A Busy Railway Terminus

As is usual when one is waiting, I decided to pull up my phone's notepad and read some of my past ideas. In light of recently learning about the art of creative non-fiction, I realised this passage fits that genre so I'm sharing it now, as a reminder to myself (if nothing else).

The busy railway terminus is multicultural and bustling with just a fraction of the city's populace. With each train arrival from the underground, another wave of people floods the dimly lit hall, the air alive with the beep and squeal of ticket gates, the drone of conversation, and the low roar of footsteps and luggage wheels. A noisy troupe of children; a small elderly woman; a man with an Ikea box, all pass by, occupied with their own private lives. Umbrellas are in abundance, dripping the excess of our British weather in their bearer's wake. People meet and part in this crushing concourse, with a hug, a wave, a smile. If you are fortunate enough to stand and watch, a whole play of life is enacted before your eyes as a multitude of unique people come and go, their destination unknown, their situation purely guesswork, their conversations heard in snatches. A romance blossoms in the midst of the flow, someone in bright clothing catches the eye, a sudden commotion of friends having fun - unexpected splashes of colour to break up the afternoon grey.

Sun Worshipper

His golden cast upon my sill,

His kiss upon the air,

Lounging like a sultry cat

Whose gaze falls everywhere.

When his scorching eye favours me,

I disrobe and drop like a fly
To be pressed beneath his humid thumb
Though in the shade I lie.
Even in the darkness
His influence still holds true,
Melting me with fever,
My skin bejewelled with sweat like dew
And I am unable to escape him
In the blissful land of sleep
For across my body I feel
His fiery fingers creep.
But even so I love him
For the joy his light instils
And the beauty he can show me
That inspires the deepest chills.

To my unlikely lover
xXx

A Study in Mundane Resurrection

Be silent and be still

for though surrounded by people

solitude still remains

here in a sea of weathered stone

and vacant-eyed angels.

Let them steal the very breath

which they no longer possess

if only to raise awareness

of their very presence all around.

But in that hush there is life still;

their very presence given flesh

as, transcended from the grave,

they take flight,

giving their voices new purpose

as they sing their praises,

and walk again as never before -

as robin or wren,

pigeon or peregrine,

song-thrush or swan.

No Regrets

No regrets from a bleeding heart;

Moving on will be my vampire,

Drinking me dry of every reason

I ever had to want you.

You were my saint and saviour

But now I find myself crucified

By this thoughtless breed of love.

My soul now canker-bit,

Half-eaten away with desire,

Is all I am left with.

My vampire smiles and continues to feed.

Expressions

I want to press the play button

on your emotions

and hear the volume of your soul;

turn the pages of your mind

in the unfinished volume of life;

and see the colours of your canvas

still fresh with the paint of dreams.

Death at Play

Death waits in the wings,

In the mortal scented shadows –

It is the voracious lunge

Sinking venom-steeped fangs

Into butter-soft flesh,

Breeching the jugular river

To release the wine.

It is the night’s brethren

Playing with the humans

Like wolves amid the flock.

Tonight there will be blood

As each receives the vampire’s kiss

In a violent display of affection

Parting life essence from living flesh,

Drawing out the aged alcohol

In arms vice-like, crushing and cruel.

Tonight the dead dance in the dark,

Red ribbons trailing from their throats

While Death lounges sated

Licking up all traces of their deeds,

Drunkenly humming the song of eternal sleep.

I'd like to think this poem was written for the likes of Louis and Lestat of Interview with the Vampire <3 <3

Find A Way

Inspired by My Chemical Romance's 'Desert Song', this little poem/tune seems to have a mixed meaning that you can interpret how you like.

From the back-page to the front porch,

we'll make it through,

scarred if we must be,

but scared as we are

of the people we'll become,

and the end -

oh, the end that is sure to come.

We'll find a way

to grow our wings and fly,

sharpen our teeth so we're ready

for the backlash,

and heal our wounds

when we inevitably fall down.

Night Walk

It was a cool dry evening; the kind which made me feel I could walk for miles in it: but I had a bus to catch. 
A spider collected its day's victims on the bus stop pole as I waited for my ride to draw into view. 
Alighting, I took my usual seat, finding it to be the only one without a functioning overhead strip fluorescent; the mild seclusion of the half-light suited me. 
As the bus drove nearer town, the late evening traffic slowed us to a crawl, softening every bump in the road to a gentle rock. At this speed I was free to people-watch, to pry into a second of their lives unbeknownst to them. 
When I finally arrived at my stop, I uttered a soft 'thank you' to the driver before stepping out into the faintest drizzle of rain. I wove through homeward bound city workers to pass beneath the bridge 
over which a departing train was piping and clattering; the sound secretly thrilled me. 
Once clear of the bridge, the drizzle began to cling to my hair in beads, reflecting the orange glow of the streetlights as I climbed the hill. In a small side- street, the glare and chaos of the main road began to fade, leaving me to trudge through shadows alone until I reached my destination. 
Distantly, the hollow screech and whistle of the trains below was still audible, but that was all.

All Nighter

That first touch lit a spark
Which fuelled the all-nighter,
Opening up a seemingly endless stretch of hours
In which we became what we wanted
And learnt what we could.
Sleep would be for the dispassionate
At the cost of crashing and burning by midday
If only we could own the night
As close to each other as we would like;
One touch of the lips
Revealed our tired hallucinations
To be the sweetest sort of reality.