Wednesday, 31 August 2011

A Creature I Don't Know

Do you see through the conspiracies of the midnight horizon?
Into the means and ways of tiny mechanical workings?
Behind the foundations of a society built on padded walls and one-way glass?

Do you see truth in what you hold?
'Fire up the engine, sonny.'

Take all the coals you dig and throw them at your life, desperately, keep the fire burning strong.
Shackled by judgement and expectation. Time as 'chains'. Bolted to the spot, grinding to the core. Little holes of precision - practice always made perfect. Repeating little axioms to pass the day. Whispering ghosts talk of mind demons (creatures of the night - little do you understand how they'll haunt your dreams). Reality is waking and walking as a nightmarish revenant. Throw away your dictum, words are no use when voices are locked inside golden lockets. Tumble head first down the stairs, miss them when your gone. Put your claws into the rug and sink down deeper.

Notice how windows don't show the world when it's dark.
All the irony in smoke of burning life plans.
All the irony in certainty of uncertain futures.

In pieces all over the floor, broken and sure to be mended wrong.
"Oh darling, look at this mess you've made."
Will we ever recover?

Friday, 12 August 2011


This is much too late. To my darling, Cinnamon Brown, who was so very kind to give me Mich's Story Time Blogger Medal - I really don't deserve any kind of awards for this mess I leave you. Thank you so much, it is high time I finally shared with you all.

The only way I come back here is by 'out of sight, out of mind'.

You are all so lovely to me.

I wrote little of this piece a long time ago and it was the right opportunity to finish it.
It isn't much, but it was something.

The words had played out all they could conjure. The Man held then in his arms for the very last time before gently laying them out on to the ground, where they were left as he turned his back to go. Motionless; just as words ought to be when out of use. The Man has been left with something of nothing, new words will come just as the seasons come to pass too. Soon things will change. An Old Man told of how it would.

It is a stern time of year for the Writer. He works his fingers to the core, bone exposed but work produced in unison. The Writer doesn't want to forget this time. Not one single word in even the most insignificant utterance. He understands the power that lies in length, structure and mannerism. He knows he's giving away something so very important - even if he cannot quite put his finger on it just yet. The days stayed longer and finally the lunar cycle was near to it's full circle. This was the Writer's favourite sight to see. Then, he knew how.

When history repeats itself, it can be for many aspects of life. So, it should be of little surprise to hear how soon the life lead by the Writer became a mirror image of the pen stroke to his pages. It should have been of little concern that he was locked away in the tops of the house for many hours of passing days. The room had skylight enough, should he choose to continue his work at any hour. Had it not been for the way his skin seemed to change to an almost paper thin translucency and his fingers of spindles with ink and no feather, none of the townsfolk would have batted a lash. On the rare occasion that he should leave his state to sit by the river, the children playing nearby so happily had sworn more than once to seen him lay his pen by his side and compose in a most fluent script with but the tip of his fore finger. Where there is no knowledge, fear creeps into the Living's hearts. An Old Man had noted how it was a transformation only possible under the seduction of an inspiring moon.

The year grew and the mind of effortlessly. It was now important that the Storyteller should come to town and meet with the Writer. There were lines to be learnt and morals to be explained. This was the trade and the only way to keep a living. But this year the Writer grew agitated, it was after all his masterwork. Why should the Storyteller fall so far behind? So the Writer packed up all his worldly possessions, said goodbye to the places he had so long haunted and set out himself. He told of his new year's tale wherever he went, and the Living took heart. They wept at his sadness, rejoiced in his beauty and learnt at his lament. It was a simple truth he had revealed.

Soon the Man knew he had to leave his words behind and become one with the places in which he came. As this was done, Life caught up with the Man and he aged. He wanders the land on foot no longer, only by book, where his words have been written a thousand times over. The Old Man had written too carefully, he shall not be the first, nor the last. This is magic older than much of all we have come to know to exist. The Writer was the Living. The day he meets Death is the day never-ever ceases to exist.
The Living don't want to forget. Words always mean something, even after they are gone.
The Living are love in a literal form. Words are love in a physical form.

(Just as I don't want to forget to love you)

I nominate Lilly, Haze, Bella, Heather, Peri, Barry and Margg.