Thoughts

The banishment of inner vagrants

Change is imminent, even Death and Hotel Sex. What is far beyond the aforementioned is getting off your ass, which I have decided to do. There were a few recent events which involved me at my local pub pissing off many of the locals, due to the fact I was pretty drunk. I could have gone back the following night, to face the angry mob, and arrived back at work the next day with half a face and zero pride, but luckily I had friends to convince me otherwise.

 

I decided to take a personal stand about this. I’m giving up alcohol. Not in the beat-my-wife-harder-cos-I’m-sober kind of way. It’s more like a hiatus of sorts. I’ve given myself three months of sobriety to wade through. I’ve decided it’s time to make some changes. After all too many times conversations are started through a bubbly haze in my current watering hole.

 

In fact it’s time I cleaned up my body in general. Fortunately I not a smoker so my lungs are (for the most part) still healthy and happy, it’s my thinking that needs to change. I made this decision yesterday while I was functioning on a the amount of tranquilizers that gave me the presence of a Guru, and the speech of a half-out-the-bed brainiac.

 

If anything it’s far more efficient than a decision made after 5 liters of beer. It’s kind of scary to see that I’ve slowly seeped into the pub life, and the fact that drinking 3-4 times a week is the norm and kinda groovy. Everyone would like a few drinks in them before they ask someone on a date, crack a good joke, or just fool around in general.

 

It’s fucking difficult to catch those plethora of skills, and turn them around to face you. So I’m faced with a pretty daunting challenge now, local pub life and endless yammering is out of the question…so where to from here?

 

Tons of places really, I’ve already considered camping out at my local botanical gardens, with three volumes of poetry wedged into my arm pits. Maybe I’ll even wonder around the harbor, and fight off the conspiring seagulls and their allies. So I’m elated, frightened hesitant, and expectant of greater events, more interesting people that deserve investigation.

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

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poetry, Reviews

The kidnapping of the Entomologist and h.. | WritersCafe.org

This is a piece of poetry I stumbled across that I thoroughly enjoyed. It’s written by my good friend Haz, and was posted on Writer’s Cafe. I couldn’t resist not sharing this work of art.

Note: The following piece was inspired after reading Seamus Heaney’s Death of a Naturalist.

PhilosopherPoet


Link: The kidnapping of the Entomologist and h.. | WritersCafe.org.

He liked the light snap he couldn’t quite hear
when he plucked at the wrinkled wings of insects.
Like paper screens with pattern inlaid, a frail sacred dust,
thin and crisp at his fingers.

The clippings snipped from butterflies, in all  sorts of off eaten colours,
flies and beetles with limbless centres. Tucked snug in corners and on ledges.
Bodies half ghost, eyes wandered somewhere. Furry bee buttons
and odd jewels placed in rows across floorboards.

Watching spiders fumbling through the grass, under yellow Wellie Boots
and when it rained, making faces with their soles in the mud.
A dead mouse feathered in decay on the front steps,
the pigeon the cat felled in a splutter, inspected.

Its this place he returns, the house a shredded flag
on the mast of time, ripped and soft.
The bulbs don’t rise and light with the ‘on’ flick,
the sun in summer now clouded glass orbs.

The clock in the hall way untwists, its thin hands like fragile legs,
pulling apart from the rusty joint.
The drops on the chandelier are dew in a web,
the carpet shrivelled, coughing under step.

Door knobs stiff, like the tadpoles netted, and then left in the bucket too long.
A film of dust on the curtains feels like the grey velvet of a moth.
And all the sofas have shrunk like cricket shells,
moss is splintering the garden wall, wounds in the stone.

The garden and fields have burst and browned, all on their own
never needing the boy to chatter and trail, on his journey home.
The whole of it breaking with the lightest of snaps,
though still listening, he can’t quite hear.

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poetry

plastic I & plastic II

plastic I

tonight while i cook
i look into
hannah’s faded face
with her flaking fingers
she clings onto that
microphone full of grit
and glamor
– so the critics say

she’s getting old now
the flowery spotlight
drowns the echoes of
female essence floating
through her clothes

she’s a singer now
my dad told me once that
yesterday’s heroes only
eat the bread that
certain slivers
of society bake
in their unconscious oven

i wash the dishes and
my hands graze hannah’s
supple neck and muffle
her laminated lips

perhaps it’s time i buy
a new radio with
a round volume dial
that can cloak the chime
of adolescent deejays

and allow me to sleep
for a few more minutes

 

*             *             *

 

plastic II

he stood in the store
her plastic arms
baking under
the neon breath
of color and customers

her poise is natural
the eyes soak in the clammy fingers
that slice each benjamin out
of their iron wallets

she stands as a model
almost
except for the giddy boys
they reach beneath
her copper eyes and wrestle
the wrinkles in her speech

when the shop is silent
she is bathed in the dark
treacle of ghosts
the soda soft light falls
onto her hair and pries a laugh
out of her pixel thin lips

at night she is still there
her shoulders are the scaffolding
we use to build paper pyramids
of gleaming gadgets

she will only smile at us
once we’ve exhausted our
flavorant filled bodies
still digesting more mounds
of cardboard coffee

we’ll sit by
that same fountain outside
with its necklace of birds
its giddy sun dancing in the
spurts of water
and feel our skin become
warm again

 

PhilosopherPoet

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poetry, Reviews

We Silly Proletariat | WritersCafe.org

The following is a poem from a good friend of mine. Her work is always authentic, and a rich read. 😉

We Silly Proletariat | WritersCafe.org.

I.

The caterpillars chew

the garden ivy to a delicate lace,

browned and unrecognizable under August’s sun.

 

And the tree spiders spit

their webs into summer’s humid sigh:

the silky tendrils coat the sidewalks

coat the wooden door frames, already swollen

from exposure like grapes 

bursting from the vine.

 

We silly proletariat only pay notice

to the electrical storms 

that steep along the western horizon.

 

II.

We grow bored with garden parties

and decide to leave together,

driving out of the city, through back roads.

Knees to chest, I sit in your passengers seat

replaying “Oh Comely”,

 screaming my favorite lines out the window…

 

“Know all your enemies.  We know who our enemies are.”

 

We park at the top of the bluff,

which over looks the nuclear power plant.

Heat lightning stretches across the sky

purple and quick, flashes of a summer

we only knew from inside weak hours

with backs to the sky, hands to the wheels

which turn and churn.

 

We know nothing of happy vaporization.

 

III.

The thunder is loud

rattles your windows, shakes the floorboards.

My stockings are wet from sloshing

through puddles I thought were not deep.

 

You offer tea.

You bring sugar and a dry shirt.

As warm as I am, this night will end.  

Day will come.

 

When you realize I am crying,

you place one hand on my knee,

and the other on my soft belly.

 

I inch away, stating,

“It’s not that kind of crying.”

© 2010 Ms. Gruye

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