i have not really spent time thinking about why i write. maybe i will spend a few minutes now and think about it, and write down what i think. (i won’t edit what i write either, so you can rest assured that this is as raw as it gets).
i write because i am motivated by beautiful things. i think that emotion, in all of it’s forms is a thing of beauty. i find beauty in the simple things. simple observations of people, nature, society, and observations about myself. i think that while fear, jealousy, love, hatred, joy and sadness are all unique, they are also all beautifully the same. they can draw out our best and can exist at the edges of our being. i write because being at the edge of my being is experiencing life. i only have one life and i intend on living it right. what more is there to life than experiencing everything it has to offer? and since emotions are there to be experienced and expressed, what better way to express them than with writing? since i am very important to me, writing of emotion and therefore my life’s experience is a concrete way to record my life – just not in the boring chronological mundane way, but in a unique (me) kind of way.
so there you go. i did some thinking about why i write, and that’s what i came up with. i will probably read it back in a few months time and think it’s all shit, but it’s real for now so that’s cool enough.
across the other side of the park from where i sat, there stood a young woman. she wore a yellow dress. she was looking up into the branches of the tree that shaded her. she held her arms out to the side, palm facing upwards, and she gently swayed like the breeze. the world passed her by. time passed her by, but still,
in the shade
like the breeze
in that yellow
she, as now i, was lost in this moment.
in the breeze her hair flitter’ed, her dress flapp’ed, and my heart flutter’ed when she stopped and stood still. she slowly reached her hands higher to the branches above that shaded her. gently falling was a flower, from that tree, shaken loose by the breeze that swayed her. she cupped her hands and let the flower land gently in her palms. lifting it to her face, she breathed in it’s fantastic frangance. then as quickly as her smile beamed and lit up the shade of the branches above her, she let the flower float off in the breeze once more.
i looked down the blank page of the note pad in my lap and wrote “across the other side of the park from where i sat”. when i looked back up, the girl in the fantastic yellow dress was gone.
i enjoy the sweet conflict of the closed eye times when my breath rasps in beats, two, two times for a distractioned focus, fractioned we’re ordinary people in threatened fracture. i have a twitch now, at the base of the little finger on my left hand it’s kinda welcomingly freaking me out —- like indigestion too many hours after i’ve eaten. it’s not dark, it’s not nothing, it’s a swelling of My Consciousness that if you don’t understand i can’t explain unless you’re unlessed. i’m floating in quasi-free. i can laugh at the uncanny certainty that only comes in these most familiar of adolescent memorial-times. did i tell you how i used to feel it under my hands on the steering wheel, the same as when i’d cry at night without a skerrick of sleep, except it became welcome in the later years. acknowledge.
(open quote)(capital w)hat is literative art(question mark)(close quote) the (capital k)ing asked his puppeteer(stop)
(capital t)he puppeteer replied with a laureate grin(comma)(open quote)(capital i)t(apostrophe)s all about the structure of language(comma) where you place your commas(comma) and how this can manipulate the reader(stop) (capital y)ou want them to wonder what meaning your words might have(comma) when in fact the words mean
at all(stop)(close quote)
I loved those vinyl jazz mornings, after a night of leisure and being lost. From where I’d wake, I’d watch her cook and move her ass in time with Mr Paganini. I couldn’t turn away from the sway in her ‘sing it’, and the jiggle in her scat; it was my favourite thing in the world. She’d make me forget about all the sounds of the city.
Should I have expected more when I prayed to all the Saints to spare her? More than daggers and loss of faith, surely. I mourned for a thousand nights when she left us. It is only with my drunkard friends that I can tranquilize my sorrow; a welcome adjournment from my bitter harbor.
I try to write, but every word has tears of ink. And it’s crap. All of it.
The traffic is driving me fucking insane.
