate how wrong you've always been.

Chemicals. Possibly the most amusing of all your veils. Your drinks and your drugs. What's the matter? Are you so conscious of the lie in which you try to live that you need to numb your own mind to the horror of it all? Hiding in your self-induced euphoria, praying that the world doesn't find your dark, little hole, while all the time, the scavengers circle, their razor-blade smiles unseen through the clouds in which you've submerged your senses. Your head is in the sand, but just because you can't see them doesn't mean they can't see you.

Solitude.
Perhaps you do live and die alone. Perhaps, no matter how you crowd yourself with your lies, it will never make any difference. Why, though, bother with the poisons? Hy delude your mind, why convince yourself that life is anything other than what it is?

What can you leave this world with? Dignity, respect, honour and love, not only for yourself, though this is most important, but also for all the other travelers, those that you passed in your journey from cradle to grave. They might never be one with you, and you may be alone despite their presence, but they're also alone. Make their loneliness as bearable as possible, let them do the same for you.

Enjoy, love and live.

Don't ever stop.

My Irish Cottage (Incomplete)

For this introduction just read the Intro for the previous poth, the same applies here

The countryside is quiet, the grass, an emerald shade of swirling patterns as a gentle country breeze picks up the fallen Autumn leaves and sends them spiraling towards the solitary brickwork cottage perched atop the gentle rise of the grassy hill.

The cottage is almost completely still, the soft braying of cattle and the click-clack of typewriter keys drifting on the air, the only sounds that gently suspend the silence.

In sharp contrast to the quaint, old-world feel of the cottage, a fire-engine-red 1966 ford mustang rests quietly in the long driveway, a beast waiting in repose, seemingly sensing the inevitable moment when it will once again come roaring to life, knowing that moment is never far away.

A short distance away, behind the cottage, Avril sits quietly, perched atop her favourite spot, a small rocky outcropping overlooking the quiet countryside. She stares off into nothing, lost in her thoughts, caught between this world and a thousand others.
She's brought gently from her reverie by the constant tapping sounds of the typewriter keys drifting down from the upstairs window of the cottage. A smile lifts the ends of her mouth at the distraction, as she thinks about the cause. He's up there again, probably mumbling to himself, under his breath, as he tries desperately to string together the right combination of words, working to get them just right to bring life to his thoughts but never satisfied with the results of his efforts.
She used to love watching him write. She would watch his mind working, through his eyes and the lines of concentration forming on his forehead as worlds were born and destroyed on the waves of thought swirling within his head. She loved it. She loved the magic of what he did, even though he could never see it, or understand her love of it.

Incomplete

Okay, well this is an old piece now, one that I had planned on finishing, however, having read it again, I've realised that it isn't as good as I had originally hoped (I never can tell unless I've a piece some time to mature), part of the problem possible lay in the fact that I let too many people read it before it was ready so now it's lost something... Anyway, crappy or not, I've decided to post it her and leave it at that..



A speeding car. A lonely lover. A collision set in stone.

The young man stands in the middle of the road, the glow of the street lamp breaking his face into sharp geometrics of contrast, dark and light. A simplicity reflected inside his mind, that of black and white, right and wrong, good and evil.
Friends and the faceless.

That simple duality has governed everything he's thought or done his entire life, it was his only reality, his only conviction was in the absence of grey.
That all ended the day she came into his life.
She'd blasted his safely guarded convictions to pieces, her arrival shattering a lifetime of certainty as easily as he might tumble a carefully constructed house of cards.

The road stretches out into the infinite darkness behind him, its black joining that of the surrounding night, far beyond the reach of his eyes. Not that he's looking back. He stares straight ahead, his eyes on the future. Up ahead the road disappears in a bend behind the deep dark of the forest to his right. You never can see whats coming. He smiles at that, a bitter grin, and begins to walk slowly along the road towards the bend.


Some small distance away, a blue Honda civic is speeding down the same road, the driver, a middle-aged man, is drunk and euphoric. He clutches the wheel in white-knuckled hands, leaning over it and peering into the darkness outside the car through squinted eye's, wreathed in red, his vision blurred by alcohol. His smile is not bitter, he is racing his wife's suspicion home, hoping desperately to beat it there. He has just spent the day being entertained between the the bare thighs of a “hot young piece of fluff,” a girl hardly older than his own daughter. His clothes still reek of the sickeningly sweet perfume she wears. The scent is awful but it reminds him of the girl and he smiles, shifting in his car seat, his hard-on pushing painfully outward against the inside of his fly. He rubs his crotch and presses his foot flat on the accelerator.


