Is This What You Meant by Formless?

How about i ust staryt by tyr[ng with y eyes closed

That wasn't bad.

I can't think, or process. Those things are just synonyms for each other.

I keep telling myself I'm going to give up writing.

It's a bad habit. Like a heroin addiction.

Okay maybe not that bad.

Why the double spaces?
It's looks better.

The red lines under the words I've misspelt at the top annoy me.

Four red dots under the word "ust"

And again just then.

Writing is hard.

Not shit.

Re-reading can be harder. I rarely identify with it again.

But I can't edit because it not long feels like my work.

Crash. I've stopped.

Space.

Hold on I need to put another song on on you tube.

Dark Space

I see my hand in the dark,
Watch my fingers move in
the pitch black.
The curtains shut, the cover
over head.
The heat and motion...
alone...
too many pauses...
Feeling space;
with that other sense.

What's Form Go To Do (Go To Do) With It

About a year ago, I was part of a conversation where somebody said: 'Poetry is just used as a warm up to prose.' And I was outraged. I thought it was the most closed minded thing I'd ever heard. Poetry is not just an exercise writers use so as to make their prose better. It, in no way, comes second to prose or is beneath it in anyway. It is a delicate art which in many ways is far more beautiful than prose. While prose is certainly a better medium for writing realism and, arguably, is a better way to frame a narrative. Prose and poetry are both just as important in terms of literary form as each other, and while writing poetry may make you better at writing prose, this is just as much the case in reverse. I'm sure writing prose would make someone a better poet, practice helps any writer. But this got me thinking, about literary form as a whole. And then simply about form in terms of expression. Why does a person, a creative individual, choose poetry to express their love, or prose to write their grand narrative? Why art or music, or drama or film? Where does photography come into the mix? What about comic books? The question of form has begun to baffle me. If I were to explain what a poem is to an alien would they understand at all. Or would it just seem a very convoluted means of expression. Why not just say what you feel. Where is the line between art and communication. Where does a tweet end and a haiku begin? How do we rank the forms, in term of impact, clearness of message, the emotions they can incite? I’m sure all these questions have been asked before, but not by me, so I’m going to try and write some of my thoughts on form. 

As I was first coming to learn about literature I was taught, not quiet so outright but pretty much without exception, that there were three forms of literary expression: Prose, Poetry and Drama. They weren't necessarily separate, they all borrow from each other and can mix together quiet easily. Visually this is how I imagined it:

For me, a writer like Shakespeare would be placed somewhere just left of Drama, as he  sometimes write sonnets into the dialogue of his plays, therefore showing poetic influence in his work. Or the victorian Dramatic monologue, which was like a soliloquy, but written as a poem, would probably be in the middle of the two. In the dead centre of the triangle, they’d be works like ‘The Waves’ by Virginia Woolf, which she herself described as a hybrid of these three forms, or ‘Ulysses’ by James Joyce, who borrows literary devices from every form. Some novels use very poetic and symbolic language, putting them lower than the very top of the triangle. And so on. And thats all I thought there was to it, every piece of literature could be placed somewhere on the graph. At least that’s how I saw it in my head, in reality it’s obviously much more complex than that even if you limit form to these three forms. And that was that, I went about my life happy to think that it all tied up so neatly. 

But then recently in another conversation I asked: 'What is the best literary form?’ I was baiting for an argument but I got a response close to this: 'Poetry, Prose, Drama, Comic Books, they're all as important as each other'. I agreed of course so there was not much of an argument at all, but two words got me thinking; comic books? I've always argued that comics should be seen as literature. I shout people down, talk about key examples and talk about how when the novel first came about it was ridiculed in a similar way. But, it's never entered my brain that there are four distinct forms of literature instead of three. But how does that fit onto my head graph? My initial thoughts are below:

But, I don’t agree that comics are a straight hybrid of art of and prose. There is much more to them than that. There’s a preciseness to the words that is similar to poetry. And the link between visual and  dialogue is something we see in drama. As well as this there are unique features. I’ve recently been reading ‘Understanding Comics’ by Scott McCloud, he explains how there is something very different in the way time passes in a comic that doesn’t really come from anywhere else. Besides, some early examples of comics predate the existence of the novel. So to say it is simply the bastard child of two other forms is a bit to simplistic. I debated added a venn diagram about how the five (including art) intersected in my head, but then I thought it would probably get a bit complex. But in this decision I came to a small conclusion,  all of these forms, and more, flow into each other a lot less neatly. Poetry has it’s influence on musical lyrics, but its an auditory form. Drama lead to film in a very obvious way, but film as since evolved a lot since then. As much as I’d like to make it so, form is not that easy to organise. 

However, another question I want to ask is this: Can something be formless? I’m looking around the room I’m sitting in and can’t find something nearby that is formless. There is a newspaper full of ‘articles’, a ‘letter’ from the gas company, and a take out ‘menu’. What is formless. Is that even possible. Is a conscious hybrid formless, because it doesn’t stick to one specific form. No not really. Taking the early examples of Joyce and Woolf, they are both published and read as novels. And Dramatic Monologues are read of poetry. Shakespeare’s plays are still plays even with poems inserted inside. So what is formless. Is that even possible. Surly anything with a purpose has a form. And everything has a purpose. I mean if I just aimless write words one after the other, does that have form? To me it does, to me its a poem with a statement about form. By trying to be non deliberate, I’ve been deliberate. I can’t thing of a way to write, or create, something formless without it then ascertaining a form. Why even get caught up on form? Why not just create, and land on the form that you land on. What’s more important, form or content? Well thats an age old question. But how do people actually answer? Would Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 be as powerful if it were written in prose: “I would compare you to a summers day, but your much better than that,” just does not have the same ring. However, does this work in reverse. Would “You’re okay, a pretty average girl” make a good sonnet? I’m going to say it probably would not. 

I imagine that part of the reason for peoples choice in form comes down to the reasons any of us choose to be what we want to be. I was never good at art, so that was never a form I choose. However I choose to write, and worked on it, and am still working on it. The specific literary form I choose for a piece seems to fall into place naturally. Sometimes I begin to write something and think it would work better in a different form, often its that an idea doesn’t lead itself to being as long as what I thought it would be. I don’t know if this is the case for everyone, whether what the form to use comes naturally or not. And historically if a new form came about, or a new movement within a form, it came about due to necessity. Art had lost interest in realism by the time it turned to the abstract. So maybe this is the case with form on a personal level as well; I need to get this idea, this image, this message, out of my head, and in putting it down the form comes without really thinking to much. Even more complex forms, like sonnets, seems to come naturally. As I write, I think, okay this is turning into a sonnet. And of course I have to put conscious effort in to get the rhyme scheme and syllable count right, but there is always a moment where the poem almost tells me what form it wants to be in. 

