Twice broken nose

Everyone knows that the heart's a lot weaker
Than the twice broken nose of a hard liquor drinker
There's a crack in your lip
So the taste starts to linger
Like the pin point of blood
On the end of your finger

Who's the man stood at the bar
I dare not ask his name
Never heard him speak a word
Yet he stands the all the same
Holds that bottle tight as hell
Thinks it will replace the pain
Walks away in dawning light
Falls hard nostalgia lane

I know I'm just the culmination of your frustration
But I don't know how to stop
I've walked the long road back again
Worn holes in shoes and socks
I managed to forget your eyes
To pretend they are the same
Now all I hope is that one day soon
You will forget my name

How long does it take a man to realise that he's alone
To pull the dreams from his head
And to leave his broken home
The truth is there and razor sharp
It cuts right to his bones
That everything he had went down
With that slamming telephone

Everyone knows that the hearts a lot weaker
Than the twice broken nose of a hard liquor drinker
There's a crack in your lip
So the taste starts to linger
Like the pin point of blood
On the end of your finger

Tantalus

Perhaps now I should sleep. For I am so very, very tired

There is a chance, indeed, that I should let go.

Daylight no longer holds the essence

Of chest beating excitement and dilated eyes

That has been delegated to run rampant

In the certainty of my own solitude

My strive for candour deflates my twitching ego

To drag itself along the pavement at dawn

Leaking orgone fluid in university vestibules

And shits synapse of self-deprecation.

The closed bracket is reflected, left open

A temporary city stalks my monolithic gaze

The fear in my blood flees for my gullet

And comes finally to rest like buckshot in my gut

Ruptured for a lack of organisation and apology

Wolves in

Sheep's clothing
Sheep in wolve's clothing
Stalking stock and silken ties
The populace flock
Enclosed in council pens

The cloth eared shepherd
Cowers in a corner
Beaten by propaganda pamphlet
As the wolves tighten their leash
He weeps on the winning ballot

All smiles on canine muzzles
Carnivores got the teeth for it
"Take my paw sheep, we got the world to give"
It might not be yours
But it's something.

Your Wife, the Wolf

Ivory teeth and cast iron claws
Her beauty reeks of want for you
A stagnant breath of life she draws
You are nature's lonely fool

Romantic eyes show intent defined
As she stalks your final stand
Cold moon and bitter wind align
Your life on wrong's right hand

Both clean and swift her bound rings true
And breaks a brittle form
This death it reeks of want for you
A perfect end is born

In Paint

I stand over my sink

Watching as grey water passes across paint stained metal

My muse exits in silence

His drink sat warm on the table

And I wonder if I will ever see him again, in flesh

His eternal canvas rests in the easel

Folded hands in blind judgement

I wonder if he knows

In reality or art

Of the space he leaves behind

The water runs clear, as I turn his face to the wall 

Ursa (Unfinished)

Isn’t it so often the case, that we create meanings in our memories of the ordinary? Perhaps that day was not so different from any other, just one more in a routine of many that I had unwittingly become accustomed to.

A numbed world greeted me every morning, and as I read the daily newspaper on my long commute, I noticed nothing outside the window, nothing of the people surrounding me. Indeed, barely anything of myself. This repetition had engulfed me for longer than I can recall, for time is a privilege of change, and my prison was both invisible and infinite. When the everyday becomes the only day, I fear we are blind to the possibility of anything beyond our walled existence.

I could claim to have woken that morning and felt a shift in my life approaching, a whisper of subconscious alterations to my world, but I did not. I felt nothing. I could only feel nothing. To claim otherwise would be romanticising the events that unfolded that day, an activity which in this instance I will do my best to avoid, so as to portray in the utmost clarity the occurrence that befell me, and so that you may understand soundly the event of which I was a witness. I speak of the day that I found Ursa.

I was out jogging; an activity I occasionally partook of in those days. It was not for appearance, no thoughts of vanity every crossed my mind, but more for myself. The burning muscles and lungs a subtle reminder, perhaps, that I was still alive. I ran with no music, it had been years since I’d listened to anything more tuneful than television theme songs and advertising jingles. Instead I ran, head down, listening only to the sound of my own pounding feet and harsh breath. It was in this manner that I reached the forest that formed a part of my circuit, only realising where I was by the sudden shade cast over me, and the foliage covering the floor beneath. The cool air circulating beneath the trees cooled the sweat on my brow, and I was thankful to feel its soft, natural touch on my neck.