These are the times the world closes in on you.
Everyone is either the enemy or unavailable. Friends seem to be so hard to find, where once there were many, everything is suddenly empty, bare and lifeless.
He couldn't say that he had no friends, that would be a lie, but somehow none of them seemed to matter anymore. With her gone, the colour had gone out of his world. He knows his friends matter, he cares about them still but the caring is remote, hard to reach. He's tried to tell himself that he wishes he had never met her, but he knows that's a lie. He can only futilely wish he had never lost her.

He feels so much older than his years warrant. He knows she'd laugh at that, poke fun at the cliché, and he'd laugh along with her. She always made him laugh, even when he was the joke, which he usually was. Even this walk is laughable, this pathetic little, self-imposed exile. She'd never have condoned it.

The muffled sound of his soft-soled footfalls barely audible over the oppressive sound of his own swirling thoughts, the young man strides, listlessly, down the road, unknowingly stalking towards his destiny.

Even if he were to know the fate speeding towards him, he wouldn't care. What good is any destiny, any future, without her there to face it with him? God! So pathetic, so pitiable. If their roles were reversed, he knows she wouldn't be this melodramatic. She was so much stronger than him. She'd miss him, yes, she'd mourn... But she would also move on.

So why can't he?

He feels stuck, trapped in the future, trying to reach for the past. Desperately clutching at a time before she entered his life, before she made everything right. How can he move forward without her, after sampling such bliss, perfection? Completion.

He'd always believed himself to be strong. He'd always stood by his beliefs, never faltering, never flinching. What a laugh! He'd managed to convince himself for all those years that somehow he was... More. Something better than those around him. No one had ever managed to impact him or change him. His course was unalterable and no force on earth could shift it.

He remembers the first time he'd noticed her. Long before they'd actually met. She had always looked like a sweet enough girl, in her own way. Perhaps a bit flighty, not terribly bright, but nice. Nothing more than that. Nothing he could possibly be interested in. No, he was always serious, focused.

She'd always make fun of him for that. And he'd loved her for it.

It had felt so good to let himself laugh. He'd had no idea what he'd been missing until he met her, she showed him something special in her, the reflection of which he'd learned to see in himself. Now there's nothing, he's empty, or rather, there's so much of himself that he cannot get in touch with, just the serious, sombre zombie he'd always been.

Dammit!!

Nearing the bend in the road, lost in his thoughts with eyes blurred from memories he tries to forget, the young man doesn't notice anything of his surroundings. If his mind were in the here-and-now he might be aware of the growing glow of headlights up ahead, may even hear the noise of an engine growing louder, closer. Caught as he is, though, in the fractured web of broken dreams, he remains adrift, ignorant of reality.

Chapter one: part 3

“Stop right there!”
The woman's authoritative tone was reflected in her confident and commanding stance . She stood facing the two surprised combatants, her demeanor stern, her long, dark hair pulled back and tightly bound with a length of soft leather. The watching crowd stared, open-mouthed, at her, stunned that a woman could, at once, be so beautiful and yet radiate such power, be possessed of such a commanding presence.
She strode towards the big warrior, a sword, nearly as tall as she was herself, strapped to her almost-bare back, her naked, sensual form barely concealed by the ceremonial garb of the city lord's personal guard. She stopped directly in front of the mammoth man who fought to keep his eyes on her's rather than wandering across the distracting curves of her perfectly-defined body.
“What is the meaning of this?” As she spoke, the watching crowd began to drift away, the show over and the authorities present, this no longer seemed like a good place to be, “You are a champion Yan'buru, a warrior-elite of the Pagoda of Elements,” She spat the last words out as though disgusted that such an honourable title be bestowed upon one such as the man who now stood before her, “You dishonour yourself, you dishonour your temple, you dishonour your lord... You dishonour your city!”
Surprise crossed Yan'Buru's face at the sound of his name.
“Yes Yan'buru,” She emphasized the name, “I know who you are. Unlike some fools I could mention I don't blunder into a situation without knowing who the players are.” She nodded at the old man, who, Yan'buru just noticed, was chuckling.
Turning back to Yan'buru, undaunted by his towering height, she continued her castigation of him, “Have you any idea who this man is? Or do you just habitually assault respected elders without concern for their identities.. Or their titles?”
Something about the emphasis she placed on the word 'titles' concerned the warrior. Who was this old man?
Trying to form a reply, Yan'buru clumsily stumbled over his words while the woman watched, content to let him make a fool of himself for a while longer before interrupting.
“It matters not what you say to me warrior.” her response to his stuttering mumble was short and to the point, brooking no interruption, “Your fate is in this distinguished elder's hands now. Ask him for forgiveness, though lords know you deserve naught but swift punishment.”
Yan'buru swallowed hard, a dry lump forming in his throat, in the city states of the northern continent, “swift punishment” could mean only death and if this woman truly was one of the city lord's personal guards, she would be more than capable of delivering such a punishment, or at least have access to someone who was.
Yan'buru looked down, apologetically, at the still-sniggering old man, he could feel his ire rising at the mere thought of apologising to, what he perceived as, a deluded old fool without honour, dignity or respect. 'Then again,' he thought to himself, 'the lord's guard did mention a title.' He knew that if he had assaulted, not only a repected elder, but a respected elder in possession of a title there could be very serious repercussions.

