Is worthwhile, Is value.

Here in voids of water,

I usually am in solitude.

And here, about time and life,

I suffer little.

In half magmatic seclusion,

Little warmth of my brow.

All heat is raised upon my naked body.

And this, digression in youth,

Lost once more.

I, the listener of Happiness,

Need no more time than I am approved,

Yet I squander the little I am granted.

And what life of mine,

Was ever so lowly?

None shall overstep the line,

Drawn in the sands of time,

By the leaders, in our minds.

For now, cracks brighten the doorway,

And I know this time is short.

The ambivalence of rest,

Is distorted by my want again.

You, you see,

You are the springtime to my winter.

And in lust I hold near to this value.

In isolation I hold near to your value.

In moments we find secrets,

And this surreptitious cost,

Is worthwhile,

Is value.

Stuck in slow time.

Something I wrote a few months ago which never made it online. As it's christmas I thought I'd make an effort. I like this poem, and happily I have moved on from these emotions for now.

Stuck in slow time,

All the lost beliefs are mine,

All the narrow and the slim,

All stuck within.

All puzzled circular and about,

Clinging to fruitful doubt,

All the trapped disarray.

My thoughts of the day,

Everything gnawed to bone,

Everything around this throne,

All the junk of this mood,

All viewed.

And you,

Accrue,

See my flaws,

See my bleeding jaws.

See me slowed,

See me implode,

See me lose hope,

See me try and cope.

To no avail,

I fail.

See me withdraw,

Partial thaw,

Shrink-wrapped fresh,

In plastic mesh.

A mess,

Over which I obsess,

This flesh is brittle,

I can give you little.

Stuck in slow time,

Thinking about the sublime,

Paused on one matter,

You are the latter.

On the night you left.

I am enveloped in small writing,

All the needless ability,

Left me fighting.

Against agility.

Left fleeting.

And lost in an incapacitated motion,

My heart stopped beating,

As it sunk in the ocean.

I am eyes and I am ears.

I’m all eyes and ears today,

And nature hasn’t flooded,

Any debris away.

Birds are ducking and,

Diving as they do,

Branches, fast on the,

Muddy ground like glue.

A green and shredded carpet floor,

Littered with mess,

From the tremendous night before.

And I’m all eyes and ears.

We, things of the world,

Hide away in our homes.

As the sticks,

Which finger at the skies,

Die.

And broken in the mud,

In the glue,

In the morning dew,

They rot,

And the world is made anew.

Autumn is upon us,

And soon winter will grab icily,

At our souls.

And take hold,

All bitter and dark.

I’m all eyes and ears,

Winter holds no fears.

Because, as rain follows black cloud,

Spring will be creeping through my mind.

This is the way of things.

Spring follows winter,

Then summer,

Autumn,

And winter again.

Time, regardless of us,

Slips away,

And each day,

The world is made anew.

And I am eyes and ears.

Conscious/Subconscious vs. Interpretation

I bought...

...a new sketchbook in a wonderful art supply shop near the Photographers Gallery. Ok sure, the only reason it was ‘wonderful’ was because it had discount sketchbooks, but you know, I don’t think that is a bad reason. Is it shallow? I know not. Either way, I have done some sketchy things in it. I'm not too sure about the type of paper in it, very grainy. See here:

Poems, impossible heartless poems.

You know how you used to be good at something, (or at least, you thought you were good at something) and then you try and attempt that thing again, and you realize you are good no more (or perhaps you never were), and you wonder what has (or hasn’t) happened that has changed (or enlightened) you and turned this thing into a monster (or not). I have that.

Poems, impossible heartless poems.

I done a hotchpotch.

When they moved.

The first in four years.

My first day a college.

Roto

This is me again.

As one mechanical creature lays dormant,
Collecting dust in a darkened space,
I fight against unknown shoppers.

Restlessly endeavouring to strike up a bargain,
And constantly stumbling at the last hurdle.

These inferior models are a better match,
And mine, unused, will fetch a fair price.

Magazine Horror.

Autumn Morning.

Why does the sun,
Choose to shine now,
And yet it eluded us,
Over the summer?

The limping leaves,
Cling to green,
Like a parent clings,
To a small child,
At a road side.

The sun shines through,
Their last stand,
And blood speckled berries,
Shrivel to the ground,
Adding to the building mulch,
Under foot.

Echo Gold.

The grey and dank smell,
Of a night time room,
Come clean and unlocked,
In a fogged bright morning.

Old and tattered junk,
Becomes gold in,
These situations.

An echo perhaps to,
The treasures of,
Dead societies.

This Face