Interestingly, Scott McCloud writes about the creative process in 'Understanding Comics'. He describes how the process contains six steps: 1) Idea/Purpose, 2) Form, 3) Idiom, 4) Structure, 5) Craft, and 6) Surface. However, he writes that often a creative individual begins at 'Surface', which is to say the superficial elements of a work. 'That's a pretty picture but what does it mean?', is essentially what he means by this. We may fall in love with writing novels because we read one which we can recognise a certain amount of polish in, a description we find particularly beautiful, or dialogue which sounds in our ears. He also writes that sometimes the idea, a core motif or ideal, can come last. I might have a novel, with a chapter by chapter structure worked out, key descriptions in place, which also fits a genre (or idiom), but what is that novel saying? Maybe nothing. That does not make it bad of course, but it does lack something. His ideas on form in the creative process are intriguing, as he writes about how for some form comes first. Which in a more general sense it does, as I choose literature to express myself before I had many projects underway, but his perspective and theory is intriguing.    

Being inspired by tradition is also interesting in terms of form. And I think T.S. Eliot summed up the relationship between tradition and the individual pretty well in his essay 'Tradition and Individual Talent', in which he wrote that the creative individual should be well versed in all literature (I suppose is they are a writer) as far back as you can go. For the most part when it comes to mastering form the first thing someone does it look back. "How am I suppose to write like that?" I think when I read something I've really loved. But I think this only constructs are understanding of form. I perfectly understand the form of a sonnet, but I would never use Shakespearean language, therefore I have brought individuality to the traditional form. But I disagree that you need to look at tradition when trying to create something in your chosen form, at least not as profusely as what Eliot thought you did. If I were to explain to someone what a sonnet was, who had never heard of one before, and asked them to write one, they probably could, and if they continued to persist at it I bet they'd end up writing very good ones. Form can be invented, and probably allows for greater creativity. Even in terms of genre, the early fantasy writers such as Tolkien were revolutionary in there creation of something new. And yes they were inspired by earlier mythology,  but they were in no way recreating it in their own work.  

So, essentially… I’m not sure what my initial question was? Well essentially I think form is weird, I think it’s both quantifiable and not quantifiable. Both Specific and easy to manipulate. And that choose in form is involuntary, everyone is influenced by everyone else, and they can’t help falling in love with a form after they come to it. I could never imagine writing a longer piece I’m working on as a short story, or a poem as a song, or a play as a script for a movie. Maybe form chooses us. Maybe that’s just me. Maybe others think: okay, I’m going to write a poem, but what should it be about? I hope reading this wasn’t to much of a waste of your time, as I have no straightforward conclusion.  

It's Not Really About Music

When someone sings your soul,
When you put the song on repeat,
When you memorise the lyrics,
Download the song,
Watch the play count rise,
Add it to every playlist,
Continue to press repeat,
One more time, one more time,
The notes linger then move,
Sway from side to side;
Eyes closed to the sound,
Your hair rises,
Your skin feels tender,
You tell everyone,
That your soul has been sang.

Slowly. All At Once.

Sunrise is in 1 hour and 41 minuets.
The room is eerily quite.
I am in control. I am in control.
Complain to who, ask it why.
What is it, what's the question.
The sleep closes in. Silently.
It rushes through the brain.
A distant laugh, the knowledge.
The knowledge that.
That they're still out there, not feeling
that you.
That you.
What you feel for them. Be it anger.
It's anger. Fragmented anger.
Ask it why? Sunrise is when.
Sunrise is when.
Did I just crash. How do I?
It rushes through the brain.
Green eyes, staring out of the mirror.
They're angry of course. Be it anger.
Slowly turning, drifting, closing sleep.
Knowledge that they're.
Am I awake yet or am I dreaming?
Are you? I don't know anymore.
Please sir, tell us your location.
Something interrupts the quite,
the eerily quite.
Sunrise is when.
Sitting in the shadow, always at
night. Always in the day.
That you feel.
There is no scream. No birth.
Or death, or ending. It just is.
Complain to who? As it why?

Title Comes Last

All words seem cliche. All descriptions seem obvious. All reactions seem necessary. All characters feel repetitive. Yet life is endless. Is there a limit to the amount to original fiction and poetry that we can create from one language? Or all languages? Like, could you come up with some sort of algorithm or something. If so, are writers just endlessly trying to pump water from a well thats drying up, or is writing more exploratory, like we’re trying to find new continents in a world we have already filled in. We already flipped the narrative on its head so what else can we do. Did modernism and post-modernism ruin literature for the rest of us. Did the romantics make nature look bleak in comparison to their poetry. What do we even do now. Just swirl the images about until we have something original. Or did someone already do that? Is method something that has to be worried about, or inspiration, or writing tools. Am I less because I write on a laptop, as apposed to those before me who had nothing but parchment and ink.

There’s nothing left for me in the world that hasn’t already been seen by human eyes. So how can there be anything left that I can write about. But I know literary history doesn’t stop because I say it does. It keeps on going round and round, even now future classics are being written in dusty rooms by men and women who are passionately frustrated with themselves. I’ve got to get this out, I’ve got to get this out. But it’s wrong. The words aren’t right on the page. But to edit feels unnatural. I've edited this. Is it right all along then? Or am I just broken. Like a record playing skipping over lines, it can’t go back and fix the sound it didn’t create. Or should I just give up now. How can I give up writing while I’m in the middle of expressing my thoughts on writing. See the text just became aware of itself, and then it did it again in the previous clause. If you feel as you write, and imagine the future of the words, you can see them being pulled apart by literary students and scholars. Or the words lie empty on a dusty shelf. Or the words go extinct. No body cares, like all those messages that will never be read again, living in a phone somewhere. Destined to irrelevance.

(This is where a conclusion should go)

Is this irrelevance, as as I write this nobody has ever read it. Barely even myself as I don’t really look back for more than a few words. Although my eyes just flickered upwards and read the word “already”. There’s no end, there’s no end, there’s no end. What am I going to do with this when I end. I don’t know. Who am I talking to? Am I imaging a reader, sitting behind a computer screen, at a desk, or in bed on a laptop, or in a library. Did you just get shocked, because you were in one of those locations? Is that reader me, looking back on this at some point and thinking… I don’t know, the thoughts won’t be formed for an indefinite amount of time. What do you think reader? About anything, the sate of the world? Are you happy? I hope so. You seem nice. Am I sucking up to you?