It was then that she first cried out to me, though at the time I did not know from where the noise came. A mournful plea twisted among the branches from somewhere off the path, a sound unlike anything I had ever heard. I stopped dead. 

Back, To Life

(For friends that I don't see as often as I should)

1

Today is the day I never woke up. I mean, sort of.

Normally it’s just half an hour and 2 cups of coffee after waking, and everything is fine. I’ll go about my day, do whatever bullshit needs to be done next, the typical drudgery. But not now. Floating around in such a heavy way as today, tripping over my lagging thoughts and pseudo cigarettes. Maybe I should take a nap. Maybe later.

I get in the car, and start to drive. Reckless nicotine speeding down these country roads has a way of clearing the cobwebs, and I must say, it helps. Cruising alone through nowhere gives a man some time to think, get things together and really nail it down. Winding sideways in the dark, you see that sunset, and you know what it is? That’s home. Wherever that sunset is taking you, that is where you need to go. Trust me.

That’s where I’m heading, in a manner of speaking. Not my traditional home, I’m heading to my mind’s home. Man, this feeling rushes me sometimes, in a situation just like this, streaming my way “home” in the semi-dark, to a place of vinyl, jazz, beer and marijuana. This feeling of freedom. That’s where I’m heading; somewhere free, to talk about the things we need to talk about, to say the things that need to be said, to play music, to go up in smoke. I’m heading to Jim Doherty’s place, and as the sun finally dips crimson beneath the Earth, I walk past a church, and ring a doorbell.

“Hello?” comes Jim’s voice through the slight static of intercom.

“Alright man, it’s Davis.”

With that I’m buzzed in, and, taking a step into the hallway, I breathe deep.

2

I’m laden with guitar, African drum and a backpack full of beer, making the narrow staircase up to Jim’s flat somewhat difficult to navigate. The guitar head bangs on banisters and I mutter shallow curses beneath my breath. It’ll need retuning now. Finally I open the first floor door and step through, another air freshened corridor before me, a bitter sweet aroma of synthetic roses, white wash, dark tables and a huge mirror on one wall. Silver door handles and a long echo. I don’t know when everything became so sterile. Jim’s waiting at the other end for me, laughing as yet again my guitar bangs, yet again the foul language falls forth. Slowly making my way towards him, I see the familiar darkened living room through the open door, the unmistakable shape of Brad Kessler jamming on the sofa, riffing on Jim’s old Stratocaster.

“Aye up lad!” comes the familiar greeting of Jim. “Get the fuck inside man, we’re just chilling.”

Stepping into the flat is like stepping into another world. Gone is the antiseptic synthesis of modern society, the cleansed air and polished marble, the weeping cities encased in varnish and chrome. We’re in our own place here. An unlit corridor leads to the lounge, stale smoke fills my nose as my eyes adjust, customising to the damp and subdued lighting inside. The beers are immediately stashed in the fridge, the guitar and drum placed in the pile of other instruments, harmonica, ukulele, accordion; I find a place on the floor between wires and bits of paper, quickly jotted notes, scrawled poems, beautiful 2 minute masterpieces, and sit down. A cigarette is swiftly lit. Only now does Brad look up, and with a cool nod of the head accompanied by a muttered,” ‘right?” my night begins.

3

We start as we always do, events since our last gathering recalled in vivid emotion, tales of family living, frustration and the ever present lack of money. Brad’s brothers are in town, he doesn’t get the car any more, all he does is work. Jim’s aunties are visiting soon, the flat needs to be cleaned, freshened; our friend George Icson owes him twenty pounds. Good luck ever seeing that again. Don’t get me wrong, George is a good guy, let’s just say that he can be somewhat, unreliable. He’s lost friends through money before. I’d be surprised if it didn’t happen again.

We talk under the dim glow of a muted television set, occasionally stopping to make some music, when one of us stumbles upon a good riff, beat or rhythm. That’s generally the way we seem to think, things can be put on hold when an idea comes along. After all, conversations can often be resumed, ideas are fleeting.

I hear the church bells ring and look through the singular window towards them, through the soft haze of smoke I notice that night has fallen. Our beer supply has started to run low, only one left each, and the money in our pockets is whispering of bigger things. We didn’t come here with a plan in mind; we came here just to be. Now that we’ve reached this stage, we all know what is about to happen. We will not remember this in the morning.