A sinking feeling

There's an unrelenting torrent of words spewing from what seems to be emotional turmoil in the left aorta. That coupled with the drug induced self-doubt should be enough to question surviving the night. I had always imagined that love would be an easily managed thing. I never thought it would claw at the scabs of my wounded heart like a crazed rat. Each painful nibble opening old scars a little bit more as the arteries pump all sorts of darkness into, whatever it is that's left. Not much hope for a broken heart. Take off the gloves, lock up the defib, this one is done. The boys will bid me well and float me down the river. Tell my mother I'll miss her, tell the girls I wish I could say the same. Let them watch the torrent of words finally drown this broken barge of mine.

Mirror, mirror.

We want to be just so broken
that someone
might want to repair it.

The hopeless heart.
The unlovable soul.
All wolf cries for help.

Just illusions formed
and allusions made
on close inspection of empty words.

Never meant to show the truth,
only blur the vision of it.

We want to create
this image of us
so the reflection might seem more real.

So we might become
what our eyes think they see.

So that we may find,
in this miserable world,
someone
to share our miseries with.

Bounty Paid

He rode up
With the early dawn
Two pistols by his side.

"Come out old man,
And pay the price."
To the window he had cried.

"This is the time
To face your fate
There is nowhere you can hide."

Slowly then
The doorway slid
And the guilty stepped outside.

His face was scarred
His eyes were dark
His hair was surely dyed.

"You call upon
The wrong man"
Came the feeble alibi.

"I was here at home,
With my wife and child
I promise I do not lie."

The rider paused
A second still
And considered the dice.

He sought to make
Sense of the face
That stared into his eyes.

As the sun rose up
Behind the mill
And shed its blinding light

A shot rang out
Gunpowder smells
Choked up the countryside

The scarred man
Stood in the doorway still
While the rider slowly died.

He walked up to
The bleeding man
And knelt down by his side.

He pulled aside
The two guns and said
"I'm sorry for my crime.

"There was no way
For you to live
And me to keep what's mine.

I know the day
I'm judged for this
There'll be no mercy to be had

So let them send
Ten thousand more
If it makes them just as glad."

The rider gave
His final breath
To have two words as his last

"Burn down"
He cried to the dark eyed man
Still clinging to the past.

The murderer
Picked the body up
By sundown it was lost.

While the two guns
Raised on a mantelpiece
Reminded of the cost.

A man who seeks
Another's blood
Should dig a pair of graves.

There is no hope
For vengeance when
Luck and fortune saves.

Rebound.

I refuse to be,
Just another name.
In your list of strange bedfellows.

I choose,
Not to remain.
The fool you made of me.

It wasn't by your glance,
Or your lingering hand
That I was slighted.

I don't think it was,
Your affliction to the phone
That made you seem benighted.

For a moment there,
You got me going.
I believed I meant more than every other.

And you even had me,
Happy with the fact
That we had no great future.

But I refuse,
To be just another name
In your list of strange bedfellows.

I don't think,
I was made to lead,
But this time I refuse to follow.

I don't think,
I can become.
Another lover whose heart turned hollow.

I would rather,
Forget you today.
And look to a calmer tomorrow.

Still useful.

I love using words that have grown almost completely redundant. You know, the ones the English language forgot to evolve in its own sick etymological-darwin method. These are words that just fell by the wayside as spoken word evolved and clear definition went the other way. It’s not like these words stand for anything anymore. They’re just there. Lying sad and puppy-eyed, asking to be used in some half-meaningful conversation. People haven’t really forgotten them. We happen upon them in some weird crevice of a memory where ages ago an Enid Blyton novel had implanted it with all the might of the three golliwogs.

Like ‘flabbergasted’. That’s just one of the words that sounds like it makes sense but if you ask most people, they’re simply too flabbergasted to answer. We all know what it means... but do we? Then we Google it, which kind of means we didn’t. No one knows where it came from. And it had nowhere to go towards. That doesn’t seem like latin to me. It just seems like a bunch of alphabets flabbergasted at finding themselves being taken seriously. It’s a word that’s dying. It never got the fair trial of an abbreviation. There is no #flbbrgsted.

It’s not just the long words though. There are a few short little quips that beg to be recalled, but aren’t because few would understand what a quip is. Which poses, what I still like to call; a conundrum. Or rather a word that just sounds made up. Of course you might try to solve this by pointing out synonyms. But that’s the point! Such phrases are synonyms for things we use every day yet we choose the many others and forget these rhinestones of vocabulary. These are just the bastard words of the 20th century. Except barely as precious and half as likely to survive without our help. As a collective whole we have decided to leave them behind and move on with our hash-tags and our ever growing urban dictionaries.

