Sunday, 22 March 2015

Lady Humvee

Here she comes again
That little girl behind the big wheel
Either hand at ten and two
The other in the air, adjust the mirror
Red cheap lipstick, painted smile
Cellphone every quarter mile
She likes the ride, the thrust of power
Overcompensation for love.

Behind the visor, a thousand dollar prescription
Mirrored lenses... so tragic
Kids in the back, zombies to their IT
Teen idols... quite pathetic

She drives so hard
Makes the bad boys blush
How they love what they can't get
While she feels the rush
Heads turn as she goes by
Lady on a mission, five on the floor
Transmission... she loves how it feels
So much power for such a petite felle

Lady Humvee, how big is too big?
The world is your dinner plate
Real diamonds in your tiara
As you burn away the rush hour
While Daddy plays the eighteen
With his three grand daily habit
You only want the fun with the dollar signs added...

Lady Humvee
Little girl behind the big wheel

Saturday, 18 October 2014


Those moments, brief
A word, a whisper
The barest touch, fingers on skin
Heart beat.
And then,
The kiss.

Dawn, too soon, her grey face
This time, sweet. But gone.

Monday, 15 September 2014


Bathed in gold, that is the sun on the horizon,
Peeping over the bowl of ocean towards home.
There is a gentle breeze stirring, stirring, invisible fingers
Trying at the curtains,
To the chorus of birds outside.

Side by side, two lovers lie, their breathing in unison,
The rise and fall of a night's passion,
Each second eternal bliss.

No need, these lovers be, to greet the prying sun.
Their eyes are for each other, no others; no one can
Understand their private need.

Time, once enemy, fleet of foot, can at last unwind
Its treacherous machinations,
And Distance, unruly bane, can cast down
Its dividing walls.

Yes, though these lovers sleep now, in the gold
Of morning,
They shall, with two hearts as one beating,
Take their place where they belong, their place
In the sun.


Saturday, 13 September 2014


Grey clouds,
This day's companion. Unspeaking,
And yet, speaking volumes.
Through the veil of red tinged vision,
Piercing the shadows of new depression.
Share a cigarette with your shadow, joined
At the feet.
Fresh baptism from cool drizzle in a windless
Alcove under hanging trees, bent with the weight
Of their own troubles: no mentors here.
Just these thoughts, turned clods in the furrows
Of the mind. Ploughed and ploughed some more.
Turn, turn and turn, watching the exposed worms
Hide from the blinding light.

The brief spark of pain, hot ember on a clumsy
Finger. Once more,
Enslaved by reality, victim to gravity
And the knowledge of time plunging relentlessly forward.
The choice: cling to the ride, or elect to allow oneself to fall

Saturday, 6 September 2014

Behind the Wall

There is no peace behind closed eyes
Tonight, I dream of walled cities surrounded
By hungry enemies with bright curved knives
Waiting for that moment of weakness, to strike

The choice, my choice, insofar as there is one to make
Do I hold the walls, the strongest face presented
Or pull back to the fortress, that battered crag, to hide?
So much to consider, and yet, in truth, little time to decide

Beyond, the plains fill with faceless dangers, hurtful strangers,
Above, a sky leaden and heavy with empty promise
There won't be rain, despite the forks of lightning pelting
No cover to hide behind

Trapped, then, I... against a rising tide, in this dream world
I have created, with rules to bend
To stay and fight, is surely to die, but to retreat is a fate
I wish not to comprehend

It is not courage I lack, nor the will for resources to engage
It is just that I want to choose the fight
Being shoved into the corner is not my desire, to set rage's fire
Of reaction and lash out blind, that is not what I have in mind

And yet, in the end, needs must.
For as surely as I awaken and the city is swept aside,
My enemies don't weaken, indeed they reinforce
And wait again for the next dream, behind closed eyes.

With me and my wall, built pebble on stone.

