days escape [untitled]

days escape

people teardrop onto the street, life throbs
conversation cigarettes from hand to mouth to laugh
mountains circle the town like an old stain
monument and mass watches me like a
steady shadow it clings to my conscience
with words you lost and a girl i remember

between breaths
riding waves of wine and ripples of your smile
our stares coagulate
our souls drunk on their own geometry

your eyes are full of music
a song flows into my bones
you lean into me
i tell you my name
we hug and you bury your breasts
into the tide of my smile

your speech is thick
a young river trying to find itself
the night is old…you are still young
wine weighs on your words

i want you to get home to your bed
but you are still sketched in my head
a warm hand pours into me
your eyes tell me you will be back

words stir
our hands separate






two warm bodies pulse
into the black night
two brains
shimmer in between veins
of streetlamps

tonight he straddles
the fuel tank
underneath its engine
gurgles and mutters
like an actor
lost in monologue

they pour onto the freeway
four eyes pump and ignite
with ecstasy
the road stretches
like a careful corpuscle
headlights and cabins of steel
shuttle past them

her arms are woven into him
he feels stronger when he rides – she says
they share a heart
they share the air
crawling through the arteries of their egos
and slowly it will coagulate
into the depths of their minds

when it’s over the purr of a heart
continues through chapters
of slumber
two chests rise and fall to
the rhythm of dreams

By Kalen Bloodstone

By Kalen Bloodstone (Click on the image to go to Kalen’s DeviantArt profile!)




your hair
dapple pressed on the
spills on me

every lover loves the Song
-your tender finger could
be wrong
you remember the words

your clipped lips,
suck puffing out a
grey breath
a nod, a wink

your eyes, like a cat
the mouth fondles the
tickled tip

your lamplight lingerie
falls stark awkward
over curled commas

i found the song
your voice tinsel
in the air

forgot the lyrics



By Sarah Frost

How sad that it has come to this
my father an old man driving me and his grandson, asleep in the baby seat,
through the Eastern Cape interior to the airport
from where we will return, as if we were swallows and the holiday a winter,
to our warmer home, and he will make the two hour journey back
to my mother and the sea
alone in their big white car, a craven gull.

I whirl the dial of the iPod
with my forefinger, scanning on screen the music he has downloaded.

Songs were always the antidote for our unspoken conflict, pooling like snake venom in the blood, lyrics too –
I remember him, skinny, young, passionate, finding Dylan Thomas’s ‘Fern Hill’/ /reading stanzas, jubilant, from the bath to me in the next room;
‘nothing I cared in the lamb-white days/ that time would take me/ by the shadow of my own hand/ up to the loft where the moon is always rising’.
It is still the only poem I’ve ever memorised.

I ask about the Stones’ ‘little Red Rooster,’
he replies, ‘it reminds me of dancing at raunchy parties’.
Nothing irresistible about you now Dad, smaller, greyer, with every year,
fishing surreptitiously under your seat
for the last turquoise Smarty from the box we just shared,
your hand unsteady as it was when you reached for mine
and held on to it as if it were a rope,
and you the one falling, wrenched away.

We were watching the documentary on Dylan (No Direction Home)
on my laptop. I remember you, visiting, just you, on a summer’s night
cradled with the iPod in the hammock on my verandah,
crooning with Dylan ‘she’s got everything she needs/
she’s an artist/ she don’t look back’.

Your inexplicable and therefore frightening fury
as you told me about our ancestors, and how to write well
I had to honour them too.

My great-grandfather, stern, distant, a stranger, wrote to me
on pale green Croxley paper
his writing frail against the formality of the black-inked lines.

In the troubled departure hall,
you kiss us both goodbye and I turn away irresolute, unforgiving
to walk through the X-ray arch,
your gaze on my shoulders a faint touch for the child you forsook,
the woman you call your daughter,
who, angry, the damage done, carries your dwindling fire into the future.

The man standing at the side of the woman writing
had an indelible tattoo of loss etched onto his face
every needle prick a leaving.


Can you hold me close?

( This is an excerpt from a Song by David Ballam, my awesome brother.) Just a bit on my brother before you are launched into this amazing piece of art. He’s my twin brother David…me being Jonathan. I think that he’s a really amazing songwriter, and will get even better the older he gets. So I’ll say upfront look out for this guy! I also have a really strong and close relationship with him, so it makes the time that I spend with him even more meaningful to me. 😛
I just wanna say that Dave…I appreciate the great brother you are and will still become, and you must keep up the good things you do…

Can you hold me close?

“I’m a shattered pane, please just drown me in your stain

Is your cross-blood in my veins?

Wrap me up on a Sunday, as fragile good,

Salt me in your tears, as you hang on that wood.”

– David Ballam (aka Ledge)


WARNING! (I would like to say that this is not my picture. This picture was taken from the website DeviantArt.com and done by the artist CanDaN. For more information on this image, go check out the webpage! Otherwise treat just treat it as art!)

Comment on my Brothers Song:
Wow…what poetry! …

If this doesn’t make people impressed, or affect them in some way…then I be greatly surprised :-0

I repeat the same old Mantra I will start to use throughout my Blog…

*May The Muse And Plato Juice Be With You*