I wish images could appear in front of my eyes like sight does. I wish my imagination was so vivid that I was blind. Or is it anyway? I was always very distracted in math class. Okay that was a lie I used to love math, until I didn’t. I feel like I’m beginning to tapper off now, slow down a little. I don’t know how I can sense this. Maybe I’ve gotten very far away from the begging. By about half an hour I suppose. I wonder how many words this is. Where I writing doesn’t have a word count. Tolstoy never had a word count, that much is obvious otherwise he might have cut back a little. Been a bit more conscious of what he was doing. But then we can never know that.

So we’re circling back to the conclusion. No good conclusions draws attention to that fact that it’s a conclusion, apart from that fact that its at the end. So maybe the conclusion should go in the middle, just to shock the reader a little bit, gives them a heads up of whats to come in the rest of the essay, like a midseason trailer or something. So these are the last sentences, so imagine sunsets or something. Is it odd that when I look at a sunset I wonder if the image itself is cliche, reality itself is marred by literature. Well it is in my head anyway. I was gonna end with that line but I instantly didn’t feel like it. Nor that one.

Purposely Untitled

Smoke lingers in a still room.
Dust swirls with the motion of bodies.
Water won't rippled without being touched.
Blossom falls with the gentlest caress.

Lives were still lived without being remembered.
Books still contain stories without being read.
Maths was right before it was proved.
But words had no meaning before they were said.

Lives to go on without acknowledgement,
or thoughts, or out lingering looks. A
gentle caress stays on the skin, still,
sublime.

Do deleted words still exist?
A life never led was once lived,
but only in your head.

She's mine, she's yours, she's ours.
She's everyone's.
She's nobody's. She's herself.
She's her own person.

You can't have. You don't want.
You still love. You still hate.
You long for. You strain for.
You gasp for. You ache for.

Slowly exhaling into a still room.
Moving together in a quick motion.
A still basin of water.
Arms reaching upwards to the trees.

An unread book on a dusty shelf.
A friend long forgotten.
A pen on a piece of squared paper.
That word makes no sense.

In the Beginning...

his eyes lingered...
she took a sharp breath.

We Pull The Water

And so we pull the water with our hands, 

not touching it moves. Flowing, circling, 

falling. We throw the water up, and then 

down. It sinks through us into our skin. 

That upward motion, I feel it now. 

It propels forward, I lurch with it. 

I don’t want to stop, I want to run. 

Let the dust never settle. 

Tea cups and shopping trollies, 

bedsheets and cushions. That pristine 

image of the suburban, the quietly 

perfect, and amazingly flawed. 

Unconnected and inconceivable, 

if you wait for the stars they’ll only 

burn you, or sit behind your eyes. 

We make our own perfection. 

If you’re thinking somethings cliche 

then it probably is. Kissing in the rain 

is funny, we laughed and ran and got 

soaked. But we do remember that kiss. 

The Last Vampire

The Last Vampire walked out into the sun,
burning and screaming, still the only one.
He was soaked in blood, unafraid of killing,
people watched as he died, the site was chilling.

The Last Vampire on earth fell down on a stake,
convulsing and yelling, he felt himself break.
White skin and red eyes, as is tradition,
with a heroin smile, that reeked of addiction.

The Last Vampire to live eat garlic for dinner,
his insides twisting he began to grow thinner.
Black cape twirling, and with a mortal scream,
he stumbled and died, was it all just a dream?

And So The Moon Howled Back

Dreamy eyed darlings
who daze, and delight.
Chin up sweetie, this
won't hurt a bit. Expect
when it's all lit. Propane kiss,
yet something's left amiss.
Black and blue he punches
you. My dark haired honey,
you're ordinarily beautiful.
I just want to grab you, hard.
Floating, bodies in flight.
The curve of your spine
as you arch yourself upward.
Looking to see the starlings
brush against a magenta sky.
The clouds rain glitter, and
we all laugh at the colour.
Laten content and stuttering
streams of consciousness.
Silently, we stumble, sit,
stand, saunter, salute... sign.
This is way the feather drops;
not on the wind but in the
breeze. A paper kiss.
Keys in a balled up hand,
the hope of new land.
Why does it happen like this?
Not with a bang but with a kiss.
Dewy eyed darlings
who destroy, and devastate.

The Boy With Snow In His Hair

I look down from the clouds and see a

boy with snow in his hair. And I wonder,

who put him there? But I watch flacks 

descend, and ponder, the meaning of it 

all, can I go on longer? The snow cascades,

and the snow falls, while I stumble, and 

crash into walls. The Black of his hair, 

and the Blue of his eyes, make me think, that

it's all just lies. Stripped back, while I'm

standing aside, he's still there, but my hands 

are tied. The snow's melting, and the snow's 

drifting, but this boy's endless, and he's inwardly

lifting. Snow always crunches, and snow is 

soft. But it's only him, that keeps me 

aloft. I want to shout, and I want to 

whisper, but none of that, will make the snow

crisper. He's in my eyes, he's in my soul, 

he's all that's left to make me whole. 

An Uplifting Fall

Everything resting on a needle point, 

until it all takes a plunge. 

Quick press reverse. 

Undo the affair, get back friends, 

un-alienate family, drop into uni. 

Throw myself onto a bridge, 

let the air suck away the water. 

Let the wind whip my hair the other way. 

Scars ripple through my life, 

like splintered glass. And I, 

the boot that stomps down. 

Blonde and Brunette

Blonde and Brunette, I don't know which is best?

I mean I'd fuck either, but which one first? 

Those two, those everything's, it's such a test. 

It's all kept inside me, am I going to burst. 

But there is no choice, what could I do really? 

I could attempt to dive, sink down, but how?  

I mean I could do everything so clearly, 

or try and act, and let it all fall down now. 

Fire and ice, but everything's turned nice. 

Oh behave, idiot, that's not you at all, 

it's no sure thing, it's all a roll of the dice. 

What's this anyway? Nothing really, just a stall. 

Je suis en amour avec deux à la fois? Oui. 

But what is there I can do? Nothing, but plea.  

Where's My Superman?

The Monster's within, Knights and Kings,
no use. Pawns against a queen. Black
and white squares, no grey, this or that.

X miles as the crow flies, specific and
defined. Categories. A, B or C. Can't we
be the whole alphabet? Or a sideways 8.

Ripped jeans and muddy t-shirts. Burning
the closet, so as to watch myself burn. A multi-
coloured flame loosened. Just fucking kill it.

Quench it. Stab it. Shoot it. Drown it. Smother
it. Drop it. Poison it. Ram it. Cut it. Decapitate
it. Starve it. Freeze it. Strangle it. End it.

Tumbling with it, endlessly, struggling.
It's hands over my mouth, a silent parasite.
But oh god how I love it. Please. Just end.

