I'm a Nihlist and a drummer. First and foremost I love music. I have very selective taste when it comes to literature. Ted Hughes, Kafka, Nietzsche, Blake. I love mythology and Crow is as close as i'll come to having a hero. I got a degree and a Masters at Bangor Uni but then embarked on one of those downward spirals you've heard so much about on late night documentaries. Im recovering now and hopefully in store for some artistic productivity...
The Broken Hours The figures drift apart in the dark. Hesitant backwards steps along a road which until now had always led back to the same spot. Again the looming outlines of the black earth are slowly revealed by the rising deep blue that flees from the Sun. The horizon remains... And as usual... You get to the point... after forgotten numbers of corners. Blissful, unthinking multitudes of strides ...and the point is this... That you are the abnormality that creates by contrast The normality of the world. You reach that point And hold it within you But... As you look back to watch The normal young man You passed seconds earlier You see the hateful swinging hooks And crumpled fists Dizzying the air around his head. And you realise that he too Is within a world of invisible demons... These are the broken hours. Humanity sleeps...and dreams of its past. Thoughts on Life... Life is neither happy nor sad. Definitions that pull towards each other’s fears Till the frown wears a grin that never lasted and had Done its share of crying over the years. Beneath this pit of lovers Life crawls unstained, though often loved and loathed By the swarms of fancy who call themselves mothers and brothers To the child that never hides from the darkness Daylight shows... The moment serves the moment serves the moment serves the moment... And if I do bear the scars And sigh with weakness, I’m justified Through the pain and loneliness For staying true to myself when I could have lied. REGRET IS NOTHING MORE THAN THE ACTION REFLECTED AND CORRUPTED BY THE ACTOR. NOTHING LESS THAN THIS COULD CONVINCE A MAN THAT SADNESS WEARS HIS OWN FACE... “You have done this?” “Yes.” “Well you shouldn’t!” And so the Rebel grows, hand in hand, with the conscience... THE LAW ONLY EXISTS WHEN IT IS BROKEN! REAL SADNESS ONLY EXISTS WHERE MEN LIE BROKEN! THE REST IS MERE RINGS AROUND CLOUDS AND THE FORGETTING OF WHAT THE TRUTH HAS SPOKEN. Consider this...Throughout all of History there is only one crime that always leaves no trace. Non-existence is the usual Logic used to bring about disbelief in God... Why does Man never apply this logic with regards to his belief in death? Consider this...The clown is the only actor Life can rely on to play his part with deadly seriousness. ...And the man looked at me and said, “Do you know what a criminal is, son?” And I said “Yes Sir, it’s someone who gets caught...” ...I will forgive myself anything except self-pity... The Last Man Nothing more than the span of his arms Outstretched. A flayed ribcage Cages his flayed mind Sunk to a mere heart. He has renounced questions Holds light and dark As two melting globes In either hand and can never Behold both at once. His mouth opens a hole Straight through his head And any listeners can only Try to ignore the slavering path Of which he is ignorant That he has followed. The Ends of Things In the tentative moments That would exist between The last And the first Rings of the telephone I could take a few blind steps Towards the destination of myself. Another room packs itself up And waits behind the door. The future will not knock But stride Confidently into the place That the lingering past Has exhausted itself to create. You must know that time Space and the skin of existence Holds you as tight As the dry White sheep skull That sat in the field you passed And which you mistook for a rock. The window at night holds Society’s lights like A thousand truths Which battle In the dark Until dawn arrives And the horizon slits Nature’s throat... We Are We are the sons and daughters Of yesterdays victors. Painted with our own flags and bearing no faith. We are the creators and killers Of our own heroes and villains. Afraid to admit that we might fear to love. We are the wings and the chains That make us a slave to freedom. Lost amongst our own words which scream to be followed. We are the span of our arms And those we hold within them. Hiding from death inside the broken heart of life. The Great White Meph Death So much time has passed Since those fools used to flock to you. Come to you to feed. I stand here now amongst the dust and withered greed. The forgotten need And piles of broken, unheard words... I can still see the smiles that faded with the night. Faded, first, from white to black Then, as you returned, slowly faded back. I want but I do not need You hurt but do not bleed enough To give me back the life That I once gave to you... My memory of those fields has slept for years. Kept at distance by the life I built up afterwards. Built with pity’s fears but now circumstance Like a knife, cuts through the new existence To the bone of old. Now amongst the stone and grass, at last, I can remember you alone and cold. now I move but do not reach Experience comes but does not teach that Replacing one my memory hates will multiply the Gods of altered states. The knowledge. To know and hold The days with simple hands. To be able to hold Your entire life in a fist. The Words. To release the words “All my strength and my weakness” While love and hate curse The Opportunities missed... i do not claim Rights to any scripted life. And my past and my future Despite Injustice bore should meet as friendly strangers And compare familiar scars. Tracing the lines through all the weakness and injustice. I hold it all here but do not claim the strength that binds this hand. Yet My strength and my weakness Together are enough To free life’s breath From my grip And as the palm opens I go... Out into the world... Hand in hand with life and death. And yet... i do not claim to be strong, only strong enough to bear the weight of all my weakness and injustice. Imagined Love Your face reads like the lost lyric book Of the band I should started When I was fifteen and smashing windows. A whole world made up from half remembered first impressions and heartbeats. I can remember how I felt when I saw your face But I cannot remember your face. It’s the vanity of love. Real, imagined love. Mr Deadhead Mr Deadhead It was you who came To sit next to me On my train of thought. Mr Deadhead With your loud rustling coat Your rustling tabloid blank On every page. Only A smeared barcode printed. Mr Deadhead It was that grey memory of you That forced my hand to rest As I sat at my table With a pen easily within reach. Mr Deadhead It is your clammy grey hands That pull the clean thoughts Out of my head and hold them before my eyes Damp and twisted and shameful. Mr Deadhead A highlight reel of Broken associations. Contemplations in a soundless world That feed a soundless voice.
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