Wide World – After the Office

I am writing this following a period of appreciable mental strain.

Now, entering a time where the chase of the novel does not serve to fill the gap, I find strange tendencies come to the fore, old habits trying to force their way through new neural pathways. Such is the affliction of the cerebral-

Nah. If you’re a Lovecraft fan, you will have recognised the above as being fairly similar to the opening lines of Dagon. While I am not hastily scrawling pages while bemoaning my lack of forgetfulness inducing opium, I do feel a great deal of loss.

I’ve been off the radar, or under it as you will, for a while. Coming back with the odd poem has greatly heartened me. The deluge style likes of my fellow bloggers of said poems is fantastic for any writer, especially one such as myself who has only recently come out from under that cloud of ‘appreciable mental strain’. So, thank you. :)

The reason for this is studies. Teaching English as a Foreign Language, of TEFL, to be exact. I began around the start of this year, 2014, and finished about two weeks ago. I felt as though I had left it a bit late following my 3 day classroom portion, but I managed to complete the course 3-4 days ahead of the end. Nevertheless, I strove mightily, writing a few hundred words of prose in the morning (sometimes more), and then studying for some hours during the rest of the day. It wore me out.

Little writing projects did I take on, and I found my style growing, my capability expanding. Of late I wrote about a South African expatriate in Birmingham, basing almost the entire story on real life events that I have experienced, or have been told. Now I write a tale of wizards in a far off solar system. It focusses on the Triad style aspects that John Woo is such a proponent of in so many of his films, including the facet that burning tobacco heals all wounds; it’s a fusion aspect, one in which I seek to unite various stories from many mediums that I feel aren’t lauded enough, due to the formats of media they are in.

The prospect of leaving the country, getting a visa, doing a new CV, are all frightening. Enquiries of a friend are leading my mind toward Indonesia for a first teaching experience.

I know this, my friends, there is a Wide World beyond that of the stereotypical Office Trap, and I want to see it. To live it.

Wish me luck!

Asian Mist.

X

Underground Police – a poem

Tall, slender, sinister and exotic,

Dark of hue and tantric

By nature, the pointy eared police

Stand guard on the barren world,

And beneath it, no need

Of being heard.

 

Underworld Elves, dwelling deep

Below the surface of the 8th,

Far out from the blue star

With certainty more than faith,

Guardians of order and more,

For hubris may be committed

Both near as well as far.

 

A breathless sense of vague

Expectancy grows high,

Exempt from hate

But lit not by flickering flames

That would banish the dark

If they had a chance marked.

Poetry and Madness

Only poetry or madness

Can do justice

To this.

 

Off the grid, dug in deep,

Salivating over time limits

And those walled round heaps,

Swamps of salient learning

Lean all about.

 

Fragments of fictitious vases

Shine foreign in the light

Of green stars rising swollen

In the mind’s perpetual fight;

The mind, my greatest enemy,

And the soul it’s energy.

 

Ill, hale and dying,

The three states of cloned being

Not understood by the new

Which comes sauntering

Through the swamp grid of knowledge,

And hails one and all over the ridge.

 

You should know, man,

True calibres don’t

Know no different.

Constrained Composition in Close Quarters Conditions

Interplay in close spaces
Amidst a hall of gaps,
Glittering hands lost before faces
And age bowed backs.

In cubical closes
Do butterflies practise
Their shadow boxing,
On the spot, wing based Chi
Enclosed but still flowing.

Crush, molten glass replaces brain,
On a single side of the face,
Trains and repeating announcers
A tired traveller’s bane.

Rush to get the job done,
Yet rushing not always
Makes a clock smooth run,
Effort expended disproportionate
To outward exhibit produced.

Charge up during chill down,
A tale told before
But this time lived through,
Fill the gaps
And cut the straps,
The closed spaces await
In halls of human flowers
For a sense of the tame.

Sleep Sines

Dream lives lived

And parties attended.

It seemed
All too real,
But we lie all
And worse,
You in your sleep talk.

The facility of memory
Returned for a little while,
Only to get shocked by fractious
Examples of strange style
Never at rest,
Ever fragmentary.

A lift took us down
To that lowest of levels
Conceivable, where tides
Of opposite to electrock
Slow burnt fire
Flow and recede,
A soft slow ebbing
That moves in molten lakes
About black islands
Under a forever dark sky.

Accused, I left,
Seeking those tides,
Their very beauty what makes
Them dangerous, lakes all,
But beauty need not
Profess to be nice,
And I sat on the black beaches,
Tens of others from the colony beside
There also, our feet all bare,
Toes wriggling in dark sands
And minds flowing with the direct tides.

Where resided that land?
Close to the core of the earth,mayhap,
But those molten oceans
Would not be fanned,
Operating on own law
Regardless of any refrain.

Take me back there,
I beg you speak again.

*this poem is partially based on a dream I experienced two nights ago*

Caught Beat

Pulse.
Wave.
Pulse.
Wave.

Web.

Nicotine sweet,
Poison liquid beautiful beat,
Heart skipping trips
As a pink sky melts ice
Floating on smokey waters,
Growling and cracking,
The air escapes.

Our first taste is oft sweet
For bitter is to later come,
In a dead end heat
Where the soul out funnels
In slow realizations,
But few care
Because we melt,
Drip,
And into the sky slip.

Droplets of adrenaline fall
From curled tongues above
To our greedy selves,
Down below,
Where we writhe and twist
Amongst seas of uncertainty,
Surety floundering in strange seas
Of facts little affirmed
With their own special meanings.

Catch a trip,
Ride the tide’s rip
And wait for the signal
Afore your heart stops.

Strange Noises

A mechanical whir starts up
When I turn off the tap.
Looking about, glancing around,
I see the land
Beyond the kitchen window,
Dragonflies mating in spring sun,
But no owner of said strange noise
To be found,
Out there standing.

Caverns of humankind early
Unexplored time,
Painting on the walls in handprints
And sophistication
Already then unfurling,
But what is this jazz?
Again I test the tap,
And no noise
Happens.

Checked again,
To be doubly sure,
And right as rain,
Strange mechanisms ring out
Pure.

What is it,
I wonder.
A bird, a plane,
Some insects odd or
Dangerous?
My thoughts are superfluous,
And cracks appear in blood
Crusted up by mythical
Tiger venom dripping from hoods
Extended at signs of a threat,
The sound makes power names
In my head and heart,
Unfathomable,
Society separate
And inexplicable.

Expectations of normality escape
From the web of regard,
And I glance about more,
Strange sensations pouring
Through an invisible angel soul owner,
Essays in Sanskrit script unfolding,
The ever voiced vowels stretched
To points that know no breaking.

It is a call
To run from Babylon,
Or,
The eminent eyrie like heights
Of a lit up telecomms tower,
Matches and batches
Broken by a keening desperation
To seek the source of said sound,
But finding none
I break apart
And flow on back home.