Saturday, 16 August 2014

The Power of Fire - Sampler 4

Foolish girl!
            If but he could say the words aloud, and to her face. But alas, he could not. For starters, he would be but a stranger to her, and words such as those—uttered as they would be with exasperation and reproach—were none a stranger, let alone a boy, should say. Furthermore, she was quite a few yards ahead of him and with the pair of rogues closing rapidly on her. As such, there were more pressing matters to attend beyond chiding her for the silly cat and mouse game she had attempted to play. That could come later, if at all.
            First, he had to deal with Vasek’s hirelings.
            That they were two to his one was enough to give him pause. There was also the matter of weaponry to consider. He was in no doubt that Vasek’s men would be armed, most likely with daggers of the discreet stabbing variety, more for show than actual use. Intimidation would be their game, and nothing was more intimidating than the sight of a naked blade. In most instances, that was all they required, which suited men of Vasek’s ilk just fine. At heart, men such as these were cowards, relying on fear to bring about cooperation. Though should they be pressed, they wouldn’t shirk from drawing a little blood.
            Richard was without a weapon, having left his own dagger, which would be concealed in his boot, at home, not suspecting that he’d be released from the interviews so early and be saddled with time to wander the markets. So, as expediently as he could, he let his eyes scan around the detritus left in heaps at the mouth of the alley. Without fuss, for he had no time for such, he pulled free a sizeable length of four-by-two from a smashed crate, complete with a jagged quartet of nails at the far end. This he tested with a few hearty swipes, finding it somewhat clumsy, but knowing that it would serve its purpose anyways. As an afterthought, he stooped down again and disentangled a mouldy hessian sack, a very basic strategy formulating in his mind.
            While not wholly satisfied with his choices, he nonetheless carried on, pausing only to peer around the corner and down the throat of the alley itself where the girl was backing away from the two brutes. They advanced slowly, unaware that they themselves had been tailed and in error, thinking that they had time to spare to make something of a spectacle of proceedings. To this end, the man on the left had his arms folded across his chest; as such, he presented no immediate danger to the girl. His companion, though, was a different matter altogether. In his hand was a short dagger, which he flashed before him like a child’s play thing, turning the blade so that its keen edge caught the meagre sunlight angling in over the craggy and claustrophobic shoulders of the buildings that formed this tight alleyway. Whether he intended to use the dagger or not was immaterial. Just having it ready at hand was threat enough.
            And so, knowing the disposition of his foes, and rudely armed, Richard Seth drew a deep breath, counted slowly to five, and rounded the corner.
            He moved swiftly, knowing that time was precious and the window for surprise was apt to slam shut sooner rather than later. To this end, stealth was out of the question. Besides, the heels of his boots scraped and clattered loudly over the cobbles in his haste, so any attempt to be sneaky was doomed to failure from the onset. It didn’t matter though. The bandits were so engrossed with baiting their prey that Richard was almost upon them before they realised what was happening.
            With a shout, he lunged forward, his first target the bandit with the knife. Of the two bandits, he reacted first, spinning swiftly, if rather awkwardly, in an attempt to bring his weapon to bear upon the intruder robbing him of his prize. His curse was abruptly cut off when Richard threw the hessian sack into his face, entangling his knife arm—and the knife itself—within the tatters of sodden, putrefied material.
            Richard had no time to ascertain the success of this ploy; the second bandit, wasting no time for curses, dipped a hand inside the folds of his robe, feeling for his own weapon concealed therein. In a matter of seconds, Richard pounced, swinging the four-by-two at the bandit.
            The impact was loud, terrible. Richard heard the crack of cartilage, saw a bloom of crimson burst from the bandit’s shattered nose. And even before the bandit brought his hands up to cover his face, Richard saw the deep and jagged rents along the man’s cheek where the quartet of nails at the end of the makeshift club had scored through the flesh straight to the bone.
