Empathy

From my low, yet lofty position,
I wish I knew your struggle.
But my own is enough to tell me
yours is far greater.

I feel it, though I don't know it.
I strive against it, though I don't know it.
I respect it, though it escapes me.

You are my brother, my sister.
You are my equal in humanity,
but in suffering, you are my teacher.

I hope one day to understand,
through your teaching,
your difficulties.

So I may better fight for us all.

Sorry Queen

Run deep, ravines
of crippling blood-red tears
down cheeks so mercilessly sagging,
aged and sorry beyond their years.

Gnarled hair frames
a face so young
yet battered, beaten, bruised and born
into a world too uninviting.

And yet hope,
alive and burning bright,
dwells in the eyes that adorn this face
like jewels in a crown of human glory.

Aye, she is Queen of All.
The land surveyed in minds so frayed
and sorrow paths tread.
She owns them all.

And while I am disease,
she is immune to ire, sorrow, blight and scorrn.
Of such purity was she born
that I merely bow before her.

Oh that She, So troubled Queen
could, through her own eyes be seen
as the wonder I see before myself.
I give her all my faith.

The Statue

The whole atmosphere seemed to spark into flame as I depressed the wheel on my lighter. The faint yellow-orange glow was all the illumination I had, and all the illumination I needed. All of life’s mysteries solved in the sucking of a cigarette. Stars glittered above me like the burning tar in that grey and black flecked end, slowly drawn inwards, inhaled, exhaled, extinguished.

The ground beneath my feet was cold, causing an itchiness on my soles. The unevenness becoming more, then less noticeable as the frost numbed my feet. Becoming more sensitive the closer they came to the inevitable numbness of cold. I could not see what was beneath my feet, save for that small moment of light, and all that was revealed to me then was that this was the place I always stood and a place I would never leave.

I’m not sure if there’s significance in any of it. I look for it, sometimes. Scanning horizons I cannot see, trying to make out figures passing in the darkness. I thought I saw a cat once, but I can’t be sure. I don’t think I even know what a cat is anymore. Always peering sightlessly through the black for a chance at a glimpse at what I used to know. I had a family once, but they’re gone now, lost in that same black haze that enveloped the world when I was put here, on this spot. I often imagine how I would feel if I were to see my wife running, her face lit up with a bright halo above her head, her arms outstretched in a manner with which to embrace me. Then I remember I used to have a wife, and she doesn’t exist now. Then I realise how I am fooling myself. I remember no one loves me. Memories are horrible things, teasing reminders of a better past, or harsh reminders of a shitty present when lost in fantasy. If the function of them is to learn from them, I think it must be rather lost on most people. It’s not fate that causes the repeat of history, it’s stupidity. I know, I have watched it unfold from this very spot.

I often wonder what they’d have done if they’d been there. When I was taken, there was no one to hold me back. There was no one there to fight my battle for me – a trait many people foolishly believe to be admirable. A lack of unity causes battle, unity avoids it. Fighting alone is inevitable defeat, fighting at all is foolish. Together, resistance alone can crush the hubris of conquest. With the help of others, with their resistance, I would not be stood here. Divide et impera taken to its logical extreme by turning us all into competing individuals against one another. So here I stand alone, wishing for others to stand with me.

I’ve never seen a sunrise. Never felt the kiss of the pale moonlight upon me. I yearn for another day to come for me. To end this incessant Void I see before me. Am I sleeping? I don’t know. Sometimes I think I must be. I am only acknowledged by myself, as if lost in that egocentric maelstrom of subconsciousness. Is it that I am alone? Or are others out there awaiting my awakening? Am I waiting on others, or they me? I don’t know. If that were they case, surely they would wake me? If I am dreaming, and people wished me awake, they would wake me. None wake me. Therefore I am either all alone, stood here stoically; or I am so despised by the world they don’t want me to awaken and blight their days with my consciousness.

I can’t feel my feet now. I can’t feel anything, save for that prevailing wind that erodes my skin, until I inevitably crumble into the dust from whence I came. 

Rotunda

The metaphor for my lost youth
lies here amongst this wasteland.
Trapped within the dust and stones
of this ruinous rubble.

I wonder, if I crack the stones,
will there be, concealed within,
like some sweet fruit of days past,
the echo of my joy and laughter?

I wonder if my returning,
time and again,
is not in some vain hope of seeing,
in the pelagic mist, a faint,
ethereal vision of myself, smiling.

Where once was heard faint chatter
and deafening screams of joy,
there is now only the hushing of waves.
Washing away memories of better days.

No Ships

"There! On the horizon Captain!
The enemy's vast flotilla!
Cold and industrial,
Oppressive grey beasts.
Carrying worthless, yet valuable cargo."

"I see no ships..." replied the Captain.

"They are there plain as day,
Shattering God's magnificent
Division of sea and sky
With their uniform, martial form."

"I see no ships..." replied the Captain.

"On the shore, their spoils of war!
Empty polymer vessels bobbing as waves break.
Crumbling oxidised metal tins
Cursing our bounteous, beautiful home!"

"I see no ships..." replied the Captain.

