Kubla’s Musings – a poem

Opium dreams whisper colours
In shades listless but sharp,
Gem cold facets glimmering
With pill dull lab dust.

What shadows grow over
The mountains slumbering?
Vials tell stories of frost
And ice vines eat lust.

Space foreign rhymes
Set to formal pentameter
Ring out over the trails,
A Khan’s song on a rail.

Under the world and far below,
The Khan of Kubla sings,
Of dreams and toothache juice,
The poet’s uneasy truce.

Ice snakes slither with crunches,
Crackles of a cold world living,
Metastasized wildlife unfeeling
Lives on, and the poet, for forgetfulness,
Goes on weeping.

In the Mountain Hall – a poem

Caverns aeons long unoccupied
In mountain crevasses crenellated
Echo epic with a dropping drip,
Series in unheard ice formations
Cracking as only ice can.

Stillness in rime
The end of light and time,
Pools stored and never released,
Echoes in caverns unheard,
The unfriendly ice tales told
In caverns never upon looked…

Take a Bite… – a poem

Biting into the celadon neon

We shirk away

From riding pear storms

And arriving after the fray.

What strange memories linger

In mists of our experience?

Do we listen to singers

And cherish knowledge delirious?

The middle of the apple

Has been reached, and not

Green does it cause us

To become in a wayward bite.

This is one door to hell

That we dare not leave

Open for the feel alone.

Veils of secrecy common

To the land of coin

Shock and surprise in tandem,

Though recognition be desired.

A break from the human race,

A vacation to no place,

Taken at half past never

When hell freezes over.

The Middle of the Apple… – a musing

“You Inspectors aren’t qualified to judge my sins.
Only the fallen may judge me.”

-Shogo Makishima,

Psycho Pass

*

And so we reach the middle of the apple.

How amusing!

Look forward to that line coming up at a point in the not too distant future.

I type this amidst clouds of Key Lime vapor, strangely named ‘Chastity Belt’, by Carpe Diem Vapor.

This goes out to all writers.

Do you find it difficult to maintain writing and your life?

I’m sure that we all do, more at some times than at others.

I began a new job about four months ago, at a finance company. After writing solidly, chasing the wordcount dragon, for a few years, I put aside those energies to focus on giving this job my all.

Now we have reached the middle of the apple, the c- n- OOPS!!

Almost used a line there!! Anyway, yes, the balance of one and the other. I’ve managed to get writing in the evenings after work again. Nothing major, a few hundred to a thousand words at around 8pm. It isn’t a lot, but it keeps the story going, keeps an awareness of the multiple revolving jigsaw story pieces alive.

I’ve mentioned before that this work environment is a very social one. There are regular nights out and meals and get togethers, and my social circles have expanded exponentially as a result. I feel, biting into the core of this big, crunchy apple, that I may have struck a balance at last with the regular short bursts.

Meanwhile, other social engagements draw my attention.

Last Saturday found me dancing atop a giant table of noughts and crosses, at about 2am, with all of the windows and doors open in case we could disturb the neighbours. Molotov Jukebox was playing, loud.

It wasn’t my idea, nor my house, but the table dancing was happening when I came out of the bathroom. Who wouldn’t join in?

Social things are cool, as is writing (the neverending quest for the word dragon continues), but it is the balance that rules over everything.

I hope that you can all join me in a crunchy bite of this apple core…

Asian Mist.

X

A Purpose Fragmentary – a poem

Tiredness of lazy made synapses

Spark slower than normal,

Though at all

Is better than collapsing.

Wishes made in secret

Last little out in the open,

A series of compounding links

Fractioned over shining trinkets.

Terse conversations midweek

Forgotten and foreign seeming

Dissolve out via resinous leaks

Over the hubbub in snowy cold.

Elbows on the table,

Cross conversations

Going five ways or more,

Not a single one slacking.

Expectations and ravalations

Meet a social shock

Lubricated by yeast concoctions,

The solemn lipless tricks

Of loud noises

Made for no reasons.

Cold without sleeves,

Sunshine a distant memory,

And all willingly done

For a purpose fragmentary.

We Tell Ourselves Stories – a poem

We tell ourselves

That there are no ghosts

In winter.

 

We sing in innocence

And lament post-experience,

A tide of alien tunes.

 

Glimpses atop a dark stair

Of pale faces and long hair,

A silent witness looks on.

 

Out there flakes fall,

Foreign influence creeps in

And I hear a call.

 

One wail sounds out,

Painkiller drinks and smokes

Wished for, when in doubt.

 

Days drag in cold slumber,

Hibernation worn older

As we eat dry petals.

 

Ghosts don’t hibernate

For late winter laughs,

And frost eats the grass.

 

We still tell ourselves stories,

Though, for present moods

And everlasting memories.

When the Day is Done – a poem

Crowded voices clamour
For supremacy,
Denizens of the alcohol den
Let loose among own kind.

Tight circles, total uncalm
Shot with gold liquor flecks
And promises of soul balm
Applied vigorously
Under tent heaters.

A call of flashing lights,
The waste management of worry,
A fairy-tale in slow tides

Burning holes in our jeans…

What do we do

When the day is done

And the revolving kitchen door

Turns no more?