The Black Lung

He crowded himself by the fireplace. A cold and violent rain persisted far outside the window in the corner. His thoughts turned to the sadness of what had happened, his eyes half filled with decent tears and half with rain. His soul shaking with the screaming torture, this pain somehow stunning and also quite inevitable. Out there is evil, despair and darkness, inside there is warmth, love and longing.

The dim coat, now almost torn and thrown over his shoulder so passively and just a placeholder, to save him from a prolonged death, a freezing so mature in its ways, set up to aggressively capture him in its claws. Fighting it every second, hoping for the momentary joy that comes in the realisation of escape, but what is really escape where there is lasting terror?

He spoke of the “Black Lung” and made it sound irreverant, deep and powerful. “It came so quickly, i had nothing. It struck me so forcefully i could not move” Its violence pursued inside him a prayer, he turned to a higher power, as if salvation could be captured in a last second return to faith while all around him became swallowed by their surroundings.

This “near death” changed his mood, altered his view on everything. In a split second he went from carefree fool to conscious thinker of reality. His words were luscious, long and without meaning. They were nervous words, fought off by an anxiousness previously unseen in his ill forgotten world of screaming and pious partaking.

“Only a man can see his true soul when the end is placed in its comfort” These phrases were aloft and pushed to other people, his determination somewhat enthralling and always deeply distressing. A changed man is an awkward concept, it allows for interest but only once you cut through the insanity and short moment selfishness. It can be both beautiful and sad, thrilling and awful. It wrecks the vain wishful commonness of man’s thinking but overflows a mind with putrid nonsense that has little to do with actual reality, a new reality or a deeper finding of ones nouveau self examination. It can find greatness or it can find a vacuum.

Inside the fire, one constant flame flickered and rolled up the side of the chimney, like a pathway or a message, a sign that he had escaped by following its light from the heart of the burning into a corner, dark and brooding and safe from death or desire. He followed it with his glazed eyes, each time secretly hoping it changed course on its journey. But it never did. That flame was for him, it stayed constant, it was all or nothing.

Outside the rain unrelented. The glass panes on the terrified windows, shook with the sound of thrashing, a beating taken by the elements of nature, remorseless and unforgiving. The world outside was wild and useless, it brought a pain rarely felt with such force when a soul is wrapped up in the comforts of light and fire. He turned to a clock in the corner and he hadn’t noticed that his musings on life had taken over an hour of what remained in the unmeasurable timescale of his life. This is what happens when fear is everywhere and passionate, his words had become sentences, his sentences had become paragraphs, paragraphs had become chapters and suddenly all time was rendered immortal for it swept all reason into its centerfold.

The savagery of this night, the darkness of the unfolding was only now starting to truly hit home. The senseless half death of the “Black Lung” had swallowed more than victims, it shook his core and left in its wake a terror that needed only a moment’s notice to ravish its prey. Intoxicated by the smell of damp, dank scum cycles. Fantasised by the fireplace, a wishing wild and pondered upon for all eternity. Take him whole and bring him home, risen from the land below. He sat in silence for a few minutes, refusing to move as if moving would somehow be disingenuous to his previous train of thought. Suddenly, he stood up, took one look at the constant flame still barrelling its journey upwards to the sky, spoke in barely heard words of comfort to himself and to the night and stepped out from himself into the adjoining room to say goodnight.



Forever and forevermore
Upon the holding of a stone
Beneath the brave and rolling wave
The land will grow into its own.

Forever and forevermore
The laughing thought of haunted yore
Will come a sauntered place or home
Between the rocks of life’s blessed implode.

Forever and forevermore
Waiting by the day’s short shore
To wicked, wild and waiting core
Come earths divide come light not yours.

Forever and forevermore
Into darkness a heart will pour
Its sins and fate, its love so pure
And live on land and seas every evermore.

Wait, There’s Magic There?

So many sailboats, so full of flickering and cool breeze waving into light shift memory magic and alternate worlds wrapped in guilted torch supremacy.