"I wonder, Captain, if you are aware
that you are holding your telescope
against your blind eye?"

"I see no ships..." replied the Captain.

"I fear it is not unfortunate affliction
that strikes thee blind. But your mind
and its twisted machinations.
See beyond sight. Through the fog
of learned ignorance, and with clarity.
Then you shall see the wicked
Navy amassed in the distance!"

"I see no ships..." replied the Captain.

The Mermaid

She sat gazing longingly.
Cast static, like a statue of bronze.
Staring.
Waiting.
Assessing the flecks liberally littering the shore
and the speckled, freckled stars
in the night sky's vacuous pitch.
And she saw,
they were similar.
A vast expanse, graceful and free.
And she longed to return.
To one or the other.
Staring.
Waiting.
Her rocky pedestal was no throne,
for she dreamed to return and be Queen
of the freeing cacophonous crash
of wet watery wave on stoic rock.
Staring.
Waiting.
Waiting to be free.
Waiting to be home.

Folkestone: Where Nothing Ever Happens

Heaven is a place
Where nothing ever happens.
Where misplaced items lay,
mourning their owner's absent-mindedness,
for Aeons, like nihilistic relics.
Where the tide,
with tedious uniformity,
rises,
only to inevitably
sink
with disappointment.
Where the seeded weeds on rocks
seem eternal, slippery and unchanged.
Where the only sound to break the silence
is the fascist sea
telling all who dare to speak or sing
to
"Sssssssssshhhhhhh!"
Where rests only grey, soulless sand
or dirty brown mud.

Is this Heaven? Or Hell?

Heaven is a place
where nothing ever happens.
Colourful misplaced shoes, rags
and miscellany.
A testament to man's humour
and forgetfulness.
Halcyon relics of love, laughter and activity.
Where the percussive tide
dances to the rhythm of life
with uniformity, but soul.
In,
out,
in,
out,
like a beating drum.
Where strong seaweeds
parade their prowess,
remaining ever present,
and children wail with laughter
as they climb
and
    slip.
Where the sea begs you to
"Ssssssssshhhhhh!"
Only so you can appreciate her
delicate roar above your joy.
Where huge rude dawbings
break the monotony of the sands
bringing mirth to all who seem them
from the towering cliffs.
And dank mud, strewn
with lost wellies
and sodden bicycles
telling of jolly misfortune.

Where nothing ever happens?
Could be Heaven or Hell,
depends on how you look at it.

To Dream

"To sleep, perchance to dream..."
But I desire not the heady
flights of fancy in my unconsciousness.

When a nightmare strikes me,
I want it to be conscious.
My sentience quivering in fear
as adrenaline clutches at my
rapidly thumping heart
pulling it into the dank,
murderous arched alleyway
of my throat.
Nightmares stalk the Earth during day,
and to feel them,
to know them,
one can fight them.
Laying prone and peaceful
none should fear.

And my dreams.
The colourful butterfly wishes
of love.
They are useless when at rest.
I want to feel the wellspring of joy
burst forth from my dilated,
glassy eyes.
I want ever kind thought
and idealistic hope to warm
the cold, depressing body of reality.
I want to be aware of the flight
of my soul through the pages
of imagined fantasy.
To dream in day is to change the world.
To lay prone and peaceful,
one can change nothing.

And so, to sleep, perchance not to dream.
But to rest in the peaceful arms
of existential emptiness.
To swim static in the abyssal sea of naught.
As my mind feasts gluttonously on the rest
and prepares itself
to feel, to fear, to love, to hope.
To ensure my body is ready
to fight the vicious, cruel nightmares
and instigating idealistic, rainbow dreams.

Desolate Canyons

The teardrops of those in need,
having dripped softly on my shoulders,
eroded my flesh, they formed
vast canyons of memories.

And yet those canyons
are widened
by my own tears.
When I
have no shoulder for
their bitter cascade.

The aged pages,
the leaves of my heart,
were left open for you.
I open it to so many,
yet so few read it.
They merely doodle
selfish etchings
in the margins.
"I woz 'ere
<smiley face>"
Like some childish taunt.

My arms, too,
are always open.
Yet my body meets
no comfort
nor embrace.
I merely bounce
off the rudely folded
arms of others.
Dismissed.

When you said
"I'll always be there for you."
You lied.
You meant
"I'll only be there for you
when it doesn't inconvenience me
or bring my mood down."
You get no comfort from mine,
Like I do yours.
For when you're smiling
you're thinking not of me.
You forget that once
it was your tears
forming waterfalls
over my shoulders.
And in doing so
you make sure
it is mine.

Misery and Cigarettes

On days like this there can be no joy that sparks my heart to wishful life,
For perspective mars all my home comforts with oppressive global strife.
I think too much to truly remain in a state of ignorant, selfish bliss.
My heart, though cold to I, warms others. My lips, though warm, are cold to kiss.
So spare the words of motivation. No speech could loosen these muscle stiff.
No start for hearts that beat so sombre can come from Rudyard Kipling's 'If'.
I choose my stasis, I choose this path, so that of sadness no one forgets.
I think too much of others' strife. My only friends are misery and cigarettes.