The firelight is a crackling presence in my heart.
It lies sat at my feet, curled like a slumbering wolf.
I can see the snoring, hissing sparks of its breath
Drifting upwards in the smoke of its dreams.
I am scared of it and drawn towards it;
Do you think it will bite me if I touch it?
The radiance it leaks so casually is staining everything
Golden, and it leaves its value everywhere.
There is no discrimination, no choice in what it warms;
It leaves itself everywhere, diminishing with every
Stick, twig and log it devours.
Monday, 29 August 2011
Sunday, 28 November 2010
Boredom
I felt it trickle through the air, like a grey sheet caught by the wind and tossed upwards and around, until it tangled all about me. It wrapped and fell downwards, almost by degrees; so gradual i couldn't even tell it was happening. This was ennui, this was dullness. I was trapped in the doldrums.
I was bored.
I was bored.
Plastic Bottle
A gentle silver-sheen
Shimmers upon its concave.
Within it trembles molten metal
(In this light at least).
It's pinacle is a black spire.
Shimmers upon its concave.
Within it trembles molten metal
(In this light at least).
It's pinacle is a black spire.
Thursday, 4 November 2010
Why the American Dream is getting old.
The American Dream is the defining concept of America. It’s what has driven America to the forefront of the world, it’s what has powered their capitalist consumer culture, and it’s also what has created some of the most powerfully emotive literature of the last century.
Some of the greatest novels in the world are, at heart, entirely about the American Dream. The Great Gatsby deals with the opulence and corruption at the heart of this effervescent phantom, whilst Death of a Salesman exposes the elusive impossibility of ever achieving the American Dream. Almost every great novel produced from America in the past hundred years has dealt in some way, been influenced by, in one manner or another, or simply been overtly and blatantly, completely about the American Dream.
And frankly it’s starting to get a bit old.
The Great American Novel seems to be a thing of the past. The biggest piece of literature to come out of America in the past decade seems to be, depressingly, Twilight. Almost every other piece of work by American authors has in some way been cliché, and this is in no way their fault. It’s endemic of American culture at the moment. And the problem is this; American authors can’t seem to write without allowing the American Dream to seep into their book.
The American Dream has influenced every facet of American culture, it’s true, and it certainly created a unique and massively powerful genre. However, it has been explored more than enough, and yet still America is obsessed with it. American culture becomes more and more consumer-driven by the day (just look at the number of adverts in their television programmes as an example), and their obsession with money, with wealth and with the personal freedoms of the individual and the supremacy of the dollar just grows stronger and stronger.
The America of today is one Ayn Rand would be proud of. It is an America that has campaigned with a vitriolic spite against a national health system for all, and has unleashed clarrion cries of abuse on it’s president for not fixing a deficit he inherited fast enough. All this is because they believe they are entitled to the best, and the minute they don’t get it, they have been wronged in some way. This was once one of the most admirable traits of America; it is what has lead to their global supremacy, their high quality of life and their amazing prosperity. However, it has now led to the advancement of the individual and the exclusion of those who can’t help themselves.
The American Dream was once an inspiration; a cry that you could achieve what you wanted and be truly great, and when its hollow façade was exposed by The Great Gatsby, Grapes of Wrath and Death of a Salesman, this was ground-breaking and relevant. But please, America, no more novels about how the American Dream has failed. We don’t need to read a book about it. All we need to do is look over the pond.
Some of the greatest novels in the world are, at heart, entirely about the American Dream. The Great Gatsby deals with the opulence and corruption at the heart of this effervescent phantom, whilst Death of a Salesman exposes the elusive impossibility of ever achieving the American Dream. Almost every great novel produced from America in the past hundred years has dealt in some way, been influenced by, in one manner or another, or simply been overtly and blatantly, completely about the American Dream.
And frankly it’s starting to get a bit old.
The Great American Novel seems to be a thing of the past. The biggest piece of literature to come out of America in the past decade seems to be, depressingly, Twilight. Almost every other piece of work by American authors has in some way been cliché, and this is in no way their fault. It’s endemic of American culture at the moment. And the problem is this; American authors can’t seem to write without allowing the American Dream to seep into their book.
The American Dream has influenced every facet of American culture, it’s true, and it certainly created a unique and massively powerful genre. However, it has been explored more than enough, and yet still America is obsessed with it. American culture becomes more and more consumer-driven by the day (just look at the number of adverts in their television programmes as an example), and their obsession with money, with wealth and with the personal freedoms of the individual and the supremacy of the dollar just grows stronger and stronger.
