Everything Is Still But Time (In Memory of Scott Hutchinson)

I walk away with you, for now, every word spoken clearly in my mind and sang like deeply perfumed rain clouds drowning. The mess and toil, the waking sadness overflowed, the joy.

I turn and run back the other way, in case the past is catching up with every second wasted in the deep pits of my dreams. A place no one should ever run too, a hazard foiled, no escape from prison and no exacting shadows unfold.

A flower on the green in tears, a weeping blessed in courage still remains, poor life torn asunder by its death, brave and beauty rabid heavens set upon by doves.

Everything is still but time, i will walk back with you in silence. Everything is perfect in this place, except for all the voices in your head that sigh.

Soon when all your words become the lyrics that i loved, the simple melodies and torture falling softly up, i wish and wait for skies to wake me back away, to hear your footsteps tread gently one last time as you sing sweetly and wave goodbye.

RIP Scott, you were loved xxx


Tuesdays Are For Strangers

They came at night, they strode gently down the path and rinsed their hands on the gander of our foresight. Calmly, sweetly, briskly, move in with the dark and death and out to walkways ploughed by furrows for pleasure. Stars aligned and spoke in whispers “surely everything in its proper place” the hush of breathing, the moon reversed, savage spectacles built on gut instinct, mirrors over the sky, reflections teaching all the wrong verbs and verses, aloof and overpowering, reminders of paths and walkways trodded on so tragically. Tuesday of the night with strangers, souls stretching out in solidarity, remorse waking to decisions and regrets, days longing for a reason as weeks begging for their seasons to come home. Maybe everything is dreamt this way, maybe culture bled for liberties in sanctuary, cruel ways in which life breaks light like smaller stars rocketing into shooting stars and collapsing for pressure, wallowing to preserve, swallowing the vicious and the vigour, minds bland as chalk and chasing, random voices living out tomorrow’s heroes passion pacing, crowds of chaos elegantly drift into midweek hoping, behind them Tuesdays stayed for strangers, wild to the world with life’s gift left unwoven.

Untitled Ventures Volume 1

Alone outside at Christmas, the flowerpots are dangling from the arches, frequently the smoke from factories rises in the distance, and lays against the sky in breathless admiration.

A pale purple tilt comes sweetly as the taste of dew, wakes the wonder from the bore and passive place, taunting cavalries and blushing over mounds of mourning, safe from the horror of sad and swift returning

Awake from the amusement, portraits paintings, silver edge and sliding, in between the sky and sunrise, how death had lived and died by increasing rich designs against the backdrop of swell seasons.

I am against this torture, infinitely scream against the resting of tomorrow. Breathing backwards, full fever skin settled over wounds forever, drill deeper, cuts heal quicker when plasters cover all profusions. Pain, soft, scary and unsettling, Christmas in June, factory sickness by symmetry.

At Day’s Rest

How do i sleep at night when both my feet are walking in the ocean. The gentle waves are breaking to my toes, a moon is waving back at me and laughing.

If only silence guaranteed a win, against the grey clouds hopelessly fitting fear within, the water lips pursing tears and tragedy, a coma brings my thoughts to their near end knees.

I live in exile and become in wonder, what world’s elope has suffering been shamed, the rope that reached out over life’s new faces, did wrap its tail around the dark unsettling horizon.

All the places came to me at day’s rest, neatly swimming laps where waves had went, folding dreams to cure the night that ails and whisper to the sea, in lapse of sleep, awake.

Untitled Episodes Within A Dream

I hope to see you in my dreams, in death. Waving hopelessly at fading circles in the background. Clutching at the thinnest straw, upon which surity of life prevails. In its pure awoken state, remounting and saluting over everything.

I pray against the fever of my soul, blindly painting portraits and resumes that i hope will cast a shadow into view. Love lapping over arches, wild as reeds and ranches swear their dull faith vanity risking all youth for clear as constant remonstrations.

A life as like no other, the silken swim of north facing happiness in melody embrace. A deft climb to grief where passion showed itself and strong, the weaker playful voices drill out death on the outskirts of fantasy in reverse.

I hope to see you in my dreams, tonight. Awash in silver coloured button tops, resting on the loop above my bed for eternity. The stars have ached and begged to sparkle at foot of what love had surely fitted out, the distance ran inside itself into adjoining skies as sweetly tears turned rain away from roaring crowds.

Every deep and darkness is a thing, within which clouds become the real unmerciful envisioned. Resting faces against the glasshouse coveting the pain and suffering from adoring nature’s bite, hovering gently aside the vanished memory of all the soft sad songs when morning light becomes midnight.

As if for you, all my stories of what a future brings or brought, the eerie waking to a sound of silence and remorse, the day breaking before the night, has left its lessons still untaught, all episodes and dangers real or sought, i wake within a dream to a day now nearer lived than lost.

A Deafening Sorrow

In the dead forests where dreams have taste and silence, the rain falls happily against the warm and wondrous bark at night. And nobody is there to see it, only imagination.

The elation in death of a seemless wading into deeper waters, memories become compact, elusive and mesmerising, enthralling and relentless, overpowering the blind lens of a catalyst examined before our eyes through thoughtless entertainment.

The floods of sweeping sorrow are reminders to a crown of creatures built, evaporate and eviscerate the raptures in departure, human remains burned for the waking, laying in mud like strangers crept up on their inner selves in shadows. And before forgiveness comes.

A nation wilting, torn wood awoken, then destroyed. Bridges are collapsing, roads running home to you, insects laughing at comedy i barely understand, humanity sad as skeptics, clear eyes drilled with tears of skeletons entrapped in soul crushing insanity. Teardrops waving at mugshots, forests of heaven, together under one horizon. And dead forever.

Killers Under Starlight

Whistle by the rocky way, walk then run by the thistle cracked and seemless into din, murky as it begged and battered, shelves seated into sheds and bodies everywhere for pleasure, play against the rising of temptation, trail between the blank spaces and the sheets of blood stained rancour.

Two girls, bound and gagged, tied to a cross and tortured for centuries, divide their body parts into jigsaw pieces, eventually. Hollow as their cries sound, electricity flowing into his mind like a rush of heat and sanity, rapists shuffle off with the knowing of every minute being their cemetary. They make tombs and left in wasteland by the beaches, bristled and loveless, spread out on rocks and pathways, every ripped out vein, worshipped.

In the park, children play for hours for the warmth and joys and grass creeping into view, no signs of death, no abandoning or lesser heaven leaves this way for days. The sky a wander and a wish, the waking eyelids awoken by the sound of shattered life, invoking and invalidating, reverence on the outside, they are back before sundown for more, the children up and down on highs of a life eternal.

Before the sad escapes, Mister Average Everyman, comes back around. Drill in sharp and safer hands, monuments to fashion, exemplary and wholesome, a man so in demand and so refined. Taught not what to wear but who to kill, the neighbours walk without a trace of dark internal brooding weak damnations. Always bubbling underneath, colossal meandering of a mind sailing to the darkness undermanned. Never a trace of teardrops reaching a home on land, forever seeking the torture tears beneath the palm trees deserted like the families left without a chance.

Amidst the gloom of the dim light Summer fading into Autumn, there returns the pacifying pleasure in a moment, both girls bruised and anguished laughter still controlled, amusing. The butterflies flickering dead weight images seering over the sky at night, the windows fogged up, hard to breathe inside hell, impossible to love so well. The buttercups plain as day, growing outside then wasting as the seasons change. These girls somehow more alive than human flesh that savages the streets, for now between the noose and before the body rots, they whisper all their sins to the dusky stars that time so soon forgot.