The Pursuit of Genius

A rhythmic tap of shoe on wood echoes throughout,
a tall suit materializes before you,
it hunches over the black piano, devout,
a stream of crystalline notes cascade, birthed anew,
under the slender hands of this lone prodigy,
skating the surface his hands scurry back and forth,
you breathe in and out with each rise and fall as he builds to crescend-

The note cuts through the air sharp and unwieldy,
a silence- followed by a crack of the knuckles, a clearing of the throat and
breathe in, out, rise, fall cresend-
he plummets his head into the pure white ivory,
intensifying with each note as he slam his head down, down, down,
the raucous sound worms its way into the ear clawing with sharp e’s
demonic screeching that stabs at your senses,
resonating with perfect clarity the death throes of a thousand stillborn mothers,
each note damning their souls to a personal hell.

Then silence.
Except, for the tiny singular
drip,
drop,
of blood onto the wood.
He is dead; the audience applauds.

I Will Not Write Today

I will not write today,
I will not write this week, this month or at all,
I will not scribble or scrawl
my feelings are not new or original,
my thoughts and musings hackneyed,
my hurt is felt by all,
one time or another,
my brother,
my sister,
why not just this time
let it go?,
let the feeling fade with my thoughts?
not immortalize it,
in failing words and inadequate verse.

The Life and Death of Music

Plug in,
boot up,
lie back,
listen.
the conductor’s tap cues you in,
tap,
 tap,
  tap,
the melody begins.
the first strains of music alude your ears,
until high above the cosmic chatter,
a simple strain of notes sound high above the ruckus,
the whole world listens to this fledgling note,
enraptured,
waiting in silence, breathing in, out, in, out-
thump, drum and stick join,
they beat out a rhythm as two lovers,
two made for each other finding unity,
connecting in wild ecstasy,
they lead the procession,
as many others entwine,
in a glorious cacophony of melding sounds,
that lead you beyond human boundaries ,
into the pulsing ebb and flow of bliss itself,
floating to the membrane thin edge between life and fantasy,
forever in limbo entranced by the cascading euphoria,
but slowly line,
by line,
note,
by note,
the intangible notes fade,
leaving a pale ghostly reflection,
that ebbs away with the applause,
blank you turn,
click,
lie back,
listen,
the conductor’s tap cues you in,
tap,
 tap ,
  tap,

I feel like we are just waiting for something to happen

an entwining glance

eyes bound by the possibilities

a smile breaks the surface

the white whale

dazzling across my vision

an omen

drawn in

we are cut-off

we are alone together.

alonetogetherdrawnindazzlingacrossmyvisionasmilebreaksthesurfaceanentwiningglance

an awkward glance

eyes locked in thought 

I see nothing

the void

perfect in its block white

an omen

pulled in

I am cut-off

I am alone.

alonepulledinperfectinitsblockwhiteIseenothinganawkwardglance

I glance

she wilts beneath my eyes

A grimace scars her face

A black cat

smirking at my hope

an omen

forced in

cut-off

I am nothing.

Reflections on Self

I

he was born, 
delivered out of the hands of a stork,
into the manicured hands of his nurse,
the messiness was over,
here he had only to live,
to walk,
speak, 

eat,
learn.
with his amniotic parents bracing him
until he was truly birthed
at the forefront of originality
where the planning unravels
and he is known
to all but himself.

II

she was born
excreted out from her dying mother
onto the cold hard cobblestones
she was plucked from the depths of the stone
left to die day by day with each new mother
where she walked
spoke
ate
and learned
within the filth from which she was birthed
already abandoned, broken, at the steps of reality
she was pushed forward
unplanned and unwanted
she is unknown
to all but herself.

Denizens of Self

               On the outskirts of un-reality, out of time his
hair grows, each inch a landmark of living. Eyes open
                   only the ghostly light of monitor bathes
                his sullen body, which has sunk into the
             recesses of his shattered psyche. Dead,
                         to all but his fellow leeches of
                      the utmost despairs. Who see
                          oceans of turmoil lurking,
                         hidden, beneath the dire
                                 flesh of innocent
                                     unliving men
                                       mirroring
                                      themselves
                                       and laugh.

A Moratorium on Dreaming

Madcap dreams of long lost ghosts,
twisted visions of a face reveling in glorious sepia 
these memories a fog,
for future laments and past loves.
Who truly is the ghost?
I the grief-addled crater of a man?,
or he the face that flashes across my view?

madcap dreams of the merest of touches,
twisted visions of melancholy, once love.
love as real as the bed I rise in,
shaking,
crying,
willing myself to be lost to the sleep.

I wonder,
how long before I lose the memories?
and I am left,
with the bed I rise in,
gasping,
paralyzed,
willing myself to be lost to the sleep.
to madcap dreams of a single look,
twisted visions of need and want, for me alone.
but the tears taint my memory,
leaving only the wisp of a former beauty,
long faded,
but not long past.

This one is another reflective poem which I wrote in a fever-dream day and night my hands tapping away my petty emotions, but I hope you enjoy regardless of my cliched emotions

Starve, Go mad, or kill yourself.

