Buried in a shallow grave
Right beneath your feet
Through ice and snow
In earth below
A home is found
Safe. Unsound.
Devoid of all thought
This mind is set free,
To roam in a dark
Cell of liberty
Monday, 29 July 2013
Thursday, 25 July 2013
Tommy: Executioner
Click here for Tommy
Tommy's cheeks were still wet but the crying had subsided. Crying doesn't help anyone and it certainly doesn't solve anything. He was staring at his bedroom wall and tracing the edge of his desk with his right index finger. Up and down in a steady rhythm. The feel of the solid oak calmed him. Smooth. Predictable. Constant. This calmness continued to grow as his mind slowed down and found space to breathe in the emptiness. The serenity evolved and a determined focus grew in its womb. The concentration began.
The noose loosened its grip around his throat, unraveled itself and slid down Tommy's arm to find rest in his hands. The focus strengthened with the measured strokes of the lacquered oak. Tommy's hands gripped the rope and tied it around his executioner's neck. It tightened as coherent thought returned. "A nice, neat circle. A nice, tight loop." Tommy knew the idea would come. It always did. He could not predict how or when or why, only that it would; the moment the man in black died.
Tommy continued to watch, continued to wait. "That's one helluva neck you got there." He stood amongst them, the mob, calling for the hatch to open and the big man to break. A show of brutality to entertain the jaded horde. A death to appease them, but just enough for today. They always wanted more. A quick death to distract them from their own slow demise.
The executioner seemed to stare back as blankly as Tommy eyed his wall. The black mask obscured his features and his eyes were sheltered in the dark, but Tommy could sense their gaze, could feel the bite of their beam. As the crowd's voice grew louder, the rope pulled tighter, squeezing the muscular neck now glistening with sweat. The dead man's veins bulged and throbbed in a futile effort to stave off the inevitable.
Tommy heard the front door open and close. Frightened footsteps faded outside, as another pair headed for his room. His refuge. His time was short. There was no escape unless the man in black fell.
The mob was restless now, but a creak from the stage hushed them as the hatch began to give way. The executioner did not flinch. His hands were clasped in front of him and the dark holes in his mask bore straight through Tommy. "Fall you murderous bastard," Tommy muttered under his breath.
The footsteps stopped abruptly right outside the bedroom door, then paused. Tommy could feel the foul presence behind the worthless barrier. "Leave me alone!" It's not long now.
"Any last words?" a voice from the sea of people inquired. There was a lull as the crowd anticipated the reply. Beneath the dark cloth a mouth stirred to utter a final curse.
First employed to bring you death
A cold hand to pull the lever
An icy gaze to stare into the eyes of the damned
With a merciless axe I cleave and sever
To bury the axe is justice to thee
Wash your hands of blood
But I am not the harbinger
Nor am I the first
Who calls for the executioner's head?
What will quench your thirst?
"Kill him! Kill him!" the unfazed masses responded. Who are you? Tommy heard his bedroom door's knob turn just as the man in black's platform gave way. There was an audible crack and a boisterous cheer. The executioner's muscles spasmed in his last moments, before his lifeless body swung gently in the air. In the instant of the dead man's passing Tommy felt a spark of inspiration. The feeling he knew would come. An idea to ignite the fire. A way to escape this horrible prison. In time, justice will be done. Patience was the key.
The crowd slowly filtered out of the town square, satisfied with the day's entertainment. Tommy walked against the flow of people and approached the platform. He walked up the stairs and stood in front of the newly dead. Fascinated, he examined the brute. A lean, powerful body floated hopelessly while the sun beat down from the heavens. Filled with a fresh supply of courage, Tommy reached to remove the macabre mask.
His door was opening. But he did not react. First I have to see his face.
Tommy grabbed at the black cloth and pulled it away from the giant head. It was slumped forward and looking down, so Tommy crouched and gazed up at the face of the dead man. The mask slipped from his grasp and disappeared down the hatch.
The bedroom door was wide open now and Tommy slowly turned his head. The same. The same dead eyes he saw were now full of life again, gleaming in the dark. The executioner stood in the shadows of the hallway for a moment before taking a step into the light. Now there was no doubt left for hope. Tommy looked up at the hulking man's face, and saw the same eyes staring back.
The eyes that defies the soul
The eyes behind a dark hole
The eyes of the tormentor
The eyes my father stole
Tommy's cheeks were still wet but the crying had subsided. Crying doesn't help anyone and it certainly doesn't solve anything. He was staring at his bedroom wall and tracing the edge of his desk with his right index finger. Up and down in a steady rhythm. The feel of the solid oak calmed him. Smooth. Predictable. Constant. This calmness continued to grow as his mind slowed down and found space to breathe in the emptiness. The serenity evolved and a determined focus grew in its womb. The concentration began.