            For the briefest moment, he was repulsed, sickened not by the sight of blood, or the way the wounds on the man’s face pulsated and flapped like fish gills, but by his actions. There was nothing even remotely resembling chivalry in this act. This was thuggery, pure and simple.
            Yet, Richard did not stop.
            Could not stop.
            Something clicked inside him, pushing aside the dry as dust lectures about integrity and fighting the fair fight. This was no textbook engagement; there would be no test at the end, no grading, and no second chances. It was brutal, that was certain, but hadn’t Richard seen bloody noses from fights before: those he had inflicted, seen inflicted upon others, or even received himself?
            There were no formalities here, no build up, or the obligatory exchanges of antagonistic (and, for the most part, moronic) jibes, and certainly no spark to set off the actual fighting. Instead, it was cold, calculating, and utterly spontaneous. Something new to Richard, and even if it jarred with some of his beliefs, he nonetheless felt a flutter of excitement.
            This all shot through his mind in an instant, so quickly in fact that it didn’t have time to coalesce into a coherent thought. It was primal, raw, above cognition. Above reason. Thus, he reacted.
            He swept forward again, three quick steps. The four-by-two once more drew an arc through the air, ending with a sickening crack across the back of the bandit’s skull. Almost immediately, the half-rotted timber snapped, the piece with the protruding nails bouncing away from the force of Richard’s swing. The bandit shuddered, blood spraying from his face as his hands fell away. Then he flopped forward, his head striking the cobbles beneath with a dull, meaty thud. His legs twitched once, twice, and then he was still.
            Richard, now with only half of the club in his hand, turned to face the second assailant, who had only just divested himself of the hessian sack. He stared levelly at Richard, schooling his features so as not to give anything away. In turn, Richard returned the stare, hoping his relative naïvety in such a venture wasn’t written on his face for his enemy to see.
            The man facing him looked battle hardened, complete with a jagged scar that burst from the widow’s peak atop his closely cropped head and ran straight down to the bridge of his nose. He held the knife now with more purpose, knowing the true mettle of his opponent. There would be no more tricks, no more showing off. The tables had been turned, and turned quickly, with much embarrassment to the men in question. Would Scarface be seeking to make an honourable withdrawal, or would he now be seeking blood?
            That he chose the latter came as no surprise to Richard. What did, though, was the manner in which he chose to achieve it.
            He lurched forward, his knife poised for a thrust into Richard’s stomach, meaning to end the mêlée in one decisive action. The attack was rushed, uncoordinated. Richard was able to easily side step the clumsy advance, even when his adversary slashed out at the last second with his blade, and brought his own weapon down onto Scarface’s outstretched hand. The hand holding the knife flicked open and the weapon tumbled to the ground. Without a pause, Richard booted it away.
            With no weapon, and a recumbent partner, Scarface did what any thief caught in the act would do. He deftly dodged Richard’s return advance—not before receiving a short, but harmless clip around the ear for his trouble—and dashed like a startled rabbit for the mouth of the alleyway, all thoughts of treasure and sport secondary to the safety of his own skin.
            Richard waited until Scarface had turned the corner before lowering his weapon, counting off five long seconds lest that worthy should have a change of mind and return for another round. Only then did he turn his attention to Scarface’s colleague, still lying face down in a spreading pool of crimson. Satisfied that this man wasn’t likely to cause trouble, he finally looked towards the girl.

            “Are you all right?” he asked.

Thursday, 14 August 2014

We are never alone

Cold wind and rain,
Whispered prayers, of an untouched angel
Making patterns on the window pane.
Sit by a candle, watch the shadows playing,
While the music, soft in the background
Spins to the start again and again.

Your head on my shoulder,
Gentle, your hand squeezes my hand,
Thrill in the glory that is our touch.
Makes this one moment last forever,
This night, ours, for the dreaming
Of that which we want so much.

Let it be written,
This page can be our stone:
That while now, we're apart,
We are never alone.