I once met a once-charming fellow named Barlow. The first time we met, he was interested in something I had to say, but for the life of me now, I can’t remember what it was. What stuck me most about Barlow when I first met him was that his eyes were slightly different shades of green, and the left one was ever so slightly more dilated than the right one. This caused him to squint, causing the laugh lines on his left side to be more pronounced. I actually got to know Barlow quite well, and we’d often meet at the Bay Royal for a few pints of Speckled Hen, where we’d talk about politics and literature. I recall fondly one afternoon when we sat in the beer garden and laughed with futility about the lack of real political choice. I never understood Barlow’s poetry, there was always a hint of esoteric-ness, but his passion for it fed mine and my writing became more considered as a result. One Tuesday morning with Barlow at the Bay Royal, I asked him for his advice about a piece I was writing on how much greener the grass was on the other side. Barlow didn’t look at me but stood and walked to the pool table behind him. He took a cue and without warning, swung it violently, striking me across the face. Calmly, he walked out onto the street, never looking back. This is the story about how Barlow went from being charming to being once-charming, and of how I lost my right eye to that mother fucker. I never saw Barlow again after that day. There are some days I don’t think about him, but they are few and far between, and usually accompanied by cocaine and a street whore named Desiree.
Thanks to the suggestion by Paul Squires to give it a go, I’ve been featured in the most groovy Hit and Run Magazine. Now I’m all punch-drunk proud ‘n stuff.
The link is… Mark Emr : Back Page of Bukowski on a Plane
Why not give it a go yourself? They’re calling for submissions now!
the Muse forages, and ruminates beneath
anything grey you can describe,
rain clouds, and
the Muse knows the depression that comes
from submission to words as common
rain clouds, and
the Muse tinkers at the edge, with altered
receptors, saved from naught’s grip
rain clouds, and
“What do you call that colour?”
“Interesting, I’ve never heard of that colour before.”
“You only asked me what I call it.”
“Oh, what do other people call it?”
“I think prefer blush.”
“That’s why I call it blush.”
A long and silent pause follows.
“My hands are still tied.”
“Yes, I know how to tie knots.”
“It hurts a little.”
“I must have tied the knots very well then.”
Cathy sighs, and the room is silent once more.
“What do you call that colour again?”
“Yes, that’s it, blush.”
“What do you really want to ask me Cathy?”
“Could you untie me now?”
“I could untie you, but it’s not time.”
“Blush you say?”
“Yes Cathy, for the ninth time, I call it blush.”
“But other people call it ruby?”
David walks across the grey stone floor to where Cathy is seated. He slaps her cheek, hard, with his open hand. A loud crack echoes off the dark, windowless walls.
“I call that ruby.”
The rain was perfect for a waltz yesterday.
I could smell it coming, and I raced outside.
The first drops hit me as I took off my shirt.
My skin tingled at the chill.
You laughed at me.
Now let me tell you why I’m free.
I once met a lady at the sea-side.
Her name was Bethany.
At the time, she was nineteen, and quite crazy.
She used to wear the same dress, every day.
It was green, with white flowers.
She would walk across the sand to the water’s edge,
where she would spin around,
looking up into the sky,
and get so dizzy that she’d fall over,
into the waves.
She would lie in the wet sand for a long time.
People would walk past her and laugh.
Bethany told me, one day while we ate hamburgers,
that she liked it when people laughed at her,
because it meant that they might not realise,
that she was laughing at them.
I never knew what she meant, until yesterday.
The day that you laughed at me,
dancing with my crazy Bethany,
in the summer rain.
Bethany disappeared a year ago.
I miss her.
Now I’m nineteen, and quite crazy.
exhaust my way
elbows on knees and head
in hands, i drift
with a sullen tempo
my daughter will tell you why, with her eyes
that it matters
that you answer correctly;
should we celebrate the bread
or the jam?
and take some time to consider, instead
how you feel about the words
just the words
underline it for future ref(lect)erence
were silent clear-way hours
sitting slouched, in prickly heat
with my four fruits
jam, and bread
there’s diesel dirty coffee and surrounds that swill.
an industrial belch in my left ear, clashes with the white wash’s
high pitched and fuzzy hum.
it partly erodes and partly peels back the last
I joke about French cigarettes, and you
joke about leaving me
to my shabby knit hat and musing.
there’s a napkin, but I avoid the cliche and instead
press it to my lips. there’s been others before me, as it reads,
“the one with the aroma”
and now, to brighten my palette
we walk to the ice-creamery
for blood orange sorbet and passionfruit.