The America of today is one Ayn Rand would be proud of. It is an America that has campaigned with a vitriolic spite against a national health system for all, and has unleashed clarrion cries of abuse on it’s president for not fixing a deficit he inherited fast enough. All this is because they believe they are entitled to the best, and the minute they don’t get it, they have been wronged in some way. This was once one of the most admirable traits of America; it is what has lead to their global supremacy, their high quality of life and their amazing prosperity. However, it has now led to the advancement of the individual and the exclusion of those who can’t help themselves.
The American Dream was once an inspiration; a cry that you could achieve what you wanted and be truly great, and when its hollow façade was exposed by The Great Gatsby, Grapes of Wrath and Death of a Salesman, this was ground-breaking and relevant. But please, America, no more novels about how the American Dream has failed. We don’t need to read a book about it. All we need to do is look over the pond.
Saturday, 23 October 2010
Green.
Green. Slates of grey-powder-blue
Against it. I can see the branches like
Arms waving up over the fields of bricks,
And a plane (or is it a bird?) roars or
Soars right behind it. Ambiguity seems to be
Ruling today. Oh no, this time it’s truly a bird;
A bullet of feathers and silver and flight
That can soar over the sea of tiles
Like a cloud of flesh and far-too-early
Tweets and singings.
I’m looking out the window,
And the sunlight’s streaming across and
Through like water over sand, and I
Can feel it around and through me.
Through the glass thats
Like bars blocking the world from me.
Against it. I can see the branches like
Arms waving up over the fields of bricks,
And a plane (or is it a bird?) roars or
Soars right behind it. Ambiguity seems to be
Ruling today. Oh no, this time it’s truly a bird;
A bullet of feathers and silver and flight
That can soar over the sea of tiles
Like a cloud of flesh and far-too-early
Tweets and singings.
I’m looking out the window,
And the sunlight’s streaming across and
Through like water over sand, and I
Can feel it around and through me.
Through the glass thats
Like bars blocking the world from me.
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
"Weather's here. Wish you were lovely."
The beach stretched out like the grey, broken arm of a giant. The waves lapped at it gently, carrying it out and in again, a soft loop in space, a tableau of grit and icy silver. Above the steel-shimmered sea and the decomposing stones, grey clouds roiled tensely outwards and upwards and down again, like the ghosts of mountains. A lack-lustre wind, that seemed to whisper promises of the winter, rolled gently along the length of the bay, pausing to scale or slip beneath the skeleton of a charred pier. All there was was a pervading whisper of silence that refused to dim, until it seemed to roar against the senses, compelling you to shout, scream, throw rocks at the waves, do anything to break it’s riotous conformity. The only splash of colour that rebelled was a red post box, a ruby incongruity that seemed to shimmer in the heat haze of it’s vibrancy like a mirage on the distance.
Beneath the weight of all this stood a solitary figure. They were nothing more than a black scratch on the horizon to my eyes, but their line was etched in a rigid blur. They stood right by the shoreline, where insubstantial sand met flowing water. The waves lapped to their feet, and stopped, inches before meeting toes, and then retreated, a slow rhythmic susurrus, like a heartbeat or a generator that pounded or sang, depending on how you listened to it. I watched as they began to stroll further along the beach, receding into the distance, as they became less of a scratch, then less of a smudge, then less of a presence, and then nothing at all.
I would never know their name, I realised, as they vanished into the distance. I would never know what time the clock of their mind was kept to, or what country they were born in. I would never find out what song they liked to hum underneath their breath when no-one could hear them, or to what rhythm their footsteps naturally fell. I would never discover all the tiny glass facets of their thoughts, or how much milk they liked in their coffee, and whether or not they took sugar. All these thoughts hit me like a grain of sand blown into the eye, a small irritation that grew greater and greater the more I tugged and pulled and wrestled with it.
I reached into my pocket, and pulled out the postcard that lay within it, nestled deep inside a protective shell of neon-blue plastic. I removed it and let the bag float of into the wind, a glaring jigsaw piece of blue against the granite pillars of the sky. I took out my pen and wrote upon it. Five words that expressed the truth of the day, and everything I hoped for you to be. Scribbled lines in scrawled ink upon a flimsy unguarded piece of card. I don’t think I’d ever seen anything quite as fragile or beautiful or indomitable. I strode over to the post box. The closer I came to it the brighter it seemed to shine, giving off radiance, bleeding vibrancy into the landscape around it. I came to it, and took my postcard, and abandoned it into it’s cavernous, hungry, welcoming mouth.
