WISDOM WANDERS THROUGH THE DARK OF NIGHT

In an angry mood
at an angry point
of an angry way
through an angry town.

The days are long
and the nights, short.
Short as a midget mouse.
My breath stretches from here to the bathroom.
I can feel it; I can see it.
One long line of powder, dust and foul emotion.

The sound of a grooming animal. Pasty.
Agitation, damnation, mutilation.
Parts falling into pieces. Breaking into places.
Becoming one? Conjoined?
WHO knows. THIS blows.

Strike one, strike two, I’m well past out.
How many chances? Not many more, that’s for sure.
Resisting the explosive urges.
Succumbing to others.
Tumbling down the rolling hills into some kind of valley.

Is there an exit?

So I think I’m going to take this on. 

Lord knows I need something to make me a bit busy at the moment. 
Don’t know who started it, but I found it on James Davies’ blog.

 Will start tomorrow.

Yep, I have a thread on a forum. I’m officially a geek.

If anyone is keen to check out the latest project
I’ve been working on, namely, my postie bike modification, 
it’s all here. Step-by-step.

Still not finished yet, but nearly there.

Here’s a shot of how it looked when I received it
a couple weeks ago.

When I’m done, it’s going to be the baddest, slickest cafe/bobber/military rocket on the roads.

Watch out, Bondi!

All sorts of motivation,
at times of elation,
when sitting in the comforts 
of dwelling occupation.

Flickering of brainwaves 
spark a storm of radiation 
when the poisoning of powder 
prompts a phoney meditation. 

The powers of persuasion 
rush like currents in the ocean 
and I’m carried through the notions 
from a clue to landing stations. 

It all takes place nocturnally, 
‘tween home time until slumber.
But pouring like a thoroughfare 
– no call for mediation. 

Like overdrive but suddenly 
surprising even me; 
it knocks me off my feet 
and takes me out for three. 

Then four then five then twelve; 
snowball rocket brilliance.
A powerhouse of notions;
a register of vision.
Conjuring emotion. 

Rounded but with angles,
a sort outside the crowd.
If done would make me it 
and then the cheers are heard aloud. 
Stretching through a cloud. 

Humble perfect aptitude,
so fitting with the psyche 
of the splayed united elements 
that I entitle likely. 

But later sets in stalling,
in the form of concrete.
Crawling smells appalling;
the texture of dead meat.

In the moments of enlightenment
we all know it’s right and proper.
Branding me with foresight
and the balls to keep like copper.
Stand strong and press on.

Where oh where did the power go?
Why oh why will his face not show?
In the absence of rails on the stairs of day and time;
in the sunlight of actuality,
my dreams amount to none.

I’ve discovered a love for a forbidden fruit,
a safe outer haven like gloves or a boot.
A hug from a giant or kiss from a fish,
I want this for real more than only a wish.
Deserving is mine, but unworthy receives.
The root of the seedling in which I believe.
I’ve nurtured an atom and watched it become
more than ‘being’ itself on a tightly strung drum.
Two energies syncing, patterns entwined,
faster than blinking and brighter than time.
I realise the weight of this moment of mine
is too heavy for bearing but lighter combined
with the beauty of knowing the last bottom line.

A love unrequited or lost in translation.
One end misdirected, a grave complication.
Together could be formed a soul-derived mateship
combining the best of two parts into greatness.
From this side there would be complete adoration
and fairness and honour – a perfect foundation.
Elation.

But sadness sweeps through as I realise the truth
is nothing of this but the work of a sleuth.
An evil outsider who lurks in the puddles,
performs as an expert but merely a muggle.

From the sidelines a spectator weeps with regret,
dipping their toes but avoiding the wet.

While tidying and organising my second bedroom back into the studio art space that it was supposed to be, I rediscovered mounds of art supplies and materials I had completely forgotten that I own. It dawned on me that maybe, deep inside, I am that creative kid that people have labeled me as my whole life. I mean, it’s not normal to have this amount of art and craft gear, from glue guns to charcoal. Then I wondered if I had a hoarding problem. But, once organised, it made more sense. It made beautiful, artistic sense.

All this ‘mess’ is my favourite part of me. My most treasured possessions. The room is now a sanctuary. An escape waiting to be taken advantage of. Shelves upon shelves of matter begging to be put to good use once again. My desire to create has found it’s way back to me, and I can’t wait to sink my teeth in and take a huge bite.

Catch you on the flipside.

My presence has been lacking. In more places than one.
In more ways than this.

A distance formed between myself and myself. At home, I am one person. Or half of one person. That half is true, and varying. Moody, happy, sad, restless, comfortable, unique, interesting, solid. I get to see her. As do some of my nearest and dearest.

Outside is the other half. Also true, but a version of the whole truth. Not willing to share herself with the falsities that exist everywhere. They see boring and smiling. There is so much more. If they only knew. If they cared to know.

There are fakers in my midst. They are all over the place, and they are obvious. Dirtying the air and the people that can’t see through their fog as clearly as I can. My poor, innocent friends, being taken and tricked against their will. I wish I could stand up and yell and tell them.

“Watch out! You’re making a mistake!”

If only my home half was a bit pushier and braver.
Maybe I don’t care enough. Maybe these are only the transitional bunch. But if I had a smidgen more courage, I wouldn’t be so stuck, or so absent.

So yeah, I have been absent. Maybe I’ll be back soon.

Let’s laugh and joke and clap our hands
and support each other
through this thing called life.

So bright were her days,
littered with shimmer,
a life ranking praise, 
exists far from simple.

A woman of principles, 
goodness and character.
Faltering never, 
in leading vernacular.

Signature symbols;
ritual moves.
Intentional style, 
and a strength you can prove.

Pressing opinions 
and valid discussion,
a fine ray of pristine, 
a complex reduction.

A world charged with the arts,
creation and being.
A realm rich with spirit;
the future foreseeing.

An intimate recipe 
of the warmest ingredients,
concoctions of hope 
and a positive influence.

Brewing a being 
so surely resilient,
touching souls here and back
– connections of an instant.

An impacting dent 
on a still-growing audience,
filled to the brim 
with questions and confidence.

She’ll be here eternal 
through our thinking, breathing thought.
This life as a journal,
her essence has been caught.

I have closed a door
but where to turn isn’t clear.
The usual part.

I think I have a bit of writing in me. But now I must sleep.
Maybe tomorrow. 

Lack of posts

due to lack of inspiration

due to lack of activity

due to lack of motivation

due to lack of positivity

due to lack of resolution

due to lack of sanity.