No, the sea is not a day dream. There is no plink and tinkle of a music box in the white wash, splashing over playing children’s toes. There is no florid turquoise and aquamarine shimmering from the sun, as its light skips across the swell. And just when I think that, yes, the sweet salty cologne that wafts off the waves is real, I open my eyes, and breathe the fantastic truth.
The green is unripened and sour. The crash and bash and smash of the wave’s storm saturates my ears. The light is morose, as mournful as any deaths day. The salt stings my eyes, scratches my skin and I am alone.
So beautifully alone, hallelujah, I am the luckiest man alive.
I tinkered with tip toes across all that was luscious and oh-so just so. Some things remain the same today, as they were in those early days. That same, common unknown transcendent state of being within the dreary days we share. Now it ping-pongs somewhere between bland and jealousy, or between desire and couldn’t care less-ness. There is a routine, that turns the tote board of this ubiquitous gamble. Roll for new odds! You know, it will never stop, this Jamy addiction. One day, according to the status of my faith, we will run together. We will run to the hills, to the sea or to the valley of the sass. There are often days where my dreams will stake my kingdom for a chance to taste the peaches that grow there.
The steam from my coffee rises across my sight, as too does the steam from the late afternoon rain on the blistered street. It’s moments like these that I wish I could etch into my memory with greater texture than I know is possible. A photograph will only remind me of the moment, never allowing the full glory of the cockatoos’ shriek, the smell of the ocean, or the sullen humidity in the air to once again enrich my senses. The realisation is bittersweet.
You sit across from me, reading. My eyes reach for you, imploring you to see what I see, hear what I hear, feel what I feel. Again, the realisation is bittersweet, as I am forlorn by the shawl you keep yourself wrapped in. It’s as though you keep your soul wrapped in it as well. Hope follows me however, and I extend it to you.
I take solace in my existence and acknowledge that I am not alone, despite my loneliness. Love is all around, in forms neither of us knew of and are only now beginning to embrace. I sip at my coffee once more and it’s warmth presses a smile to my lips. Imagine my surprise when at this very moment, you look up from your pages to smile at me, and with no words, acknowledge your gentle, comfortable silence of the moment. I am truly in love, and this now becomes the moment I wish I could etch into my memory.
I ask myself, what else is there to want, but to be here in this higher place.
I’m drunk on feather fullness.
You know the kind,
where lead slinks behind your lids and it ebbs with your strings.
My iron is meek and stretches backward,
pulling my insides inside out.
Where art thou my Jekyll?
Deliver me from my wretched skull.
It’s all I can bare,
reflective stare and shivers hidden beneath sheets.
If only I’d given up.
If only I’d given up so I could revel in the chewing of my gristle,
wrestling with my own common.
Keep me in mind.
If I were to ask you frankly to meet me forever, you’d know how my intent has become certain. Tomorrow, I’d pour you gold coffee and we can sit across the shadow of the pier and drink the night as it safely closes. Kiss me Orane, and realise how welcome we can make our days.
Sit with me and listen to the stars, singing songs about mulberry wine and saved hope. Swill this tune and all the folds that blind our eyes and bind our smiles will meld into the spaces in between. Be saught after Orane, and yield to the knowing that this universe presents to your feet.
It will be as simple as nature allows and I dare. To prevent risk of superfluous ramble, this is the end. I bid you, Orane, my best hand.
The clarity of His image was not due so much to the detail of His form, but rather, to the overwhelming depth of the impression He left upon her. Susan preferred to drape His image in a thick sheet and resign it to cobwebs in the cellar of her mind. Yet, she knew that there would be no expiry to His conviction.
Susan always began to tremble at this moment. She did not welcome Him back, and she never would. He always came back to her, and her transformation would not take long. Fingers curl and numb, mouth snarls and teeth grind. Her anxiety faints and relents to His foreboding presence. She was now only Susan by resemblance of Her former self, for there exists no name for what She has become.
What would He have Her do this time, Susan wondered, and could She continue to hide it from Daniel?
I breathe in the warmth
hot milky tea
take in the quiet
thankful for this
small mercy for me
My own reflection
is more beautiful
(at this moment)
when it happens with you
by my mind’s side