Where is the waiting? Where are the stilted stakes on which a breathless betrayal grows roots? Were it not for places to roam there would barely ever be distance measured or time put forth to explain the alarmity of our actions.

The placid enmity released into a wild and frenzied scream of panic. The buzzing of birds wore into a passion of weekend after work salvation. The feeling of fever, the sadness in a noise, the vileness of weak massacred apathy in a chorus retained deep within scourged remains.

But wait.. There’s magic there? A world remote in afterthought but rich in a loving flight of fabled joy. Tales of folks not so much aching but restless energy and curiosity contained in every simple question. A world so worked up, woken up to light forever in its destiny. Uncontrolled by common voices, sailboats or its fears, a world awoken by the richness of its every lasting youthful years.

A Silent Rain

No talking, no whispers, no anything of note not even song or prayer or gentle judgement, nothing sacrificed in honour of the rain that falls.

Flowers melted into spiteful subterranean and ground hollow in its mess but glorious and free forevermore. The pain of sorrow, the tears on cheeks but no sobbing heard, no anything of sound beneath what just you see.

The words, the colours all gasped and figured in patterns light and lifted into brighter moons but still not right, still not taken from its safer home for a few waiting walks with the ever lasting end in sight. See everything, feel everything but hear nothing…

The deafness of life to you be a blanket covered in the fuel of sharper imagined shrines. To us we see a poor man walking in the long sad days of a wasting soul lost in the darkness of passing time.

Wave At Dogs

Say hi to me and people and things, places and other things, everyone and everything in its own place. Not that it stops for you or me or for the ticking hand of a clock so stuck by ravaged bitterness or beauty.

Which one I never know, which should it be it hardly even matters. Come into life a child of brains and skin and tears and vibrancy and light, leave a toiled mess of fallen dreams and broken promises and aching limbs and not much else.

Say hi to me and people and things and say hello to dogs and objects and random clouds that seem to wave at the corner of your soul. Everything seems just, adventure puts its faith in your love and trust. The wave awake, the mind of a shattered life left to trail.

For real, nothing granted nothing taken from you without first getting sold on its beauty, on it’s reasoning. For warmer winters, for cooler Summers, for days you knew not much existed inside your soul but torture and famine of your body whole. Breaking up the pieces that were left, taping them back together with only dreams, waving at dogs to make you feel better, for a second, minute for the hour it takes to live again say hello and say goodbye to everyone and everything.

I Cry Forever

I cry forever. My tears, soft, endless and unforgiving. My face soaked in gloom, my soul wilted in the betrayal of my hearts endeavour. I still cry forever.

I cry without reason, at the smallest hurt or strangers problems or people I should not feel hope for, I cry for them to feel something, to feel anything I cry for them, I cry without reason.

I cry forever. The moan of softness in my lungs, my pursed lips shaking, shivering in the darkness of their melted passioned pain. The wailing walls of my entombed, embattled spirit quaking, the roll of the dice on a life of never feeling better.. After all the hurt I feel I cry and cry, I cry forever.

Into The Haze

A delicate insect, yellow and amber into forestry and forever glowing. A reaper sown the seeds of land beyond the waiting wall, the dime on which to pull the prize from beneath the grasping crawl.

A muscled tide, ripped from burdens patience plowed and plied with the murders of men, awaken in the cemeteries of sentence and broken with the shells of passions placed remembrance.

For the memory of its grace, for the paintings placed on a sea board ship and slowly sailed beyond the high tide on another blasted burned out July haze where man and wave and magic played, where dreams become much softer spaced.

A wasp or bee or esoteric sloping tree, a day that rained without a drop of tears for miles, nothing for the men of beauty to gather into Solemia for the sins of others, no places for the craze to fall from underneath the faces of them all. Into the air a pleasant pleasure be still remains, the wishing fall of breaking into the coloured haze to where the insects always crawl.