Christmas Day

Finally got to writing this - hope you enjoy and Merry Christmas!

From the moment that you lay your head

down to sleep at night,

until the moment you awake

to a glittering world of white,

you will be paid a visit

by the jolly man in red,

who in exchange for milk and cookies

will leave presents by your bed.

He will smile when he sees you

tucked up safe and tight

before climbing back up the chimney

and off into the night

to spread his Christmas cheer

to each and every one,

delivering thousands of presents

before the rising of the sun.

And to this morning you will wake

to spy the presents there,

dress warm against the Winter chill

and make your way downstairs

where the smells of spice and turkey,

chocolate and mulled wine

mingle sweetly in the air

around your Christmas tree of pine

that you decked with lights and tinsel

and topped with an angel all aglow;

her radiance will guard you

as you venture into the snow.

Each step in the pristine blanket

is soon filled in once again

until not a single passer-by

could know from whence you came

as you see in strangers' gardens

snowmen with hats and scarves,

get a shiver and begin to wish

you were back home by the hearth

listening to those festive tunes

and wearing a silly paper crown

with the people that you love the most

gathered all around.

Ode to Rik - The People's Poet

We branded you the new Messiah

with the way your blue eyes held

each and every one in the room,

with your telephone voice

and vulnerability,

and the new breed of humour

that spoke to a generation.

You were mad but beautiful

in your lust for life,

taking the stranger

by the hand and the crotch.

You were brash and undisguised

at the centre of the universe;

an insuppressable little child

who never learnt to behave;

a phenomenon of ego and erotic thought.

No one could stop you,

and no one will forget you.

Rik Mayall was without doubt a successful, sexy, insanely brilliant comedian, a light the kind of which this world will never see again. If I could have met him, I would've told him just that - because we all know he was the kind of man who loved his ego massaged. You will never ever be lost. 

Untitled

This is the salvation we seek 

delivered straight to the heart,

jump-starting us from cardiac arrest.

A world we enter, each and all,

a realm of sound,

where we can close the door behind us.

I tried to add more to this one but nothing seemed to beat the simplicity of six lines. Hope you get what I'm on about :)

White

A case of misadventure,

curious minds led astray

by the crazy trail of breadcrumbs

laid out in their way.

Fall into darkness

not knowing where it goes,

as reality melts and fate is spelt

and the addiction only grows.

Days turn into weeks

of hiding from the Sun,

but when they finally emerge

the damage has been done.

Brainchild

I can't recall why or how I started this poem, but it was a labour of love for the good part of four months - and this is the result: a statement of how it feels to create characters in stories, and the essence of inspiration.

In an endeavour of the mind,

I strive to make real what cannot physically exist;

breathe life into such machinations

as can only be created on those dim blue screens.

Guiding the metaphysical quill,

I pen lines pertaining to the realms of fantastic insanity;

severing all ties to accepted reality,

and thereby donning the mask of the pseudo-god,

the blasphemous creator.

My scripted child is no mortal,

for it lays dormant in an unconscious culture,

suffocated, starved and blind

until the inspiring essence reaches out

to spark it to life.

With each resurrection come atrocities

I have learnt to love as much as fear;

for every body that hits the floor

another rises from the ashes to take its place

in a manifold continuum.

While Death holds court over the living,

passions bloom in the maelstrom,

life's exordium is realised,

my world goes on oblivious under the radar. 

Until once more my brainchild grows weary,

and, lachrymose, the flow ceases, 

leaving every heart beating alone in the dark.

Daddy

This poem was inspired by one of the most emotionally packed and raw songs I have ever heard, by a band which I hold close to my heart (Korn). This is the song for anyone who wants to listen (it is loud, angry, and emotional, touching on a subject that affects modern life in a shocking way), and this is the fruit of my labour.

The little child he was was supposed to be safe,
tucked up in bed where the monsters couldn't get,
but the nightlight threw shadows to disturb his rest
and the man is back by his side.
Tears already threaten as he remembers the last time,
knowing they won't change a thing,
as his innocence came away in the hands of the man
who whispered 'That's a good boy'
while he pulled the cords still tighter.
After that, it hurt, and that was all he knew;
fear blooming before its time,
forever asking 'why?'
Why he touched him there,
and why he couldn't cry,
and why no one believed him
when he told them what he'd done?
Behind his bedroom door
the nightmare lives on repeat,
until his skin no longer feels his own,
so dirty and abused,
and he gives up screaming because no one hears.
The little child lives on inside,
a scar that no one else can see,
a scar he cannot live without,
of the memory of innocence, raped and taken away.
On the other side of the door
he is ripping his soul to shreds,
remembering all the times he wished he had been dead,
and with it come the tears he'd been deprived.
A visceral agony pours forth
as he grieves for the child inside;
all his hatred and bile for the man
who was more than just a lie,
whose sick pleasure ruined his life,
until there is nothing but his sobbing,

helpless, broken, and lost.

