Writing

It is

Blessed are those who seek 

what they can’t see

Some mumbling bumbling 

category.

 
Jewelled demons claw at you

They speak without voice

Only need a few dollars

Employer of choice.

  

If it hides, light its darkness

If it fights, set it free

No actor can act 

what a being can’t be.

  

The dancers deceive us

Sweet night set us free

This turbid green liquor 

Herein lies the sea

  

Open the window

Take in the air

Bathe in the lamplight

Reject every care

  

Concrete and fences

All guide your way home

But it’s too late

And it feels late

Because it is late

And we commiserate that

In the end

We’re all

on 

  

our 

  

  

own

  

 

 

But that’s ok. 

  

Sensate 

Annihilate

Gate, gate, paragate

 

Infinite

Devoid of hate

Or was it something that I ate?

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Writing

Serial Killer Movie Titles

So, there was a remake of a film on TV called ‘The Stepfather’ about a guy that moves in with a family, then murders them all before moving on. It looked pretty bad. But it made me wonder, what else would make good titles for serial killer movies? 

The Orthodontist – “I’m sorry, those teeth have to come out”

 

The Optometrist – “The last thing you’ll ever see”

 

The Podiatrist – “Umm… something to do with feet?”

  

The Checkout Chick – “Time for you to check out / Clean up, aisle 9”

  

The IT guy – “He’ll try switching you off and on again” (some kind of cyborg, slasher thing)

 

The Forensic Scientist – “Oh wait, that’s Dexter. Much better title”

 

The Architect – “Devil in the detail / Your demise was predetermined / Bespoke Destruction”

 

The Baker – “Early to rise” (undead thriller?)

 

The Butcher – “… I’ve got nothing.”

 

The Candlestick Maker – “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick / You’re Snuffed”

 

The Motoring Enthusiast – “Yay, I’m a senator!” (An Australian horror story)

 

The Comedian – “He’ll have the last laugh”

 

The Locksmith – “You think you’re safe?”

 

The Philosopher – “I think, therefore you’re not”

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Writing

rain

The drips coalesced and ran together, luminescent colours warping, streaking images of the passing cityscape. The car slipped through the night like some alien craft across an infinite sheet of pitch. I could hear the rain, barely audible over the hum of the engine. Small drops, trembling at the edge of the window before losing traction and falling into darkness. My own boundaries had faded, my motions automatic. I was consumed within the symphony of the storm. White lights, yellow lights, shifting, streaming, Red. The intersection was empty. In this stillness the fall of the rain seemed impossibly immediate. Endless. Universal. I was suddenly gripped with a fear that the storm would soon pass and I would be left alone in my car, tyres squeaking on renewed asphalt. But for now the drops fell. Green. A few minutes more and I would be at home, feeling the cold sting of the water on my face as I walked to the door. And then…. but now. The lights stretched, the engine growled. Distant thunder. Rain rushed by, flicked away playfully, across the windscreen, surprised in headlights, geometric collections, an unrepeatable instance, lost as soon as realised. 

I remember, half a lifetime ago, walking through Dorrigo National Park with my uncle. It began to rain. “So this is a real rainforest.” I said. It was beautiful. The little light that filtered through the canopy collected in shifting, muted beams. The leaves themselves rustled and swayed. The smell of damp earth and the feeling of dead leaves underfoot… and the sound. Every leaf, every piece of bark or undergrowth moved and echoed the rain. True surround sound. The less I held onto my concentration the more I seemed to hear. The wind whipped up a crescendo of drops, pattering high above, and all around. Everything moved together. The beat of the rain was everywhere. And at every pitch. And yet few drops made it down to us. Diverted along the massive trunks and branches, the water added to the softening mud underfoot. We were protected. While the wind and rain whipped above and away and beyond us.

 

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photos, Writing

Golden Man

Little golden man,
where are you running?
There’s nowhere to be,
up on your shelf.
Your wicker basket
weighs no more than you
And is just as precious,
not precious at all.
Little golden man,
with a hat for a head
Tell me your treasure,
“No treasure at all”.
Ah, now I see,
So very precious,
Not a dead insect,
The moth deserved more.
Thwarted by glass,
And forgotten by sunshine,
The flowers of spring,
Mean nothing at all.
Dust in the morning,
Disrupted by black birds,
The garden is dirty
(Not dirty at all)
Electricity’s out
A solar light charges
Anticipate nighttime
Compete with the moon.
No work can be done
No internet blinking
No wisdom forthcoming
The moth died to soon.
Little gold man
Gilded in nothing
We’ll empty your basket,
This verse is for you.

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Writing

Spartacus Wrecks

You know those guys at the airport who stand near the baggage collection with a sign, or more recently a tablet computer, with someone’s name on it – a driver or concierge to take someone to their destination – and let’s just say the name is John Biggs.  So you walk up to this well dressed individual and confidently announce “I am John Biggs”.  Then your travelling companion struts up before they have a chance to react and yells, “NO! I am John Biggs!” Now timing is important here to keep everyone off guard, so with staggered introductions and little delay, each of the 20 members of your extreme Scrabble team join the scene and announce that they are in fact John Biggs.  The joke gets old quickly, but regains vigour when John Biggs arrives and tries to claim his ride.

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Writing

Living a Rich Life

I may not be rich in monetary terms, but I am rich in life.  The secret to being rich in life is to collect a lot of it early on, then hold onto it so it accumulates interest.  The best way to do this is to keep those from whom you are stealing the life alive and display them in a public place.  I’ve found this generates a great deal of interest while at the same time dissuading enemies from attacking your mountain keep.

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Writing

Prophetic Desolation

When the world is stripped of uses
tomorrow wake and find
a fate with no excuses
a past you can’t rewind.

Forget those lapping waters
that island in your mind
for ignorance is golden
(but resale value is unkind).

Breathe in dust
Skin, nails, rust
stagger on
remember us.

You did just what
you had to do
you could do no other
you you you.

And nothing
More
And nothing
Less
And silence in the wilderness.

Is this the end?
(this is the start)
this act’s unwritten
live your part.

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Writing

Your thought for the day

Throughout our lives our experiences and social interactions shape our modes of being and our opinions.  For some of us these opinions become rigid, mentally isolated from the flux of being which originally gave them form.  This inflexibility will cause conflict to arise in this shared world of ours – but do not fret.  It is not difficult to change somebody’s mind.  All you need is some patience, a little time and a mad surgeon with some serious blades and a co-operative or sufficiently restrained brain donor.  Never give up on people.  And if you’re really ambitious you can follow Ghandi’s advice and “be the change”.  Change a mind, change a life (or two).

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