Friday, 24 February 2012

Fast Car - a poem

Oh car that speeds so close to me
Canst thou knock and break my bones?
Maybe if not for a little hesitation,
Sprawled I'd be, atop black and white,
And thy driver will come and cry apologies
Or be cold and continue regardless.
But be it no matter, dear speeding car
For the pain you drive through my body
Would never compare to that through my soul.
It compresses upon my shoulders,
A pressure unwanted-
Ha, fool; a pressure wanted doth not exist.
Stupid statements may spell my end
For I will not face death today
Nor tomorrow. But one day, I pray
I will no longer feel this pain.

But no one mind must worry, for I
Will never let my bladed hand slip
And my throat will never suffer a slit
From me. Nor suffer lacking breath,
For a coward canst not deal that hand.
Or is a coward the one who can?
For they leave when the going gets tough
And I pity them, as much as I do their family,
For feeling so down as to want to
Move these last six feet low;
Several feet towards the Paradise (or Hell)
Which they now belong to
In peace my hopes do plead,
But who knows the consequences of actions?
By golly! Why so morbid?
A poem of death and pain fills the heart
And beats away good feelings that once embraced it.

Again my mouth is floating; I shalt hush now
And I shalt forget thee, fast car,
For thou art the fool, not I.

'As Written' - a new novel I'm going to write.

I had a sudden idea for this new story, so here's the extract I wrote. More to come, but I doubt that happening any time soon.

The book felt cold and smooth under his palms, the gold foil title enhancing the otherwise plain cover of brown. There was a slight feeling which made him feel uneasy as he considered the book - a feeling somewhat relating to deja vu - but he kidded himself to think it was simply a coincidence the title claimed to be 'Patrick Morgan's book'. His book. After all, there are supposedly 6.995 billion people in the world, and he was pretty certain that within the world's population there were several other Patrick Morgans walking and talking, or had walked and talked.

His eyes explored the book again, finally resting on some smaller writing at the bottom of the back cover: 'A novel to whom it applies to'. His palms were getting sleek with sweat - a strange feeling had wormed its way into his gut - and he wiped them on his jeans before picking the book up again. Deciding to listen to the curiosity in contrast to the more appraisive ego he possessed, he slowly opened the first page of the book and began to read...

Stomp stomp, I've arrived!

Hello there, and welcome to my blog! This is my little den to write any stories, poems, or rants that I have falling off my fingertips at the time, and which you can read and either compliment or criticise. I need someone to tell me to get my head out of the clouds if that's all I'm doing after all.

Warning: this blog is NOT about how I bit a piranha who had mistaken my toes for sausages... Good times... No. It's a metaphor. If you have any bonkers idea what it means, please don't hesitate to comment with your theory. I would lurrrrve to hear some of these!

I'm also hoping to cast and direct a play I've written, so fingers crossed that will actually happen, then you can read me gloating about how well it's going...or whining about how crap it's going. One or the two. Maybe you'll even be treated to videos to do with it, and other projects that I get involved in later on in life.

Hokay, I will shut up now and you can tell me to piss off. Then you can live your life, I can have my whiskey, and we can continue the show 'Who's Drunk, Who's Not & Who Eats Bananas'. Bananas? Where did that come from?

I'll be tapping soon. Ciao folks!


Knitting for Rhinos!

A few months ago I decided to learn how to knit for a cause that I am particularly passionate about. The ivory trade has long since spir...