An unnatural pain. The colour of another
life, spilling over the top, covering smothering,
Bubbles rising in a pint glass, endlessness.

A long for neon lights, pressed bodies and
asses to grab. For sweet intoxication, for the drop,
for bliss that is life. For flesh against mine.

I get my bedroom, the white light of the internet
and a blank canvas. Where's my fucking red paint?!
Big brother won't give what I deserve. Or need.

A bee stung in the middle of a bee hive, or a
fish that's drowned in water. Columns and piano
legs. Why are they tied down, not liberated.

The greeks had it right. Why do we blot
everything good in the world. Ink against skin
and paper against backs. Smashed glass.

Insert an ambiguous ellipses. The unfinished
epic, the serialised novel still being written.
The pause before the round of applause or
the sentence being read before the execution.

Suspended Animation

Lifted a little from the ground, glass

Splited. A bullet, slicing everything. 

You. Suspended mid back flip. Perfect.

Always surprised, the best smile. Laugher. 

Gushing water, and rain drops in mid air. 

Oh I do, white sheets, always white. 

I could never sleep, bodies flung out wide. 

Flashing lights and crushed bodies. Awesome. 

A consistent brightness, burning and expanding. 

Roaring, rearing it's head, nothing better. 

Strawberries and sugar, ice cream on a 

summer solstice, hot chocolate on christmas. 

Immortality, the greatest vice. Eternal torture, 

eternal death next to eternal life. For you, this 

is mine. A life time isn't long enough. A dove 

flutter by and we're gone. Roses bloom and decay. 

Breathing Difficulties

Crack, the walls fall inwards, violently,

Glass falling, strangely random and smack. 

Late. Trapped within. Rebuilding, bigger, 

better, Rome to London. A consistent Hate. 

The walls fall outward, an explosions 

in your soul. A deflation, a balloon flying 

across the room. Rain on holiday, and 

chips without salt. One mark of perfect 

and five away from brilliance. I hate it, 

I love it, I'm passionately indifferent. 

The walls are static. Obviously. They're walls. 

Fire exit this way, please walk slowly 

and calmly as you try to out run a possibly 

painful death. Lover's face, not the sex.
Tired. Weightlessness. Flying. Burning.
Longing for the sweet release of swimming
within you, quenching and realising. Ending.  

Burning Slowly

Darkened shadows, slowly erasing you.

Sharp lines, brushing over imperfect whites. 

A deluge of perfected words streams through 

pale cracked lips. Not mentioning wordless fights. 

Staring daggers. You easily despise.    

Backflip and front flip, you twist and contort.

Always grasping, always clawing your prize. 

Not understanding that your teethe distort  

what you hold dear. It blackens your two souls.   

A poisonous love. Warms as its scouring. 

A cancer. Consuming as it controls. 

Seeping into everything. Devouring.

Cherished memories tainted. Devotion. 

Jealousy, one word, simply emotion.     

The Guys and Girls

I'm Drowning in compulsion. Popular novels and
genre fiction. Reality TV and blockbuster movies.
The sell by date on the latest craze.
Pop n'Rock. Fad and fiction. Labels and laziness.

I'm living in dead pixels. Eating electricity and
consuming the wireless. Tumbling down hills
listening to birds and reading books on faces.
His, her, your opinion. Does it matter what I like?

I'm 10, I'm 8, I'm 6. Is that good enough yet?
He's 30 day abs and tall parents. She's make up
and designers whims. I'm the prey to the predators.
I long for a face wipe and crisps. None of this.

I slip up on soap, and fall down on reality.
I'm at home with numbers, but in the wilderness
with fabric. I know about equations and algorithms.
But need to know the contents of Heat. Mundane.

Mundane. I strip down the wall, pull of the sheets.
Whitewashed. Erase. Eat. Put my hand up. Start over.
Choose comics and Woolf. To have a blank profile.
To swim in black and know the answer. To begin.

The Others

A pair of ravens sits on a roof top,
one say to the other, "squawk",
the other nods, dignified. Then
hops of the roof and flies away.  

A pair of cats sit on a garden wall,
one sways its tail in the wind, the
other looks on, nonplused. They watch
the cars rush of in quiet contempt.

A pair of dog sit outside a sliding door,
tied down, they wag their tails as strangers
walk past. One looks to the other and says...
Nothing, they just sit, quietly waiting for master.

A pair of goldfish sit at home.
Floating in the water, being fish.
The humans come in, and be humans.
With no eyes for dogs or cats or birds or fish.
But with just look at the pink thing in there arms.

Dragons

Dragons made of dust blaze across the sky,

common place in the dream of immortal men, 

but unreachable by those who are dragons. 

A dust made of dreams, make of lust and longing. 

Falling into an upward draft, being propelled into 

another life, another age, another love. Into you

or her, or him, or it, or them, or us, or me, or nothing. 

Dragons made of dust blaze across the sky.
But the ground is just a good. 

Words on Pixels (Or Words on Paper)

Making words isn't hard, making sense is.

It's hard to write about how you feel, because 

emotion can't be expressed within lines and curves. 

Maths is easy. It's precise, it's harder to go wrong. 

But words. Oh no, totally different story. Pun intended

because I'm a poet. There's a thing, I can't do something 

by accident anymore. I can see the techniques I use, 

and then I know I've done it wrong because I read it, and

it's not what I want. But hey, words and the best thing 

we've got, so we should all appreciate them. Right? 

But what do I know, I'm just a writer who has nothing to 

write about. I'm not even sure if this is a poem or not.   

The Perfect Memento

Cheap shots and you're off. 

Taxi ride, who's place? His. 

Do you have it, do you want it, 

Will you do it, yes, yes, of course. 

Oh God, it's happening. And then

it's done. You're broken. You 

roll off. And the lights go out. 

12 years for one night. Water. 

All you want is water. Now. 

You leave, with a bad taste and 

beer googles gone. He was a 7 not 

a 10. You idiot. Home. How was your

night honey? Good. You look bad. 

Mummy your home?! Mummy's got 

a headache. You sleep. You wake. 

Please, that was a dream, a bad dream. 

You wouldn't. Couldn't. Didn't. You doubt 

you were safe when you're 3 weeks late. 

Was it worth it. 12 years, 2 kids, 1 husband. 

Teenage sweethearts. The unbreakable's. The 

power couple. The perfect couple. The couple

everyone admired. Kids don't understand, why 

Mummy never comes home. Why Daddy cries 

all the time. Was it their fault? Weren't they 

good? Was it worth it. All that, was it worth it for 

great abs, brilliant blond hair, blue eyes, killer arms, 

and tight jeans. And nine months later you get a memento. 