Untitled

As hope always stands but one step away,
We chase dreams like fools, blinded by the light of the day,
A forest between our grip and the roots,
Buried in dirt, pushing earth loose,
Words make no sense in the chaos or "now",
And only in hindsight have we a grasp of the how,
But it always seems, too little, too late,
As decisions we've made have sealed our fate,
Yet, hope can still burn this mud from our eyes,
If, even just once, we've strenth left to try.

New Beginnings

Step inside, don't be afraid, the game has just begun,
Leave your fears at the door, their time and place have gone,
Shadows in the darkness that no light exists to cast,
Dreams that flicker in your slumber, whispers of the past,
The safety of what went before has now been laid to rest,
Once you step in through that door, you face the endless test,
No more smiles, the laughter fades, into the dimming light,
Demons once left far behind now lead you in this fight,
The darkness that you understood, replaced by unknown black,
The time has come to face your life, there is no turning back...

Walking away

Another fractured image,
Another broken dream,
Another final horror,
Blurred by the smiles between.

Another “end of everything”,
Another shattered hope,
Another tearful, “last goodbye”,
Before I cut the rope.

Another new horizon,
Another tainted shore,
Another way of killing time,
Before I disappear once more..

The Unborn

To love the ones I've murdered,
I've found I cannot do,
I gave the gift of life,
Then passed the knife to you.

While words cannot encompass,
And no action could explain,
I wish I could condemn myself,
And steal from you this pain.

If St. Peter has his pearly gates,
Closed to sins of man,
I know I've damned the two of us,
While our child sleeps in that land.

Small mercy though it seems,
Or, perhaps it's none at all,
At least it's just you and I,
Damned to hell, to fall...

Scars

The silent screams etched on my flesh,
To cry for help I have no breath,
Blood flowing free from me,
The pain to hide the pain unseen...

Chapter one: part 2

The massive warrior stared at the old man, dumbstruck, for a moment.
“Me!?” disbelief clear in his voice as he directed his question at the old fighter, “You expect one such as I to bow to a withered old man like you!?” His trembling voice was rising in tenor, with rage he could barely suppress rumbling like a waking dragon just beneath the words. How had such an insolent fool manage to survive to such an advanced age? He is obviously insane, thought the young bull of a man, his survival assured by the patience of the sympathetic, humouring him and his feeble-minded whims. But I am neither sympathetic, nor patient.

“I had thought to show you mercy old one, but you have forced my hand, dishounoring me in the presence of a street full of witnesses,” his mammoth, thick-fingered hand dropped to the haft of the katana hanging at his waist as he spat the words directly into the face of the old man, “your actions have left room for nothing but swift retribution.” Gripping the weapon firmly, he began drawing it, blade down, savouring the whisper of steel on cloth as the weapon was slowly slid from it's sheath.
The old man had barely moved, his body still held the tense stance of a trained fighter ready for combat, the still rigidity of his posture belieing the fragile appearance of his age. He faced his would-be executioner without fear, without any apparent concern it seemed.
The sword now was free of it's cloth scabbard, the giant man, holding it so that the blade ran along the length of the back of his arm, lifted his hand high, the muscles of his thick arm bulging as he tensed them, preparing for the finishing blow, the strike that would mercifully end this demented old man's lunacy, allowing his obviously ill mind to at last find rest.
Time seemed to pause in that moment, some in the crowd looked away from the grisly sight they felt sure would come, others could not bring themselves to turn their eyes from the scene, a morbid fascination gripping them tightly, they watched on.
All present could feel the ripple of power in the air as the young champion drew on his experience as a warrior of the Pagoda of elements to pull to him the strength of the elemental forces pervading the very substance of the world around him. He grinned sadistically, confidence and pride swelling his already massive chest at the rush of power suddenly growing within his body. He knew that to draw on his Kabal'cha simply to dispose of a weak creature such as this was not necessary, but he felt the raw display of his power would suitably impress the watching audience. He'd always been one to please the people.
The current of the Kabal'cha was like that of a great river flowing towards, and into, the warrior, filling him with a mighty strength and unshakable confidence, he gloried in the rush of it, but something was wrong. Just beneath the flow of power he pulled into himself there was something akin to an undercurrent, a matching flow of power, but moving in a different direction, moving towards....
The old man!?
Yes, there was no mistaking it now that he had identified the second flow, the old man could also draw on Kabal'cha it seemed.