I have lost myself,
each stroke of my pen,
each click of a key,
merely lives to extend your memory.
My thoughts extend to yours,
I think no longer for me but you,
your loves,
your hates.
I hate-
love you,
you stare at me with inky eyes,
in the reflection of the pixel dawn,
I see you looking back,
eternal in word and memory.
me?
I am hopelessly mortal,
and I choose to go mad,
staring into the centre of a bittersweet daydream.

Hi all, I haven't updated in a while, but I figured I would with one of my favorite poems I have written and it is dedicated to those who can't be with us in body, but are in mind.

The Spark That Bloomed

the path to the day was paved like any other,
a tradescant mess of hope and low self esteem.
it crept up on me,
a lone landmark
 on an empty road.
the memory now enlightened,
apart from the truth of the rain-scored day,
stands erect in the senility of the forgetful teenage mind.
the conversation was a coherent diatribe of honesty,
that meandered to and from the sublime to the tragic,
with the rise and fall of each wasteful breath.

we ended up in the ruins of a long gone time,
not unlike ours.
but licked with the flickering hand of hate.
there, alone amongst the glassy carpet;
surrounded by the brain-vomit scrawlings-
of our fellow drunks and fellow human beings;
was a pocket of flowers,
each bloomed with the kiss of the sun gracing each petal.
unique in the uniformity of their splendorous beauty
shining within the confines ruins of this crumbling faith
they stand everlasting.
Hope,
in the crater of my pockmarked mind.

All Things Must Pass

One misfired neuron,
A small muscle twitch,
One misplaced ditch,
And your gone.

The Tragic Lifespan Of A Delicate Flower

she was taken by the cruelty of time
I wondered for months on the could-be
Never truly seeing the would-be
fooling myself
now I sit here
she is right beside me
casual in her beauty
a beauty that only seems to bloom in my eyes
she is talking about what has-been
the clutches that keep her
the hurt the grip inflicts
with its firm handle on body and soul
she is a mere toy to all else
but she comes to life before me
“what do you think?”
my chance
loosen the grip
nurture our blooming
“you guys love each other no matter what right?”
“yes”
the moment withers
my hopes left to rot
on her african inspired rug
dead for all but her to see


A slightly depressing one here, but one I felt I needed to write it, get that one sappy overwrought love poem out of the way, I would dedicate this to my one lone follower but I feel it a tad inappropriate so I dedicate it to those who have been in similar situations to mine.

*Click*

I used to be a romanticist
Sickly sweet cliches rolled off my tongue
“Look on the bright side”
But now I sit alone
I am surviving
living
breathing
one wheezing death
of a breath at a time
I am now rational
alone from the crowd
just murdered my hours
perpetual clicking of no value
looking
liking
but never doing
now I just stare at the wall
at the crack
running across my vision
a scar on the yellow wall
I detest it
but respect it
at least it’s doing something
*click*

My tribute to Charles Bukowski and his amazingly sparse but profound writing.

The Thin Grey Line

I am a man nay, a boy decaying,
I worshiped my kin as all faithless boys do,
Following their pure light until the fade.
I thought of the black, the white of life,
Not me, I now live in the inbetween,
The thin grey line between the ying and yang,
I am reborn a twisted creature of these murky depths.

Slush

I see you clearly now,

I see us for who we are,

You are the blank figure,

Wrapped in your inner dialogue,

Arguing contradictions to each side of your coin,

Each an opposite to each other,

a cycle that never ends.

A vapour of formality and cynicism,

Blackens the air around you,

Obscuring you even in this age of digital clarity.

I see strands of your past,

A meandering breadcrumb trail of lost connections

That curses your psyche, scarring you,

Leaving only the merest suggestion of the helical lottery

that makes up the unique snowdrop of your being.

100 Metres

I stand,

A great statue of smooth marble, breathe in.

Glassy eyes peering from the sky. Breathe out.

I prepare,

Convince myself I am a winner, breathe in.

I am a winner, breathe out.

I tense,

Every fibre of my being melds into bone, breathe in,

My entire body fluid, breathe out,

Working in unison for one purpose, breathe in,

One goal, one race, one medal, breathe out.

A distant cry pierces my skull and,

I release,

My legs aflame, I propel forward,

Slicing through the air,

Sweat dripping, forming clouds of perspiration behind me,

And with one final step it is over,

My muscles snap rigid, groaning.

I drop,

Bitter-sweet tears stream down my face,

Everything I worked for,

Fought in the blink of an eye,

A flutter of a flag,

A flash of a camera.

Now I rest,

Only until the next goal, the next race, the next medal,

The next step.

Enlightenment

I lay down willing sleep until the fresh dawn,

My mind drifts into the perpetual cliche of night-time musings,

But the darkness, which harks back to Plato's cave,

Just stares, 

Unmoving, 

Relentless,

Staring back I see only a pinprick of light in the distance.

The light casts long shadows that envelop

Me in a blanket of torturous tricks,

And as I begin to question the lights very existence,

Wondering how a light could shine in this night

Of labyrinthe mazes of fools and madmen,

I find myself asking,

As a calm befitting a crystalline river overtakes me,

How can there be great shadows without glorious light?

By Roger Jenkins