Vivid - Part 2

Rob walked into school the next morning to see the results hype was still in full swing. Everyone was still asking everyone what they got, people were either letting their happiness sink in, or worrying about what this might do to their end grade. Either way it didn’t effect Rob, he just walked through the crowds of people fitting into neither category. The school Rob went to confused him, it was all one building with several floors in places, but there didn’t seem to be much of a set space for many subjects. The science department had labs in all four corridors of the school, and they were able to keep their classes rooms. Some of the other subjects had a fight on their hands to keep rooms for themselves, and some found themselves moving every year. Or in the worst cases every term. Rob was making his way to home room, he had the morning off but his Dad wouldn’t let him lie in, especially not after last night. When he woke in the morning he was face with a renewed anger from his Dad, and he’d gone downstairs to get a few more bruises. Mainly around the topic of re-sits. The idea scared Rob half to death, if he could do well enough on these exams, what would it be like when he had those ones again and a load more. 

He got to home room, and sat down. By now everyone had either cleared out to go to class, only a few people were milling about. Rob sat down in his usual place, in the far corner of the room where no one really disturbed him. He didn’t really know what to do with himself, he’d hope that he could have a rare morning off after some good results. But that obviously wasn’t going to happen. He opened his bag, and got out all his notes from before he took the exam. He realised he needed to pin point where he went wrong in the exam so as to do better the next time. He got out copies off all the exam papers and started to scour for the answers to his failure. After a while, and a few ‘Oh God you knew that Rob’ moments, he was interrupted. 

“Are theses all the exams that happened in January?” A voice asked him. He looked up and saw Maria, and was instantly paralysed in the way a boy of seventeen gets when he sees his crush. 

“Um yeah, I wasn’t really happy with my Bs, so I’m seeing where I went wrong.” She raised her eyebrows. She had curly fiery orange hair, and brown eyes. She had, in Rob opinion, the perfect body, and the perfect face. He watched her walk over to English, or sitting around reading a book. 

“You got Bs in science, that’s impressive to me.” Rob shrugged, he knew it was, but he could hardly tell her that his Dad… he stopped thinking. 

“I know, but I just thought I’d done well. And I made some stupid mistakes.” She say down next to him, and looked over some of the notes. 

“I don’t even understand any of this stuff. But then I’m just a humanities girl I guess.” She put the sheet down and got a book out. It was Pride and Prejudice. Rob was baffled by the fact that she was sitting next to him, there was no one else in the block. 

“That books good,” he said. “Austen’s use of aphorisms clearly shows her discontent with the society at the time.” She looked up, eyes wide. 

“I thought you were a science kid.” Rob shrugged, blushing a little.

“I can still read.” He thought about telling her that he wished he’d done English, but that would leave him open to the question of why. 

“I’ve read this a few times. But I finish the books we get given in English to quickly so I have to re-read or buy more, and I never have enough money for books.” He smiled, not really knowing what to say. 

“I prefer Sense and Sensibility.” He put in. She looked wide eyes. 

“How much of Austen have you read?” 

“Well everything I think. Northanger Abby is pretty good to, because it’s mock gothic rather than mock romantic.” She looked stunned again.        

“So are you some wannabe English student or summit?” 

“No. I just don’t sleep a lot.” He said, hoping she didn’t think he was to weird. 

“Oh, well sounds like you’d make an ace English student.” She looked back down to her book, and read for a bit, and Rob went through his exams for a while. But he couldn’t concentrate properly. All he could think off was the girl sitting next to him. The strangeness of what was happening. But she kept looking up to him, and he kept making eye contact with her without meaning to. The bell came signalling break and she got up to go sit with her friends, and he watched her walk away. She looked back over to him a few times, but Rob kept pretending he didn’t notice. When the room cleared again she didn’t come back over. But he wanted her to. He hoped he’d impressed her. But she obviously judged him for being a science kid, and he judged himself for that as much. He looked down at the paper. I hate science so much, he thought, and almost expected his Dad to hear him, and come bursting in ready to pin him against the wall again. “Rob?” She said. He was startled to find her hovering over him, he was just staring at the exams papers around him. It dawned on him that he’d never actually told her his name, but then he knew hers without having to ask. He was probably well know as ‘that kid who doesn’t talk to anyone.’ 

“Yeah?” He said, looking up to her. 

“Do you wanna, maybe go out, and see a movie with me on saturday.” He was taken aback. 

“Um yeah sure, what time?” 

“Oh say we meet at one at the odeon?” He knew his Dad was going out to a match on that day, and wouldn’t be back until the early hours of the next day. 

“Yeah sure that sounds great.” She smile. 

“Good, I’ll cya then.” She turned away, and Rob tried not to feel to excited. 

A bright light, bursts forth. 

It blinds you at first, you can’t see past it. 

You shield your eyes, brace for the impact. 

But the light runs up the wall, and chases away the shadows. 

Your eyes adjust, you lower you guard. 

The thousand dark birds start to turn white. 

Like pin pricks of light through a giant black canvas. 

Vivid - Part 1

A story is real. Consider the idea that in the universe, which is ever expanding, there is infinite potential. Therefore there is potential for there to be a world out there where the story your reading right now is real. And if the universe is infinite, and still expanding, then is must be real. So middle earth, disc world and Hogwarts are all out there somewhere. There is also a copy of earth where everything is exactly the same, in fact there should be infinite copies of earth.

Rob sat alone in his bedroom, looking out his window at the cloudy sky, only a few patches of blue shining through. Rob, sitting quietly, was scared. The fear of what he knew was to come was rushing through him, he shacked, paced and held his head in his hands, but he could not get rid of the fear. He knew that soon his Dad would come home, and he’d see the results sheet he’d left on the mantel, it would tell him he’d only got Bs in his first set of A-Level exams. Most people would be happy with that grade, but not Rob, or his Dad. That rage would pulse through him in almost an instant. He’d shout at Rob, and Rob would have to try and navigate the maze of his fathers rage. And try and avoid earning another bruise. But he knew today that it was inevitable. 

Rob is currently seventeen, and study the three sciences and math at six form, much to his displeasure. He hated science, but if he ever told his Dad that he’d probably end up with a broken arm. He longed to tell him that sometimes. He read a lot, when he could. But he knew now that he might have to go through another book burning. Last time he got a bad grade his Dad had burned all his books because they were, apparently, a distraction. Rob longed to study English, he watched the English students walk to there class, and had to fight the strongest urge to follow them. Rob stood again, he was around six foot, and skinny. He was taller than his Dad, and that had shocked him when he first realised because he didn’t feel like he was. 