Chapter one: Old dog

The old man stepped quietly forward, facing the hulking, young brute with a calm unmatched by the watching crowd. Leaning forward on his cane, he turned his wrinkled brow up to acknowledge his towering opponent, in his eyes was a gentle discipline that none could fathom. He smiled without humour, his cheeky grin a mocking reflection of the confident swagger wielded by the muscled goliath. He spoke but one word and, soft though it was, it echoed down the street, bouncing between the walls of the shop fronts lining the avenue.
“Come.”
Surprise crossed the face of the warrior facing him, followed swiftly by a moment of failing confidence and finally the grimace of rage.
“You dare!?”
The big mans words, though roared in the face of the wizened dwarf, weren't audible to those at the back of the crowd, sounding merely like the muffled cry of an angry herd beast. The crowd watched with growing anticipation, but a sense of unease. If the old man were concerned by the obvious disadvantage at which he stood, he didn't show it. He merely stood facing the screaming giant, his face cracked in a thousand places by the small smile he sported. He coughed, a small clearing-of-the-throat, and once again met the warrior's stare before speaking again.
“I dare.”
The great man stood, straight-backed, to his full height, staring angrily down his nose at the diminutive figure who dared defy his obvious superiority. All who watched could feel the tension radiating from him in hot waves. He was hesitant, he could squash this fly without strain, but where would be the glory in such a victory? This little man was more than twice his age and less than half his stature. How would the gods and ancients look upon such an act?
The old man chuckled into his chest at the giants hesitation, his white, wispy hair falling forward, covering an eye as he looked back up to shake his head at the colossus. Smiling again, the old man turned his back and began walking slowly back into the crowd.

This the warrior could not permit, the insolence! Old man or not, no one turns their back on a challenge issued against a champion of the Pagoda of Elements. The man grunted and reached his scarred hand out to grab the old man's shoulder, but the little elder was quicker than he looked, spinning on his heel he knocked the bigger man's hand aside with the knob of his cane. The surprise had barely begun to show in the face of the warrior when the old man dropped the tip of his cane to the floor, using the length of polished wood to vault his body up and around, his foot slamming into the stomach of the giant, doubling him over and knocking the breath from his lungs.
Dropping back to his feet the old man adopted a fighting stance, legs spread and arms held up, cane gripped firmly, waiting for the inevitable retaliation. The giant was clutching his stomach, still bent over half, coughing and choking he spoke through gritted teeth.
“That will cost you old man!” struggling, he stood again, to his full height, “A lucky strike is all that was, I wasn't going to hurt an old man like you, just make you bow in apology. Such an action could still save you, if you're quick about it.”
Not moving from his fighting stance, certainly not bowing to the larger man, the old one merely shook his head and again spoke but one word.
“You”

For Anna and For Robyn...

Where beauty once dwelled but a scar now remains,
Battered and bloody from the world and its pains,
What have we done to defile this innocence so?
Would we have stopped if someone had known?
Why did the world,so caulousely kill her inside,
Laughingly spit on her tears and leave her to die?
Why did we do nothing to save her from this rape?
Why now do we care when all is too late?
When the feathers were torn from her angelic wings,
When her beauty was savagely beaten with sins,
When she cried out for help, reached out for love,
When she asked what she'd done, why she wasn't enough
When her eyes flowed in streams and her blood was like tears,
Where were we all to cradle her in her fears?
We cut her down, we silenced her song,
She was yet too young to know where she went wrong

For any interested in my current "investigation" into the weirdness known as Scientology please go Here... Remember to click on any Scientology adverts you see anywhere!! The bastards have got more than enough money!!

Writing a Religion

Scientology...

well, this is breaking away from the theme of this blog, and I promise it is only a brief interlude, but, due to recent interests, I have to give some attention to this rather controversial subject.