The noose loosened its grip around his throat, unraveled itself and slid down Tommy's arm to find rest in his hands. The focus strengthened with the measured strokes of the lacquered oak. Tommy's hands gripped the rope and tied it around his executioner's neck. It tightened as coherent thought returned. "A nice, neat circle. A nice, tight loop." Tommy knew the idea would come. It always did. He could not predict how or when or why, only that it would; the moment the man in black died.
Tommy continued to watch, continued to wait. "That's one helluva neck you got there." He stood amongst them, the mob, calling for the hatch to open and the big man to break. A show of brutality to entertain the jaded horde. A death to appease them, but just enough for today. They always wanted more. A quick death to distract them from their own slow demise.
The executioner seemed to stare back as blankly as Tommy eyed his wall. The black mask obscured his features and his eyes were sheltered in the dark, but Tommy could sense their gaze, could feel the bite of their beam. As the crowd's voice grew louder, the rope pulled tighter, squeezing the muscular neck now glistening with sweat. The dead man's veins bulged and throbbed in a futile effort to stave off the inevitable.
Tommy heard the front door open and close. Frightened footsteps faded outside, as another pair headed for his room. His refuge. His time was short. There was no escape unless the man in black fell.
The mob was restless now, but a creak from the stage hushed them as the hatch began to give way. The executioner did not flinch. His hands were clasped in front of him and the dark holes in his mask bore straight through Tommy. "Fall you murderous bastard," Tommy muttered under his breath.
The footsteps stopped abruptly right outside the bedroom door, then paused. Tommy could feel the foul presence behind the worthless barrier. "Leave me alone!" It's not long now.
"Any last words?" a voice from the sea of people inquired. There was a lull as the crowd anticipated the reply. Beneath the dark cloth a mouth stirred to utter a final curse.
First employed to bring you death
A cold hand to pull the lever
An icy gaze to stare into the eyes of the damned
With a merciless axe I cleave and sever
To bury the axe is justice to thee
Wash your hands of blood
But I am not the harbinger
Nor am I the first
Who calls for the executioner's head?
What will quench your thirst?
"Kill him! Kill him!" the unfazed masses responded. Who are you? Tommy heard his bedroom door's knob turn just as the man in black's platform gave way. There was an audible crack and a boisterous cheer. The executioner's muscles spasmed in his last moments, before his lifeless body swung gently in the air. In the instant of the dead man's passing Tommy felt a spark of inspiration. The feeling he knew would come. An idea to ignite the fire. A way to escape this horrible prison. In time, justice will be done. Patience was the key.
The crowd slowly filtered out of the town square, satisfied with the day's entertainment. Tommy walked against the flow of people and approached the platform. He walked up the stairs and stood in front of the newly dead. Fascinated, he examined the brute. A lean, powerful body floated hopelessly while the sun beat down from the heavens. Filled with a fresh supply of courage, Tommy reached to remove the macabre mask.
His door was opening. But he did not react. First I have to see his face.
Tommy grabbed at the black cloth and pulled it away from the giant head. It was slumped forward and looking down, so Tommy crouched and gazed up at the face of the dead man. The mask slipped from his grasp and disappeared down the hatch.
The bedroom door was wide open now and Tommy slowly turned his head. The same. The same dead eyes he saw were now full of life again, gleaming in the dark. The executioner stood in the shadows of the hallway for a moment before taking a step into the light. Now there was no doubt left for hope. Tommy looked up at the hulking man's face, and saw the same eyes staring back.
The eyes that defies the soul
The eyes behind a dark hole
The eyes of the tormentor
The eyes my father stole
Monday, 1 July 2013
Mortal
Wishful thinking dulls the pain
Of tender hearts grey with sorrow.
Love and friendship we can't regain,
Yet faith we have in tomorrow.
A stream of tears from the clouds above;
The departed share our mortal strain.
We shout at the heavens for one more love,
But only taste the salty rain.
Our sincerest efforts appear insane,
Yet love does not end with a sigh.
For those of us who still remain
Do not need a loud reply.
As long as memories and words survive,
The fallen will not be slain.
To keep our greatest friends alive
Means no one dies in vain.
Of tender hearts grey with sorrow.
Love and friendship we can't regain,
Yet faith we have in tomorrow.
A stream of tears from the clouds above;
The departed share our mortal strain.
We shout at the heavens for one more love,
But only taste the salty rain.
Our sincerest efforts appear insane,
Yet love does not end with a sigh.
For those of us who still remain
Do not need a loud reply.