He had chocolate brown hair, and dark green eyes. His face was round, but his eyes always had dark circles, he never stopped revising. But then it hadn’t been good enough this time. His chest was covered in bruises, his dad never hit his face, unless he was exceptionally made. After the time Rob was asked about a bruise once he’d flipped, and given him several new ones for letting people see them. His dad didn’t see anything wrong with hitting his son, he thought that’s how kids got disciplined. And Rob had quickly learn’t how to avoid it on the majority of days, but he knew this time it was beyond his control. Then he heard it, the sickening sound. It was the sound of the key in the latch. He knew he had a minuet, if that, until his Dad would burst through that door. He listened to his dad heavy breathing, the sound of his tossing his keys aside. 

And then a silence. It was like he could feel his Dad’s mood changing, building, as he looked at the grades, and grew angry. Rob thought about his Mum, she was dead, she’d died giving birth to him. But she’d loved his Dad, when he saw pictures of her and his Dad together it made him sad. He’d made his Dad like this, that’s what he told himself, that he killed the person that made his dad a decent, and happy person, and now he was paying the price for it. Then it came. 

“Bs!!” He shouted. “What a load of crap.” There was a pause. “Rob! Get down here.” His farther knew, he knew how much he feared him, but I think he liked it. When he was drunk he boasted about how much control over his son he had, and any achievement he made was his achievement as well. Rob made the solemn walk downstairs, it was never long enough. He knew the steps, the top one was his best friend, and the bottom one his worst enemy. And walked down, and into the from room. He felt the wind get knocked out of him as his fathers fist went into his stomach. “What the hell?!” He shouted, his fat unclean face just centimetres from him. “Are you brain dead of something? Ah?” 

“No.” Rob says quietly. 
“Well then what are these Bs?” 

“There not that bad grades Dad.” He pushed him against the wall, and grabbed a handful of his hair, and pulled. Rob didn’t yell. 

“Do you think that’s funny?” He said, menacingly. 

“No I just meant...” he pulled his hair a little tighter. 

“You won’t get these grades again, will you?” 

“Yes, I’ll do better.” 

“Good, you got go lightly.” he let go and took a step back. “If I had any sense I’d throw you out, your an embarrassment sometimes. No son of mine get Bs. Your mother would be disappointed if she saw you.” She’d be disappointed in you, Rob thought. He looked at his farther, and then to the floor. He had to wait before he could go, he had to be told whether he was done or not. He could hit him again. 

“Why do you look at me like that?!” His dad suddenly shouted. 

“Like what?” Rob asked quietly, the fear etched in his voice. 

“Just go,” his Dad said, his angry gone as quickly as it had come. “I can’t look at you, or this.” He thrust the paper into his chest, which hurt. Rob quietly walk away, and back upstairs. He skipped the creaky one, because sometimes when his Dad heard it he got angry again. Rob knew he’d got off lightly. But it never felt like he’d done bad, or good out of a situation like this. He went into his room, and sat on his bed again, looking out the window. It was dark, he hand’t realized it was going dark until now. After a while of sitting quietly, reliving the event over and over Rob got up, stripped off and got into bed. He curled up into a ball, hugging his legs to his chest, his head resting on his knees. Everything around him was black, he heard his house creak, and felt his body ache. But worst of all was the screaming in his head. Because he’d forgotten how to scream out loud.   

Darkness descends in the dead of night, 

Washing over your world, rippling to the sides. 

Red stained fists blot your white skin, smudging, 

Staining. A word, a number, a letter, a movement. 

They all trigger the landslide, the crushing. 

Thousands of tiny birds cross the sky around you, 

You spin your head as you watch them fly, silently.

Upload

It began with earpieces. We couldn’t live without them, on the way to work, on the drive home. That’s how it infected us, through the parts of out life that we didn’t  really care about. When your commute is just thirty minuets of dead space how easy is it for you to just slip on headphones and listen to music, or have a book read to you. But then it infected other parts of our lives, silently at first. We’d crave the headphones, the ability to plug in and listen to that song that was driving us mad all day, or find out what would happen next to in our story. Then it became more. Someone asked what if you could watch TV on the go, in the same way you could listen to books on the go. I remember the announcement, it was world breaking news, that we’d be able to watch TV on the go. In our eyes. They implanted them in us, tiny little devices, that projected an image onto the optical nerve of our eyes, and we’d be able to watch TV or a movie, in our head. Equipped with wireless power, so they’d never run out, and the ability to never be without entertainment. The world went crazy overnight. People like me did question whether this was going too far. But you don’t argue with the technology Gods. 

It took about a year before it was made consumable by the masses. The rich invested in the devices first and that allowed the companies to make the technology cheaper, and therefore more and more people got the implants. The age restrictions in countries got lowered, and lowered. About five years after the initial announcement came the next breakthrough. Social networks were brought into the mix. They’d already implanted microphones in our ears so we were never without music or sound. Now we had the ability of total submersion. Through another chip, somehow implanted deeper within us. We could enter a virtual reality space. So what you’d do is log in through, say, your phone, and then you’d be in a different reality. It was dubbed the first virtual reality. Initially it was a massive city, where you could walk around, and meet with other friends who were online. You could do this from anywhere. I’d walk through a carriage on a bus, and see people that looked passed out with glazed over looks in their eyes. But this was the new norm, no one but me looked at these people like they were weird. 

This new reality exploded. Online dating became something totally different, you’d actually meet in cyber space for your first date. You could change your appearance with just a few clicks, become thinner without dieting, and gaming became something extraordinary. Online worlds became actual worlds. But with these things came bad. When you met someone online, you’d have no idea what they were actually like, and it became a lot easier for people to convince you to meet in reality. You can only imagine what this did to the rape statistics. If you looked good in cyber space, then you became less bothered about your appearance in the real world. Obesity and diabetes sky rocketed. But gaming, I saw no drawback, it was brilliant, I imagined living my life in a fantasy world. They were building them all, Middle Earth, Disc World, Narnia. You could fall down a rabbit hole and go to wonderland if you wanted.

The world was going online, and less and less time was being spent offline. Everything became more real. Then one day, I read an article, from a shrinking group of people that didn’t go offline, saying that you could now go to a movie theatre in virtual reality. By now almost every major city had been rendered in this reality, but this kick was that people didn’t have to travel anymore, they could just decide they wanted to be somewhere, and then be there. So that dead space was gone. And now we were doing what we could have done anyway, but in another world. Because that’s what it had become by now. People had jobs online, I believe the first was a job as a journalist in cyber space. And then more and more people decided they’d rather never turn off. You can imagine that by now the companies were making humanity pay for their new addiction. But we needed money, and so we worked for it.