Yet every once in a while, these words just creep up on me and grab at my mental tongue, twisting it into shape. They arrive at these uncomfortable places in life where I’d least expect to run into them. There’s this awkward silence as these poor, neglected, uncared for ‘expressions’ find a way to be themselves. And it’s on my able voice that they hope to somehow leap into the limelight once again. So that someday they too can leave people flabbergasted at their utterance.

Bad Advice

All the voices in your head
are just things you've heard
or somewhere read.

They are just words meant to misguide you.
The only thing they know
is how to deride you.

There isn't a rule of thumb for you to follow.
More an echoing sound
in the world so hollow.

Pay no heed to the herds of storytellers
and don't you listen
to the easy lie sellers.

Leave them be with their pointless games.
Let them lose their minds
in search of their names.

There is no need for you to drown in worry,
happiness is a slow mover
you'll outrun her in your hurry.

Remember who you were a long time ago.
The years have been kind,
the trails are easy to follow.

Maybe as the journey ends
you will find a simpler place.

Somewhere with a cleaner mirror,
the reminder of a familiar face.

Until then beware of being so easily defined,
that the interest of strangers
cannot be confined.

But mostly beware the smoke you will breathe,
for it can make you write
verses like these.

Prosewhores

I've always wanted to be a writer. For as long as I can remember I've relished the idea of giving thoughts a tangible form. Whether it be pencil or pixel, any arrangement of words would satisfy me. Somewhere along the way I started to yearn for something more than being just another forgotten wordsmith. So I chased one such profession that, I believed, valued ideas. And I found my way into advertising. The transition from writer to copywriter happened smoothly and passed unnoticed by my preoccupied subconscious, which was busy tackling below-the-belt puzzles. I began to settle into the role with apparent ease, never suspecting what it entailed.

But now I see that I've sold my soul to the consumerist culture. Creating something has become a matter of purpose, rather than the habit it used to be. Squeezing a few sensible words out of this mind is often a task only completed within the icy confines of my office. It has become impossible to think freely, uninhibited by the chains of an ageing company's values or the intelligence of the least common denominator. I don't write anymore. I simply sell things. I'm the pimp who whores my ideas to the only bidder I know; the brand manager. And often, he doesn't think too highly of the assets I bring to the conference room anyway. His choice is unique. He is happy with the drug spoiled street wrangler as long as he gets a place to stick his embarrassingly puny unit. He will not think about the better commodity a creative mind can bring. He doesn't bother with spending time on an idea. And the problem is, he's the one paying for my unique services.

And I promise you, they are unique. I find myself frustrated at the indecency of it all. We aren't creatives here. We should be ashamed of the term. Here we are just a bunch of strugglers playing catch-up with the world around us. And we are so afraid of being discovered that we've built a nice bubble of ignorance to keep us safe and disillusioned. A fact which we attempt to blur with the sheen of grand award shows packed with emotional and hollow applause.

No matter what part of the industry you go into they chase only these two things. They chase awards or real work. I want to chase ideas. That's a higher ground no one seems to offer. This fucking profession doesn't allow it. I cannot become a round-the-clock mental prostitute. Doling out ads like blow jobs at throw-away prices waiting for my turn in the big league where someday I should feel grateful at tasting some Cannes cock. I joined advertising to change the perceptions of people, not brands. I came here to be some kind of voice on mainstream media that everyone can stumble across, not be bombarded by. I came here as the fool I find myself making of people.

I'd rather be unemployed than foolish.

Confession

Let me just talk to you,
And tell you what's in my head.

The world isn't a simple place,
Biding time only leaves us dead.

I want to confide in you,
I'm sorry this took a while.

We could be a good mistake,
I just want to see you smile.

Tell me what to do,
Just show a sign,
And I will fall for you.
Anything you do,
Just ask sometime,
And I will fall for you.

There isn't a perfect time,
That we should be waiting for.

This is our reality,
It's not some imagined war.

I need to stop fighting this,
Before my heart gets confused again.

I want you to turn your head,
And listen to this refrain.

Tell me what to do,
Just show a sign,
And I will fall for you.
Anything you do,
Just ask sometime,
And I will fall for you.

You take me for a fool I know,
But this is not a simple task.

I want you to speak to me,
Is that too much to ask?

Tell me what to do,
It's not to late,
I will fall for you.
Everything we do,
We'll find a way,
Just let me fall for you.