As long as memories and words survive,
The fallen will not be slain.
To keep our greatest friends alive
Means no one dies in vain.
Fire
Hope comfort me in my time of need.
A hearty fire that glows and grips.
Away my fears to the hearth I feed,
My icy doubt melts and slips.
Fiery coals steam the damp away.
Embrace the warmth that gives me grit;
A dauntless blaze asks man to stay;
Emboldens my timid spirit.
But Fire serves not thee,
And swiftly takes control,
A reckless spark roaming free
Could burn the very soul.
So temper hope and check desire,
Ere all is lost in the fire.
A hearty fire that glows and grips.
Away my fears to the hearth I feed,
My icy doubt melts and slips.
Fiery coals steam the damp away.
Embrace the warmth that gives me grit;
A dauntless blaze asks man to stay;
Emboldens my timid spirit.
But Fire serves not thee,
And swiftly takes control,
A reckless spark roaming free
Could burn the very soul.
So temper hope and check desire,
Ere all is lost in the fire.
Tuesday, 25 June 2013
Wink
The wet soil stirs.
The pink now writhes from the earth with determined twists and methodical contractions. First a pin's head, then a pencil's lead; the worm pushes on and breaks free from the muddy grip of its sodden cage.
Grey light oozes through black clouds.
The worm eeks an inaudible shriek as it raises its head in defiance to the ignoble sky.
The clouds slowly swirl in reply.
The pink perceives the gesture but hardly finds it threatening. It hugs the earth with its moist body to crawl on comfortable cold. Slithering, the visitor from below feels the soil roll off its skin while vibrations draw it in.
A strong and constant beat holds the segmented explorer's attention.
It slides towards the source. The string thing, now positively trembling, anticipates this new experience.
The vibration's intensity builds and grows as purposeful steps bring leather and doom
in an indifferent boot.
Harsh soles meet soft soil in a contest made for fools.
A vague shadow in the soft light envelops our lowly friend.
It's found the source (the one it seeks) but does not have a clue;
the sweetest pink,
the briefest wink,
The pink now writhes from the earth with determined twists and methodical contractions. First a pin's head, then a pencil's lead; the worm pushes on and breaks free from the muddy grip of its sodden cage.
Grey light oozes through black clouds.
The worm eeks an inaudible shriek as it raises its head in defiance to the ignoble sky.
The clouds slowly swirl in reply.
The pink perceives the gesture but hardly finds it threatening. It hugs the earth with its moist body to crawl on comfortable cold. Slithering, the visitor from below feels the soil roll off its skin while vibrations draw it in.
A strong and constant beat holds the segmented explorer's attention.
It slides towards the source. The string thing, now positively trembling, anticipates this new experience.
The vibration's intensity builds and grows as purposeful steps bring leather and doom
in an indifferent boot.
Harsh soles meet soft soil in a contest made for fools.
A vague shadow in the soft light envelops our lowly friend.
It's found the source (the one it seeks) but does not have a clue;
the sweetest pink,
the briefest wink,
Will end with a dirty shoe.
Sunday, 26 May 2013
Drops
Words that once burst with colour
At the height of our sunlight blaze,
Turn grey in my mouth
As my head bends south;
The letters blur and haze.
Memories lose their edge.
Flashbacks come and go.
Photos curl and fade.
Pages scatter and tear.
Time will find the cracks,
Seep through to chill the bone.
A steady drip,
A tear,
An inky river,
A stream to my fear.
Frantic I am to remember;
Futile my attempts remain.
A memory lost
in an ocean's despair.
Today I may remember,
You will not be there.
Tuesday, 21 May 2013
Trash
Flyers strewn across the street
A night's ideas dispersed
The morning breeze
The winter's freeze
The trashman coughs and croaks
A scattershot of paper waste
Nothing of value here
Stabbing trash to turn to ash
Just waiting to reappear
Collecting thoughts
The trashman laughs
Oh what wisdom to be found
While behind his back
He senses that
A presence lurks on the ground
But when he braced to face a foe
A flyer was staring from below
The trashman, through broken teeth
showed relief and a bitter smile
Then deigned to kneel and tell the soul
Rest there a little while
Yet flyers are a fickle bunch
and this one more than most
Without the wind to lift the page
The flyer broke from the gravel host
Whipping and weaving
Cutting, deceiving
The flyer flew with force and grace
Frozen in time, this trashman of mine,
felt the flyer cover his face
He gripped and ripped with all his might
but the flyer clung to his nose
Losing his breath, seeing the light
His eyes began to close
The fight is at an end my friend
This thought won't die alone
You gave life to me, your fecundity
Now both will turn into stone
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