I could wander the streets of New York and meet no one. A massive class divide erupted. Those who could afford to stay online twenty-four seven, and those who had to work in the real world. Because the lower classes had to cater to the needs of those who wanted to stay online, they didn’t want to leave. But someone had to make sure our bodies, yeah remember them, stayed alive. But how were we still alive. It’s been fifty years now. Almost everyone is gone. I suppose people don’t remember that it’s the year 2092. I was born into an age obsessed by technology. I was born on the eve of the new millennia. And I have watched the world upload itself. Eventually we replaced what we didn’t like, we got rid of the lower class in favour of more technology. Robotics was a physical thing, so it took us a while to remember, but we did it. Now here I am. Probably one of only a handful of humans left with no metal in them. With humanity dying, and children being born out of bytes, what can I tell you. Anyone who is reading this. Life used to be different. Hardship makes us want to have better. But maybe we decided we already had better.

In a thousand years, I imagine that the system will still be going. That the cyber babies will have grown up to have cyber babies. And we will have reached the next stage of human evolution. Or we will have reached our extinction. 

I Have a Mind, Yet I Want to Think

Cold, the traveller stood, on the brow of the rise. He was looking out across a vast sea of green, which went on to the very extent of the horizon. He'd been travelling for several days across open country, never coming into contact with anything but animals. He had on him a large back pack; in which he carried a tent, five days (now two) worth of food, and spare clothes. And strapped to the outside was a sleeping bag. He was hoping to get to the ocean, which he should come to after another day or so's walk. This was the end of day three, so he choose a suitable spot, up against a stone wall, and set out his tent. In which he rolled out his sleeping bag, eat his specified amount of food, and lay back. From out of his bag he produced a journal, he looked at it, tried to think of something to write, and then put it back away. After darkness and want of sleep crept over him he let his consciousness slip.

He suddenly awoke in the dead of night to the sound of a howl. It came from the distance, but he was confused by what he heard. It did not sound like a dog, and there were no wolves in this part of the world. The sound unnerved him. He lay in the darkness, seeing his own breath mist in front of his eyes. He was clinging to himself, praying that he would soon slip back into sleep and that he would wake to a normal day tomorrow.

When he did final sleep in was short and felt like nothing at all. When he awoke he was immediately confronted with a new sound, it was the sound of waves. He quickly unzipped his tent to find he was next to the sea. On a beach in fact. The place where he had made camp gone from underneath him. The sea was around ten feet away from him. He re-zipped the tent, hoping that this was all in his head. But after a short while he realised it wasn't. He slowed his breathing and stopped panicking. He quickly dressed and left the tent. He walked a little way along the beach he was on. He looked away from the sea but saw no end to the sand. He walked and walked and walked but saw no end to the scene, it was just beach, and sand. He walked back the way he came, but when he reached the end of his foot prints he did not find his tent. Nor did he find tracks in the sand, other than his, leading away from the spot.

He sat down in the sand, pondering what he should do. All there was to the place was sea and sand. He looked down at his hands and noticed they were dirty, so he took of his clothes and dived into the water, swimming out to sea. The dirt washed of him in the waves, and he trended water out at sea for nearly an hour. The cold bite actually feeling good, as the temperature on the beach was sweltering. He swam back to shore, but found there were no clothes waiting for him. He ran to the left and then back to the right, but saw nothing of them.

And so away he sat on the beach, and pondered what he should do. He had noting left but his body and his mind. He began to see shapes in the sea, and statues in the sand. Out in the waves he saw horses and deer, cantering towards him then crashing down into oblivion. And to the sand he saw towers, and domes. So vast that when they became so fine they crashed in on themselves.

It was then that he decided to get back up and walk away from the sea. But when he tried to get back to his body, he realised it to was gone.

Up Down Right Left

Up, euphoria. Down, dismay.
A shadow behind a shadow,
twisting and turning everything.
Up euphoria. Dinners and movies
in your head. Cliché endings and
perfect pieces fitting together.
Down dismay. A shattering of
souls. A loss of hope, life, and
something you never really had.

Right, heart. Left, logic.
The scales tipping with weight,
violently swaying from side to side.
Right, heart. Pushed against a wall,
knife to the throat, are you serious?
What's the answer? The flip of a coin.
Left, logic. Rolling down an embankment
screaming the name, clawing back up,
falling again. Hitting the bottom.

A fragile rose wilting in the morning sun,
red faded, head drooping, dust gathering.

Fall

Sweet melancholy river, you cry for my woes, 

you'll twist for my whims, you'll surge for my wants. 

As great teeth entrap my means, my hands, my 

ideals. To watch me fall away, swerving to avoid rocks. 

Great peaks and valley's, who've seen me walk, and run, 

and be chased. But stare on with dispassionate eyes. 

Fearless cliffs meet me with calculating warmth, 

edging me closer to to the embracing seas. 

Winds whip at my face, rain pushes me forward. 

As the waiting floor meets me I see my faceless pursuer, 

The hollow man, with powerful hands… black, and cold

and tight and pressured and pain, pain, and a lack of light. 

Fragments

A tiny paper aeroplane, made of plastic. 

Confetti strewn across wine stained floors. 

A snakes tooth lodged in a family portrait.  

Laundry spread across a cold kitchen floor. 

A hunt across the bedroom for youth and 

skin. A knife through the beast set free.

Chocolate furiously thrown down a throat. 

Post stick notes left on a fridge door. 

Gone for dinner, sort yourself out tonight. 

Pillows dislodged, curtains thrust open, 

beds unmade, it's not gonna hurt. Honey. 

Paperwork and lanterns. Relatives and friends. 

Long holidays and weekend breaks. Yearning. 

Cold comfort on a warm February morning. 

Chris

A little bubble on the edge of a big one. 

"Weirdo" the hoards chant at you., "Freak, unnatural, not right." In your head.

Trudging through grey cities, blankly noticing the colour. 

"Where's the point?" you question yourself. "When you love what's meant to be unlovable." 

Betrayed and hot blooded. You were, are, like them, cut, buffed, blonde hair, blue eyes, 

a picture of perfection. You rebuffed enough in the name of knowledge. 

Lusted for protection, for the great black bird to stop hovering over you. 

Swooping down when it sees easy prey, casting them to the deserts, leaving them at sea.

Caged within a cage. Just longing, weeping, looking at freedom like the forbidden fruit. 

"I'm alone." You say to yourself, in the dead of the night. And you walk, just walk. 

Not turning up anymore, not really. You're there but not here.

Black and white in a coloured world. 

Until you walk away. You go to the allies, the backdoors, the abandoned. 

Sit, in a corner, next to rubbish and orange brick wall. Your legs drawn up to you, 

head leaned against your knees. Dyeing the floor blue. 

And then comes Peter. You look up swift, 

Seek his hair, slow your eyes to excite.

