So he walked, roaming the sidewalks beneath the great cluster of brick and mortar, stubbing a newly lit cigarette out underfoot and looking to the sky. He saw in the fluorescent bulbs of the high streetlamps watchful eyes raining down upon him, unyielding in their brightness. All along the traversed sidewalk they followed him, like some horrendous spotlight revealing him naked to the dawn. The cars parked along the avenue now became extensions of the prison in which he walked, mechanical beasts boxing him in, pushing him up against the brick porches of dimly lit houses.
Each passing stranger confirmed his fears that there was no personal life beyond that which he created: nothing beyond the trestles of his own imagination, the fictions he subscribed to every night as he stared at the lamp on the dresser, the orange fluorescent bulb which signalled light. Light. Light in all its false glory and poisonous hope.
The sidewalk harkened him back to reality. He turned on the corner of Lambert Street, keeping at a swift pace to dull the chill. Stone structures surounded him, austere in their stature, their absurdity: to think man had lifted these blocks from the earth into something whole, something tangible to be touched and lived in, the very idea was devastating in its actuality. He felt exposed, vulnerable to the void which lay outside the confines of his own mind and the cobbled street on which he travelled blindly.
Friday, January 13th 2012 11:45am
deer-headphones asked: Your poetry is exquisite; thank you for sharing it with the tumblr world. Your style is truly uplifting and unique. Glad I found some beautiful poetry on this site, it's very hard to find these days! May ask what inspired your most recent one? "The truest lies ever told imprinted in your tender place" is one of the best lines I've seen in any poem.
Thanks for the positive comments. To be honest it’s the first time I’ve had the guts to post any of it, so it’s great to hear such encouraging feedback.
The latest piece concerns the nature of guilt and the way good intentions can cause one to act in curious and underhanded ways. The tender place refers to a sexual encounter, and the lies refer to what we tell each other in the privacy of our own beds; where our actions are unseen by the outside world. A place where the physical self tries to expiate any emotional crimes through physical touch, but eventually the futility of those actions renders the struggle useless. But feel free to interpret it however you wish, and thanks for taking the time to read it.
Monday, December 26th 2011 9:10am
Finished draft. 20/11/11
Sunday, December 25th 2011 1:36pm
3/03/11
Sunday, December 25th 2011 1:30pm
second draft of poem written 21/12/11.
Sunday, December 25th 2011 1:20pm
In the mind’s eye,
evoking the transparency of giants;
I walk within their shadow.
The brilliant faces
that walk, prim and resolute
through streets sheafed in hunger.
A mausoleum of drug stores,
false advertisements pushing
provocation.
Tarpaulins wrap the hot-dog carts
carts in silence.
Beneath a twilight sky hung
with brilliant neon.
Christmas lights strung
above the cobbled sidewalk.
Touching the shrill tips of memory,
the filter through which my eyelids
conjure these strange assortments:
cobalt stone, bronze, balsam,
Italian delicatessen;
earthly delights that poison!
Book-stores furnish words
through which we walk.
and a grand ol’ theatre untrue
to the drama of the pavements.
If I go back
I can almost hear the refrain of trombones
praising each passing stranger
as they stream home to their amber furnace.
Friday, December 23rd 2011 9:39pm
Saturday, November 26th 2011 3:58pm
Monday, November 14th 2011 12:50pm
Automat - Edward Hopper
Sunday, November 13th 2011 5:20am
Tuesday, November 8th 2011 9:30am
Frank went over to the window once more, the night almost a solid black mass now, the light in the room opposite extinguished. He looked down at the streetlamps along the avenue in static formations, austere in their solid lines. The night air was cool and made him feel light. He closed the curtains, the wind underneath lifting them like a veil, and turned in for the night. Head against the pillow, Frank tried to settle, physically he was exhausted but his thoughts kept bringing him back to the surface.
The day had been long, so long in fact that it seemed to hold the whole world within its confines. His mind searched through the void for the motive that had driven him away from the scene of the accident, and to the city limits, and eventually to the ramshackle motel with its broken down façade and flickering neon sign. The decision to leave had been impulsive, but felt necessary. He had surprised himself for the first time in a long while. The full extent of the decision hadn’t yet sunk in, and he wasn’t quite ready to face it head on. He felt the deep vacuum widen within him, as if by thinking about it too much would realise its true potential as a damaging force upon his wellbeing. As a result, he had learned to keep a distance between himself and his thoughts at all times.
Sunday, November 6th 2011 3:06pm
Frank always knew it would be like this. He sat down rigidly on the mattress, his body tensing, staring at the closed window. With his suitcase perched precariously upon his lap, he reached for the bedside lamp, hearing the springs creak beneath his weight. It cast a red glow over the bedside table, revealing a small enamel mug – the sides of which were aligned with stale dregs. Beside this, an old paperback with a cracked spine; the pages yellow from age. He picked it up, examining the cover. It was an old detective novel depicting a man’s silhouette spotlighted against a brick wall, the title of which read ‘Mr Hardy’s Crimes’. He thumbed through the pages, careful not to disrupt its condition any further, before returning it to the bedside table. He set his suitcase down on the floor, its imitation oak exterior weighing down on him heavily, and moved over to the window.
Night was closing in on the empty avenue, a lone bulb shone out like a beacon from the front of a tenement building opposite. A woman could be seen folding sheets inside, her delicate form twisting and turning; in and out of the window frame. And all the while, a shadow played out the scene in the refracted glass, and again upon a white washed wall inside the apartment.
He touched his hand to the glass, leaning so close that his breath formed a patch of cloud upon its surface. His hand trailed down to the latch, resting there for a moment as he looked out at the scene unfolding before him. He opened the window, letting the night air sweep into the room; wrapping him like a sheet and ruffling the covers from their posts. Water pipes could be heard from inside the walls, steaming like a kettle.
Leaning back on the bed, his mind drifted in tangents, thoughts dissipating the moment they formed: of home and of the long journey that had landed him here. Then, removing his jacket, he took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket and hung it on the low-resting radiator by the window, before settling once more upon the bed. He lit one using his last match, inhaling deeply. Smoke rings unfurled like dancing caricatures before his eyes, mingling with the musty atmosphere of the room.
Monday, October 24th 2011 8:35pm
Saul Bellow, New York, 1975
Sunday, August 14th 2011 10:10am
Thursday, August 4th 2011 7:13pm
Monday, July 11th 2011 7:43am