Rain Stopped Play

This was a scene I saw while walking to school one day; a crisp packet twirling in the wind across someone's driveway, and being halted by an incongruous but determined crocus. It struck me as an odd encounter.

The somersaulting crisp packet

Dances for the pioneer of early Spring -

A little spray of lilac crocus

Steadfast in growing through a crack

In the crisp packet's domain.

'Why are your roots not over here?'

The Walkers Ready Salted asked,

tumbling over the flowerbed.

'My seeds fall where they may,

And so here I grow,'

Crocus whispered, shivering

As the wind pulled at her petals.

'Do you not fear being trampled

Out there in the open?'

The crisp packet asked,

twirling in circles around the flower.

'My life is as fragile

As the last month of Winter,

so no, I do not fear death.'

A little rain begins to fall

Filling the crocus like open hands,

And halting the plastic packet;

He holds his growing puddle

And starts singing,

For the wet spray of Spring.

Novel Neglect

Crouching in the rotted dust,

Covers covet the light;

Dull, discoloured dust jackets

And wrinkled leather hides

Of the books that moulder and muse,

Ruminate and render themselves

To dust, as everything must,

Upon long-forgotten shelves.

Become the perfect breeding ground

For shadows, for sickness, for sin;

The ladies are seen to turn away

With tarnished faces and tattered gowns,

While the hero remains anonymous,

A nobody about the town.

A plot studded with lacunas

And paralysed on page one,

Words grown together in intimate embraces

Never to be undone.

Thin volumes of poetry

Shiver with the poison of years,

As passions freeze and snow falls in May –

The daffodils die a beautiful death,

The clouds are mottled and grey.

A teardrop hits the page.

The Mosh Lay Waiting

I wrote this poem after seeing the band The Dead Lay Waiting (now disbanded) at the MCM ComicCon in London back in May 2013 and it was one of the most mind-blowing experiences of my life, involving mini mosh-pits (of which I ended up in once for the heck of it) and a 'crawl-of-death'. Loved the band so much, and this is my homage to them.

Check out Solace in Nightmares (new band of the frontman Luke Lucas)

Sucked into the maelstrom;

A seething, churning mass of raw energy,

Pushed to and fro to a vicious beat;

 To the annihilistic heartbeat of a drum,

Turned about, flying, falling

To the scream of shredding guitars,

Falling in love, to the ground, to be picked back up again.

With the eye of the storm far from sight,

Here in the pit the thunder rolls and bodies clash,

Possessed by the bass drone and the voice:

The voice of the summoner, the ringleader

Who prowls back and forth;

Whose cries control the tempest,

Bring it to its knees,

And with four little words

Retained in the souls of the puppets

‘YOU TAKE ME AWAY’

The energy starts again.

Musings of a Train Journey

My scenery blows by at the speed of diesel,

While up above people travel at the speed of sound,

Signing their mark across the blue open;

Down here we sign in smears of spray paint and blood.

I catch snatches of life as it goes past

Knowing I wouldn’t trade with any of them

To save my own. It’s too good to be true.

They’re building higher everyday

If only to be closer to the God they fear –

I relinquished my hold on Him long ago,

And now here I am,

Nestled in the heart of man’s anti-Christ machine,

With the scenery blowing by.

Self Destruction - Or - Remorse of the Merciless

- An idea came to me one day of the anguish a vampire might feel in killing a mortal he loved, and of how he might take out that anguish on himself, only to heal again moments later -

What had I done?

She no longer resembled the vision of beauty I could recreate a thousand times over, for nothing remained of that grace and allure; not the rosy skin, not the clear sparkling green eyes, not a single charming movement. Like a pocket-watch dropped into water, like a flower picked and left to wither, she would never be the same again. Holding her, comatose and bloody in my arms, I listened as her heartbeat pulsed slower and slower, depriving her of yet another breath with every passing minute. She had been too fragile and I too strong. My desire for her had been fuelled by something other than pure bloodlust (which didn't happen very often) and for a few months I had thought I had myself under control, but today was different; today she had abandoned herself to me, waking the dormant creature within and tempting it to destruction. Instead of making the sweet love to her that she had most likely expected, I had torn out her throat and broken several bones. In the midst of my frenzy, I had been blind to her terrified disbelief and, though she must’ve pleaded for her life (which before today I had valued higher than my own), I had heard only the delicious rush of her blood as it flowed beneath her skin. Her screams had meant nothing to me: until they had stopped.