Knights, pawns and kings. He saunters in, smiling. Shift. 

Darkness rolls over your board, tinged white. 

You still look up for the dark bird. Is this right? 

Need the key to the cage. Want to be brave. 

Leaving sport. Taking poetry and flight. 

So you speak to him. It's a tidal wave.

Like Apollo's weight gone. Things get on track.  

Meetings in the mists and dates in the dim.  

The bird’s elsewhere, there's a door at the back. 

He sneaks in, through the dark, you smile with him.  
He takes off your clothes, you feel hands swim. 
Looks like Poseidon. It's summer with him.

On a friday night, you've been out, just about, nothing bad, you feel a little mad. 

You had strong stuff, he keeps calling your bluff, you say bye, he's a little shy. 

You kiss, don't want to miss. You're seen, by that girl, who everyone knows. 

There's a flood, the night turns from neon to black. He hugs you, you stay with him. 

Your calendar said no but it was going to happen. He tries to stem the flow from the wound. 

"It'll be alright, trust me, what's the worst that could happen?" 

"You could leave, I could be shunned, I don't wanna be hated." The black bird spotted you, 

round the back of the cage for a quick snog. You should have just shot it. It can't really 

hurt you, up there in the sky. Your legs are intwined, as you stay up all night. Thorns

on your mind. He strokes your arms, doesn’t hit the lights. A fire rages, a new bird is born. 

"Did you hear? Did you know?" A text here and there. "What'd you think? What a waste." 

You find an army waiting, spears are thrown, you take hit after hit. "Is it true?" 

You say… Yes. They're mad, don't turn bad. "Why didn't you say? I would have been happy."

And those who do what you thought... the black bird chases them, of into the fen. 

And you find that you're there, at that final destination, elation, you just had to be patient.

Summer has gone and you still look back. To when you were so secret, why were you that?

The bird was sent down, relinquished its crown, the new one rose, that's right you suppose.

You wander, but this time with friends, and you smile, at what you can add to your pile.

Realities Fantasy

Minus minuets, make me small.

Zero light and tiny sounds,

no smell and little taste. 

Nothing but a privation of feeling. 

Four thirty and still no buzz. 

Fabric and lipstick, you look good. 

The trees for the wood. 

The floor for the sky. 

Music with laughter. 

Tears with kisses and words, 

that stir. Water cascades and 

fireworks. Intoxication. 

Eyes across a dance floor. 

Drinks and taxies. 

Bedsheets and latex. 

Headaches and phone numbers. 

Talk of books and TV, 

who won that thing we both watch? 

Mutual friends and schools. 

Curtains and smashed dishes. 

Awakening, clouds and pillows. 

Dogs barking and people yelling. 

Regret fear envy lust longing sorrow. 

The trudge away, the reality. 

Monsters Under The Bed

Green eyed monsters seem to leap from your eyes every time you look at her. 
What do you want? Her sunset? Her miracle? Her song? 
No. You want what she's got. 
But the moment you board that ship you want to jump over board. 

Hands linger on flesh, caress, barley touch.
Twelve summers, to your thirty one. 
The kicks fly, they arc, but come down. 
Hands swoop, like birds spotting prey. 

Grey, white, a future flashes in front of her eyes. 
A rainbow flows from your very being. 

A lone fly dangles from a web, until the spider comes. 

Liquid Monsters

I watch as you shoot happiness into your arm, 

As you begin to drown in your own euphoria. 

I see it ebb into everything you do. Your life, 

Swallowed by liquid monsters, your undoing 

Is done in front of my eyes. 

Flesh seems to melt of your bones, 

Money becomes fluid and is sucked away, 

People, who used to swarm to you like bee to honey, 

Flee like your fire. Your skin tightens. Eyes darken. 

We don’t get you back, not the one we wanted. 

You die. Or you may as well have.

Dream Diary

So I've been having a lot of crazy dreams lately. And some of them are pretty whack, I don't know where my head comes up with all this stuff. So I thought because there more creative than I am being lately that I'll write my latest one down:

It's set in this massive perfectly round citadel. With a low wall going all the way round the edge, with the city inside being a kind of shanty town of houses. Out from the citadel is nothing but perfect green meadows and in the distance are snow capped mountains. Also running around the edge are train tracks. But they're suspended high above the ground, above the entire city, on high stilts. I'm now somehow on this train which just goes round and round in circles on this track and I report to a woman sitting at a desk behind a ton of boxes with vinyl records in them. I've reported to become a radio DJ and she begins to show me to where i'll be broadcasting from. We move a long the train. Some of the compartment are like normal trains. But others are like sleeper compartment. We get to a bathroom with a massive bathroom, the water tipping to one side all the time cause the train never stops moving. She then slides open a secret panel and we go through a secret passage. We step around a corner and then are in a more run down bathroom, with an old style empty bath. We both stand in the empty bath and hold onto the shower curtain rail. I ask her whats going on and she tell me we're about to travel in time. I look at her confused as the roof opens. The underneath us a giant spring releases and we're propelled into the air. This was where the dream ended.

Hope

A small light penetrates the dark. Lying in bed, trying to sleep, he sees the dim glow. Alcohol, sex, money, drugs, life... Infinity spiraling in front of him are his years. He see’s it for what it is in that moment. And he’s sees it is nothing. Curled up however he feels the force. The uncontrollable unexplainable force that tell us to go on, that there is some sort of purpose. He names in a survival instinct, but really we’re all just scared of the dark. Well no, we’re not scared of the dark, we’re scared of whats in it, or more importantly, whats not in it. 

Lying in bed he sees the small specs of a larger world. He says there’s nothing out there. Life is pointless and all he wants are simple pleasures. He kids himself into believing there is not greater purpose. 

In the darkness he feels the warm embrace of drink, standing idly back as it consumes his body and demons drag it away. In the breaks he feels the solid comfort of money, the small promise of safety and life in simple numbers. In the wilder, insane specs of his existence he feels his being get killed and turn to euphoria in one insane swipe. And then in his slow, monotones life he feels the sweat and pleasure of the human condition. 

But then, he doesn’t see the light, he notices it. He looks upon dawn and decides it’s for him. He kicks the floor and demands it’s his. But as he does it withdraws. He fails, he lives, he dies. 

Exit Wounds

I wander in and out of colours.  

A massive chess boards with red and blue pieces,

Tree’s made of lego and houses made of books. 

I swim in an ocean of oranges juice, 

Walk along talking to my shadow. 

I saunter into darkness. 

A black, knowing smirk looks down on me. 

Dark haunted eyes watch me turn in fear, 

But behind me no longer exists. 

I see flashing lights, red triangles and bright orange. 

Then darkness, then I fall, then reality restores.