The bulbs cool to beginnings, Staggering of a thrown switch, Fixations daylight endeavours held Lie robed in the velvet outer skin, Of final, laboured hours, The thin trails of a heartbeat, Or our bodies, prone and restless, Grasping without light, Summoning without music, Lie heavy and momentary on my bitten lips, My back blurred and torn by pianists fingers, And the elusive, shapeless, Falls, quickened and insatiable as ourselves, To form poetry, At sunrise.
“We are content with the ‘given’ in sensation’s quest. We have been metamorphosised from a mad body dancing on hillsides to a pair of eyes staring in the dark.”—Jim Morrison - The Lords: Notes on Vision
My first attempt at a play, due to my love of dialouge. More of an experiment for me in this form, so any feedback would be welcome :)
Many years before the present.
A fading sun lingers upon a darkening horizon, the coming of night. Restless candlelight flickers within expansive quarters, amongst lavish furnishings and ornate decoration, wealth and status are evident in its construction, replicated in the dress and demeanour of its single occupant.
Bellator, powerful ruler and formidable soldier. His large frame is wrapped loosely in silken robes, his face masculine and sharply crafted, carrying minor scars, reminiscing of previous battles.
Pacing the stone floor in discontentment, his eyes frequently address the parchment laid out on the table before him.
Guard: My Lord, your brother has newly returned.
Bellator: He sent no word of his coming?
Guard: It is he, My Lord; I have seen him with my own eyes. He requests your presence.
An atmosphere shivers the air. Adored images in transmission, Draw the crowd (A vague pencilled outline) With artificial gravity, Produced in the agitated, Hum of electric light, The buzz of a pseudo-artist, Running the femme-fatale, Through film reel eyes, Development of her relative beauty, With frenzied fever, Scattering her frame to pixels-
The winning smile will answer, In this flicker of minutes, Classically trained, responsive, Her canvas is shaped In easy grace, and the fall of lovers, The nervous quiver upon which Our reality lingers-
A tide quakes, With constant impudence, Doors of perception unwilling to yield.
The cover carries a maker‘s name, A vessel to travel through endless Re-prints, new editions to read true, In the correct monotony of a bank manager, Trailing language through his fingers, In a snatch of spare minutes.
Blue as the languid haze, Circulating with mild interest, Or burning to an end in the ashtray, To watch hands antagonising the type writer, With measured pace, The keys clicking like synapses.
Mapping the veins and pathways, Of a living mind, stuttering conclusions, Insights, the blunt honesty, Coarse, unsettling, in the old century, Has lived in my collection for another, The capitalised legacy emblazoned in red,
A furrow to the brow of blue binding, Calm and precise, Teachings enunciated, A voice held in stasis, Awaiting the next call, Showing no sign of age.
An old master, Scattering noble literature, By his own design, Lays demands, Defiantly slurring, The language fallen from his mothers tongue, The long, soothing fingers she had read with, A plaintive music of voice, Without the world.
A manifesto is laid to canvas, As the withered shop fronts glower, Disapproval on the act, Of assertion, the paint is voiceless, As the artist, Yet he smiles in completion, Of his attempts.
How his words will read back, To the early morning audience, Drawing reviews in passing, Of ill-spent youth, And the striking shade, Of red scarred against concrete.
The old, anarchic stanza, Heard with half conviction, Denouncing the now, Of desperation, downturn, Rifle and uniform, Stands as his finest creation, After the verse he had composed, In his mothers voice, For the remembrance of his father, Laid with all craft and care, To mark his resting place.
Curled tightly in the embryonic stage, Amid the white linen of fragile growth, We experience, The inquisitive, Unfolding of limbs, A discovery of muscle, Reaching and elusive, Language thick in the murmurs of brail, Formed to speech, As the stars shatter, Blurred in the chaos of being.
Spring flowers are numb, Blind and weakened of their senses In the hours of retribution, Awake with fierce passions, The lines of distant shores Are broken, Thread of borders torn At each seam, Folding the uprooted lands, Their treasures and memories, Into the re-claiming clutch, From which they sprung, Millennia ago.
The bitter tears which scar Cheeks, and cry in one harsh Clear sob, their greatest loss, Mark the retreating procession, Far futures confess the mourning, Of the loved and fallen, And I pray to an undetermined power, For the re-building of lives, Reconstruction of spirit, Hope and light.
The throb of beating man, In his glorious engagements, May allow some thought to stray, While the earth weeps, With the surfaced residents, Forcing her furies, Upon the creature, Vulnerable and un-forgiven, As spring flowers.
Less than a dozen years, Spun into the pale, unspoiled Complexion of my face, The eager blue/grey/blue, Becoming of my gaze, I collected an early establishment, Of words, Calling for the protection, Of earth, and her children, Desiring the kind mention, The stage may give, As reward, Now, the years Have flickered in their dim passing, I consider these children, This same earth, And am a child still, Beyond the hardening of eyes, The learning of skin.