Lying in my arms, I heard her death approach, catching her mid-breath and freezing her heart’s final beat. A bell tolled her passing in my mind, its sound forcing tears to spill from my eyes. With a wretched sob, I pushed her empty body from me and ran. I knew right there in the middle of her bed wasn't the best place to leave her, hair stiff with blood and wearing only a mismatched set of underwear, but my fury at losing her combined with my hunter’s instinct to survive meant I would be far enough away by the time I ever came under suspicion; right now though I simply did not know what to do with myself. After a sprint through the late evening shadows I came to a small block of flats which, for the present it seemed, was unoccupied, its walls still clear of graffiti but plastered with To Let signs. I climbed the fire escape and was soon pacing on the small roof area, feeling the cold night air dry the blood on my face as a multitude of needles pierced my heart, injecting me with equal parts remorse and seething anger.

Why? I asked myself. Why her? Why couldn't she have been the exception to my unearthly appetite? She had known what I was, had been so sure of the power our love had over me, yet she had stretched my restraint too far too fast and it had snapped. I’d made her pay the price for falling for a creature like me. I stood a moment, contemplating returning to her body before it was discovered and resurrecting her; just one swallow of my blood and we’d be immortally entwined. But she’d made her intentions clear not long ago that forever would remain my fate and not hers too, as much as she loved me. In a second wave of anger I kicked one of the railings surrounding the roof, smashing part of it out. Now I was inexplicably mad at her: for being so selfish, so enticing, so…human! Another vampire would never fall victim to my hunger in the way she had! If only there was someone else out there. Then I just relapsed into a grieving loneliness. The night passed swiftly as I sat remembering her every detail, from her glorious auburn hair and shy smile which always dimpled her cheeks, to the firmness of her body pressed close to me and her scent, artificially sweet and floral over the ripe cocktail of her blood and skin. The vision of her lying near naked on her disarranged bed, both living and dead, also assaulted me time and again throughout the night until, just before dawn, something went wrong.

Her memories, once soothing to my traumatized mind, now felt poisoned and it could only be because I had made them so. Wave after wave of bittersweet loss engulfed me, mocked me, making my skin crawl. What had I done? All of a sudden I was clawing at my own face, biting and tearing the skin from my arms, scraping at my chest in an attempt to silence my own heart, and crying like a wolf. Soon my clothes and skin were in tatters and, exhausted and bloodied, I fell to my knees, already feeling myself healing. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. With another enraged howl, I pitched myself from the roof. My natural instinct would've been to absorb the impact through my body, feet first, however I was out to damage myself as much as possible and so I took the full force of my descent suicide-style on my back. It hurt so much to feel my bones break as I hit the ground, to feel a rib puncture my left lung and the back of my skull explode into my brain, experience every blood vessel haemorrhage and my various internal tissues be lacerated. A human would've died instantaneously but all I could do was lie on the unforgiving concrete, shattered, bleeding, yet still alive (or as alive as a vampire could be) and curse my luck as my body began to mend itself. But at least the pain served as temporary punishment for my crime. After about ten minutes of blacking my own eyes, I smelt something human approaching me.

“What are you doing on the ground?” it slurred, emanating more than just its usual smell of mortality. It was a young man, similar in age, appearance-wise, to myself, reeking of alcohol and stupidly drunk. “You can’t catch a taxi like that you know….they don’t come down here.”

“Then why are you down here?” I asked, deciding to humour him for a moment.

He appeared to think about his response before replying, “I’m hiding. Someone’s trying to steal my drink…”

“Who from?” Absent-mindedly, I noticed his bottle was empty.

Again his brow furrowed in thought and he looked skyward as if for inspiration but his eye was caught by the hole in the railing above, “Did you fall from all the way up there?”

“Why yes, I did.” I replied, wondering what he would make of that as I got to my feet. Clearly this information was too much for him to process. He looked at me, then up to the railing and back, slowly but didn't say anything more, surprisingly not remarking on the copious amounts of fresh blood that stained my skin nor the state of my clothes. I decided then that my interest in him had run its course. With his attention elsewhere I reached out and snatched his bottle before smashing it over his head. He collapsed with a soft thud into a pile of rubbish bags.

“Humans,” I muttered with disgust.

The sun was beginning to colour the sky by this point and, while I had no reason to hide from the coming dawn, I had every reason to be shot of the town before the day began. I shed my tattered clothes, remarking my intact skin nonchalantly, and, with a final surge of regret, pushed myself into a new form. Something with large dark wings and hungry claws. Many new paths lay open to me as I took flight but which I took really didn't concern me. I could try to be human again and risk another unfortunate female fatality, or I could retreat into a vast and unspoilt forest, becoming the stuff of urban legends; all I knew was that I had eternity to find a million different ways to screw it up.

What could I do?