You see, roughly half a century ago, a science fiction writer, seemingly with rather bold dreams of avarice, decided to turn the subject of his writings to a more profitable endeavour than merely enjoyable literature (sarcasm)..

Ron Hubbard, deceased (unless you believe the Scientology hype that he has simply gone home), changed a lot when he wrote his best seller “Dianetics”, not only did the book make him a ridiculous amount of money but it opened the door for an influx of further profits for him and the organisation he was to be responsible for.

I love this!

Whether or not there is any truth at all behind Scientology isn't of any importance here, the important point is that this proves the power of the written word.

Scientology is the only major religion to emerge from the 20th century. It has spread to countries across the globe, with well-known celebrities included amongst its ranks of followers. It has made many people rich and powerful.

All because of an idea, translated into a book full of the right words.

Just goes to show, the right words can shine a positive light on almost anything.

Improving your writing

Is there anything wrong with how you write? Do you want to know how to repair your writing?

If so, stop.

People read the writing of others because they want something unique from another, they want a different point of view, a different expression. They want something new.

If you try to “fix” the way you write, who's rules are you going to be following? And how are you going to make your writing different from their's? If you can't keep your own unique take on things then you'll never achieve what you want. Readership.

While, yes, I believe we should all write for ourselves I also understand that most of us want some form of recognition for our scribblings. Whether you aim for fame, or simply the kind words of a stranger, you do want someone (or everyone) to read what you've written and appreciate it.

This is why I believe you have to write for yourself. If you think too hard about the opinions of others, you'll never reach your full potential.

It is, after all, the personality in your writing that really separates you from everyone else. If you expend too much energy on worrying about what others think, you'll suppress your own special 'something'. If you do that then, chances are, no one will have an opinion of you one way or another.
People not noticing you is always far worse than them having something bad to say about what you do.

Awaiting

With practised hand,
I make my stand,
That line in sand in drawn.
This pounding heart,
In closing dark,
Waits for the arc of dawn...

Cleo

Angels tears, a devils smile, this tender heart's caress,
Open wounds have, with loving touch, been blessed,
What once was torn, is now reformed,
With a strength, as yet, unknown
Two hearts have proved, they can win through,
Where once, one beat alone,
And this dying hope has lent it's throat to a song of truest love,
Not every angel, need shine it's light, far from reach, above,
Your tender lips,
Turned up for me,
Have brought more than is said,
New life now pumps through veins I'd thought were long since dead,
Eyes of unknown colour, a scar that grins at me,
These are the mere reflections,
Of the beauty that I see,
Thus,
In dreams of sins,
Of a love that is not true,
I know I will not find,
The beauty that is you..

Fallen angel

Angelic repose, when in shades of the night,
Beauty met hemlock,
For the absence of light.
An inch near or farther from love's sure embrace,
This angel in waiting,
Has fallen from grace.

Rules of the rhyme

This article by Bruce Price stunned me, grabbed me and shook me.

For so long I've looked at the “poetry” I've written and, to a certain, extent, felt shame.. So often you hear about the rules of poetry, a snobbish friend of mine exclusively writes Haiku's that I find terribly dingy and dull. Nonetheless, I've always believed that he must be doing the right thing (even if I think it's shite) because he's obeying a set of rules that I'd never bothered finding out about until a few days ago.

You see, despite any shame I may have felt the truth is that I've always enjoyed my own writing. I've never cared if it was pretentious, snotty or so deep as to be impossible to interpret. All that mattered to me was that it expressed me. Thats what my poetry does, whether or not it can actually be called poetry is another question entirely, but thats not important to me. The feeling, the expression, the passion and the pain. Those are what matter.

I write poems for myself.

I'm happy if anyone else out there can read and relate, but first and foremost my poetry is an exercise in self-expression. I often read poems of my own, written years ago, and find new meanings there that I'd never recognised before. Thats what it's all about! Discovering yourself through the sharing of yourself. Whether you're using your poetry to describe heartbreak and pain, or something as simple as the first green of Spring, It tells something about you, how you view the world, how you interact with it. How it all affects you.

Mere ramblings? Perhaps.. But then, thats what my poetry is.. and it's me

Dirty little Poem

Passion's lost between the sheets,
Bedspread,
spread legs,
shattered little dreams.

No shining knight, no Romeo,
Love is dead,
sweet Juliet,
Now close your eyes and swallow.

A broken will to live, to love,
An aching need to please,
Never thought you were enough,
Identify yourself through me,