She stirs. Her new limbs stretch like fresh sun rays, dancing playfully against the window pane. She sees a certain smile reflected there, a gesture she returns momentarily. There’s an unusual satisfaction to this hour of the morning, the time before the shadows creep up on the serenity of these four walls. Her open palm holds her cheek aloft, the furthest any movement will take her for the moment, there are things to be done, but it can all wait. If desire could maintain the setting, hers would work tirelessly to see it through, yet the clock still ticks, and the demand refuses to cease. Without announcement, the door gives way to commands from the outside. She knows him, framed in the space between her fragile thoughts, and the place where they become something less. A demeanour surrounds his presence, speaking in place of a stilled tongue. The casual cigarette occupies one hand; he draws deeply, exhaling a cloud of blue haze to corrupt her preserved space. Eyes address her at last, and find her trapped, pinned at the elbows, wrists, to the bed he had abandoned in the early hours.
An unnatural soldier,
Mounted in the slow progress
Of the aged steel armament,
Preaches his faith,
To the gathering,
Faces turned upward,
To praise his position,
At the gun turret.
Arms raised to triumphant Vs,
Doctrine scarring each cheek,
The dust of lost graves,
Amid the arid land,
Falling in ringlets of dark hair,
About a rural man’s shoulders,
Strengthened in the cradling of a rifle,
On the hollowed ground,
Of liberation and peace.
The crossing of borders,
Entering into a familiar slant of rain,
Wears a changed face,
On this return home,
The assembled party of concrete
Column and concourse,
Now smiling with a salutation of flowers,
Shards of rose and her sisters,
Scattered in the wake,
Of an impulsive journey,
To stand as a landmark to our history,
First to welcome you,
Wavering in the uncertainty,
Of these steps to the platform.
The line enters into a dead stop,
The last station pulls an evening train,
Failing to relinquish it’s hold,
Stepping through sliding doors,
To accept my offering,
Simple greetings and a cautious smile,
You fall wordless into an embrace,
The vain decision of flowers forgotten,
As your lips grace mine,
Across the distance.
Various and accelerating, Absorbed in studies of the others anatomy, The drifting forces of impulse, (Loose throwbacks of a primitive psyche) Stand defiant at the boundaries, Of each pale pupil, Seeking freedom in my reply, Release via our shared ideal, Fulfilment beneath a common sky.
Among the mountain’s ragged pinnacle, Wounds forged by an unseen hand, There is a dwelling place, Breaking from the taken path, To climbs memory cannot recall, A traveller may stumble upon it, Knowing his discovery, In the winds rumours, The hushed talk of scattered stone, He shall raise his eyes, and spirit, For judgement, To place his allegiance, With masters ocean or sky, Held within this middle ground, To consider for a moment, The weathered hands of earth, Outstretched, Enclose.
Wonders that your eyes foretold, Surround, lips move in whispers, Tracing patterns, Your body is something more, Something temptation had not forewarned.
Eyes that wonder what I had assumed, As my words moved in whispers, For something stirred, When I traced your elegant patterns, Across the chambers of my heart.
Hearts that beat restless in cool dusk, The night air moves in whispers, You stir beside me, Still, your breath in serene patterns, Tells of the wonders, your eyes foretold, The wonders that now surround.
A stranded radio’s static resistance, Trickling through fingers of fine rain, Melts the new songs, To their basic components, Drawing from a history of sound, The slopes echo, Their unchanged tongues, Defiant, masterful of many Receding languages, Sheltered in the valley’s closed fist, From urban signals.
Carried into this ceremonial day, (Assertive and demanding in its title) The air whispered no sign of change, Exploits of the flowers persisted , A lover channelled fingers, Through their adorned hair, With no new grace or fondness, He gave his reason, Parting at the same seasonal hour, The crimson gathering of faces, Preserved the same frailty, No less beautiful, Smiling up to me.
This is a piece I had to write for English Literature, with the objective being to use gothic features to create a short story, similar to those by Edgar Allen Poe, for example. It ended up quite long, and wordy, but as I haven’t written prose for a while I’d appreciate any feedback :)
He had found it, he was certain. The lock was aged and weary, precautious of allowing the stranger entry for a moment, before submitting. Its subservient groans bade him welcome into the emptiness. Yes, there was no doubt. The expansive room, a barren exhibit of a former time, was his now. The sun’s last rays struggled defiantly to maintain their presence, lessening as the will of a greater power assumed its position. The darkness, he saw, was perfected, a pure, raw space to be shaped by his own hand. Distant to the searching eyes, their venomous glances and words of judgment, lay his sanctuary. Here, he knew without doubt, he could exercise the true nature of his talent.
Man had strived, With ever-new determination, To strike the earths wealth, Among her deepest chambers, Rapid muscle stretching and returning, With the shard of painted gold, Reflecting the face of his labours, In the dark focus, of its onyx stare.
One channel of sky, Escapes in his descent, This new world, Shaped in the image of their fire, Shimmers beneath a blanket of stars, Amid the hoarded treasure, Each bone and nerve, Seeking prize and reward, Now flowing, Through his battle hardened fingers, Are the histories of ages, Tales of advances and progress, Entwined and resonating, In the here and now, The legacy of my forefathers, Still echoing.