Last night I had a dream of her,
It was the one thing that made it better.
I hated the morning bird and it's call,
Now I wish I hadn't dreamt it at all.
I can almost feel her nicotine kiss,
I can almost feel our bodies meld.
It's been a while since I got my fix,
I'm wishing soon we will be well.
I miss the scent of us making love,
I miss the hint of gin on her breath.
I hope that soon I'll hold my love,
And I wont let go until the end.
I can feel your eyes on my skin,
I can feel your smooth hair in my hand.
I can feel a pain deep within,
And I know no one will understand.
So let me lie and just dream of her,
Think of a day when I'll be with her.
One of these days we'll cross the miles,
And we will live it out, together.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Wall Street Hooligans
I see your white collar,
Under piles of red tape.
Getting away with murder,
Loot, theft and rape.
You’re unflappable,
Incorrigible,
You’re The Man.
You bought the world,
And now that it’s been sold.
You’ve got time on your hands,
To get a shiny new soul.
Sooner or later,
You’ll think you’re finally whole.
But that’s impossible,
Coz you’re The Man.
You have friends in high places,
Dark hearts and smiling faces.
You bet your money,
On high-stake rat races.
But sooner or later,
The cards will crash down.
You’ll still rise again,
Coz you’re The Man.
You’ll find a pretty dame,
Who will give you fake love.
She likes the size of your wallet,
It fits her like a glove.
One of these days,
Your wife will find out.
But it doesn’t matter,
Coz you’re The Man.
You feel you’re quite immune,
Safely on the wheels of good fortune.
Soon you’ll sing a different tune,
When we take it all back.
You’ll see when you fall down,
As we crush your plastic crown.
You’ll walk all the way round,
In feathers and tar.
You’re not invincible,
Not untouchable.
You’re just a man.
Under piles of red tape.
Getting away with murder,
Loot, theft and rape.
You’re unflappable,
Incorrigible,
You’re The Man.
You bought the world,
And now that it’s been sold.
You’ve got time on your hands,
To get a shiny new soul.
Sooner or later,
You’ll think you’re finally whole.
But that’s impossible,
Coz you’re The Man.
You have friends in high places,
Dark hearts and smiling faces.
You bet your money,
On high-stake rat races.
But sooner or later,
The cards will crash down.
You’ll still rise again,
Coz you’re The Man.
You’ll find a pretty dame,
Who will give you fake love.
She likes the size of your wallet,
It fits her like a glove.
One of these days,
Your wife will find out.
But it doesn’t matter,
Coz you’re The Man.
You feel you’re quite immune,
Safely on the wheels of good fortune.
Soon you’ll sing a different tune,
When we take it all back.
You’ll see when you fall down,
As we crush your plastic crown.
You’ll walk all the way round,
In feathers and tar.
You’re not invincible,
Not untouchable.
You’re just a man.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Thumbing my way.
"Life is a journey."
We keep hearing that phrase but we never really give it much of a thought. I mean we wonder about it, but have you ever really considered how literal that phrase is?
Life is essentially a constant journey from point A to point B. Now, I'm not getting metaphorical or philosophical, I'm getting geographical. We are, in this life, constantly looking at two things; where we've been and where we're headed. Life is the constant act of changing our location and wondering about where it's going to change to.
Every morning we wake up and we think about how we're gonna go to the next room, the bathroom, the kitchen and eventually out of home to the parking, then the bike, then the road and finally office. Within an hour we calculated so many changes in our location and actually acted upon them. The journey of a morning.
But that's not enough for us. When we've finished this little journey we still wonder, at times, about how it could have been a better one. Could I have cut some time at some point in the morning? Maybe I should have gone to the ATM first and then the cigarette store. We're constantly worrying not just about how to get the the next location, but also how we got to the current location. Why don't we ever stop?
Take a moment here and think. Where are you? Not in the 'answer to life' kind of way, simply in the 'Holy shit, I'm in office in front of my PC writing stuff' kind of way. There isn't a deep message here at all, it's just a moment of introspection. Take a moment to realise you are 1 person out of 6 billion. On one planet out of 8. In one solar system out of potentially 100 billion. In one galaxy out of potentially 1 trillion. You are... no, We are, enormously insignificant.
Everything that we are doing on a daily basis, this so called journey, is immaterial. So then, what is the point of it all? I guess we have to do the best we can, we enjoy it! So stop thinking about where you've been and where you're going or all the places you wish you had been to and all the places you plan on going to. Just take a breath, stand in a spot and wonder; Where are all the roses you were supposed to stop and smell?
We keep hearing that phrase but we never really give it much of a thought. I mean we wonder about it, but have you ever really considered how literal that phrase is?
Life is essentially a constant journey from point A to point B. Now, I'm not getting metaphorical or philosophical, I'm getting geographical. We are, in this life, constantly looking at two things; where we've been and where we're headed. Life is the constant act of changing our location and wondering about where it's going to change to.
Every morning we wake up and we think about how we're gonna go to the next room, the bathroom, the kitchen and eventually out of home to the parking, then the bike, then the road and finally office. Within an hour we calculated so many changes in our location and actually acted upon them. The journey of a morning.
But that's not enough for us. When we've finished this little journey we still wonder, at times, about how it could have been a better one. Could I have cut some time at some point in the morning? Maybe I should have gone to the ATM first and then the cigarette store. We're constantly worrying not just about how to get the the next location, but also how we got to the current location. Why don't we ever stop?
Take a moment here and think. Where are you? Not in the 'answer to life' kind of way, simply in the 'Holy shit, I'm in office in front of my PC writing stuff' kind of way. There isn't a deep message here at all, it's just a moment of introspection. Take a moment to realise you are 1 person out of 6 billion. On one planet out of 8. In one solar system out of potentially 100 billion. In one galaxy out of potentially 1 trillion. You are... no, We are, enormously insignificant.
Everything that we are doing on a daily basis, this so called journey, is immaterial. So then, what is the point of it all? I guess we have to do the best we can, we enjoy it! So stop thinking about where you've been and where you're going or all the places you wish you had been to and all the places you plan on going to. Just take a breath, stand in a spot and wonder; Where are all the roses you were supposed to stop and smell?
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Writer's Blocked
Tuesday, May 03, 2011, 9:14 pm
It's been a while my old friend. You, my words, that used to be my one vent. I don't even remember the last time I wrote for the sake of writing, the act of writing for myself and not a purpose. These days that's all I seem to do, write for someone or to achieve something. My writing has turned into the means to an end and along the path of adapting myself I seem to be losing something far more important, my ability to write.
There was a time when I could sit down for a few minutes and polish off a page full of words that left me happy, left me satisfied. I haven't felt that in a long long time, the simple feeling of being happy with what I've written. Even right now I can feel some change come over. Like these little darkening pixels are taking a little bit of darkness away from me. My writing is my therapy. It is the one thing that stuck by me and stuck with me, helping me through the worst of times and keeping me up through the best of them.
These days I doubt the simplest thing. Can I write? Of course, not in the literal sense of it, I'm writing right now. I mean in the deeper sense of it. I remember writing things that made people wonder, I have vague recollections of people lauding and applauding me for a string of words. Where has all that gone? It's not like I've forgotten the words, I still use the same everyday. Have I lost my craft? That's it isn't it. But, I wouldn't use the term 'lost', maybe just 'misplaced'. Or have I become cynical, demotivated or just plain dumb? I refuse to believe that I have. I know somewhere, under a lot of filth and dust, lies that brilliant writer that I thought I was. I just have to dig him out and make him stand on his own two feet again. I have to pick him up and get him crafting again.
And maybe, the answer is showing itself. It's these words. The words I thought I'd lost, the thoughts that I fear had wandered away from me, these are what will bring me back. I need, I must keep writing. I must keep pouring my heart out on a blank white sheet and watching it fill up with the colour of my anguish. As black as ink, now I realise the weight of the term.
It's been a while my old friend. You, my words, that used to be my one vent. I don't even remember the last time I wrote for the sake of writing, the act of writing for myself and not a purpose. These days that's all I seem to do, write for someone or to achieve something. My writing has turned into the means to an end and along the path of adapting myself I seem to be losing something far more important, my ability to write.
There was a time when I could sit down for a few minutes and polish off a page full of words that left me happy, left me satisfied. I haven't felt that in a long long time, the simple feeling of being happy with what I've written. Even right now I can feel some change come over. Like these little darkening pixels are taking a little bit of darkness away from me. My writing is my therapy. It is the one thing that stuck by me and stuck with me, helping me through the worst of times and keeping me up through the best of them.
These days I doubt the simplest thing. Can I write? Of course, not in the literal sense of it, I'm writing right now. I mean in the deeper sense of it. I remember writing things that made people wonder, I have vague recollections of people lauding and applauding me for a string of words. Where has all that gone? It's not like I've forgotten the words, I still use the same everyday. Have I lost my craft? That's it isn't it. But, I wouldn't use the term 'lost', maybe just 'misplaced'. Or have I become cynical, demotivated or just plain dumb? I refuse to believe that I have. I know somewhere, under a lot of filth and dust, lies that brilliant writer that I thought I was. I just have to dig him out and make him stand on his own two feet again. I have to pick him up and get him crafting again.
And maybe, the answer is showing itself. It's these words. The words I thought I'd lost, the thoughts that I fear had wandered away from me, these are what will bring me back. I need, I must keep writing. I must keep pouring my heart out on a blank white sheet and watching it fill up with the colour of my anguish. As black as ink, now I realise the weight of the term.
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