I turned and strode away and as I did, I whispered my prayer, my plea to the stranger who even now walked further onwards and away from me, down past the watching line where sand and sea collided in a silent storm. “Weather’s here.” I breathed. “Wish you were lovely.”
Beneath the weight of all this stood a solitary figure. They were nothing more than a black scratch on the horizon to my eyes, but their line was etched in a rigid blur. They stood right by the shoreline, where insubstantial sand met flowing water. The waves lapped to their feet, and stopped, inches before meeting toes, and then retreated, a slow rhythmic susurrus, like a heartbeat or a generator that pounded or sang, depending on how you listened to it. I watched as they began to stroll further along the beach, receding into the distance, as they became less of a scratch, then less of a smudge, then less of a presence, and then nothing at all.
I would never know their name, I realised, as they vanished into the distance. I would never know what time the clock of their mind was kept to, or what country they were born in. I would never find out what song they liked to hum underneath their breath when no-one could hear them, or to what rhythm their footsteps naturally fell. I would never discover all the tiny glass facets of their thoughts, or how much milk they liked in their coffee, and whether or not they took sugar. All these thoughts hit me like a grain of sand blown into the eye, a small irritation that grew greater and greater the more I tugged and pulled and wrestled with it.
I reached into my pocket, and pulled out the postcard that lay within it, nestled deep inside a protective shell of neon-blue plastic. I removed it and let the bag float of into the wind, a glaring jigsaw piece of blue against the granite pillars of the sky. I took out my pen and wrote upon it. Five words that expressed the truth of the day, and everything I hoped for you to be. Scribbled lines in scrawled ink upon a flimsy unguarded piece of card. I don’t think I’d ever seen anything quite as fragile or beautiful or indomitable. I strode over to the post box. The closer I came to it the brighter it seemed to shine, giving off radiance, bleeding vibrancy into the landscape around it. I came to it, and took my postcard, and abandoned it into it’s cavernous, hungry, welcoming mouth.
I turned and strode away and as I did, I whispered my prayer, my plea to the stranger who even now walked further onwards and away from me, down past the watching line where sand and sea collided in a silent storm. “Weather’s here.” I breathed. “Wish you were lovely.”
Thursday, 23 September 2010
Intro
The thunder sloped down in elegant crashes of noise, roiling earthwards with an electrifying jolt of sound that poured and boomed around buildings and flowed in waves through the streets, lapping up against walls and floors. The rain and lightning was mere decoration, embellishment on the percussive theme that resonated from within bones and girders.
Through this tempest strode a figure of lines, straight and angular and rigid, composed of a roiling energy that seemed permanently mustered at the level just below explosion. His entire manner was one of poise and balance, everything prepared and controlled so that the perfect amount of effort was expended. His steps were not boisterous or rapid, nor were they slovenly and lacklustre. Each step connected with the ground with the same purpose a river or an avalanche or the fall of an icicle shows; simple, unrestrained and inexpensive movement.
His body was covered in a simple black coat that fell like a sheet of woven coal about him, it’s creases hinting at darker shadows that followed the lines of his tall and indomitable form. His head was hidden beneath a black fedora, the rim slanted so it almost met the upturned collar of his coat. All that could be distinguished of his face were the bright eyes, grey and glinting like wet stones that have been polished smooth by the flow of decades of water, and the sharp nose of a patrician, a right angle jutting out from the planes and shadows of his features.
He moved through the city, and his footsteps rang out, counting time between the explosions of power that rippled and cracked in the heights above him and arced between the spires of the buildings. The lightning spiralled between glass and steel as beneath it he walked. Occasionally a window would shatter, the pressures of the wind ripping it away and send it spiralling overhead, releasing a shattering of glinting silver sharpness to fall down amidst the rain. Despite all this the figure strode onwards over the cracked concrete, past the empty yawning doorways.
But with each step, despite the sense of boundless, perfectly balanced energy he conveyed, he seemed to slow and dwindle. His steps came at different intervals, with growing pauses splitting each motion. When moving he retained the sense of boundless grace, but it was lapsing into immobility the deeper on into the city he drew. His head turned slowly, rotating about, taking in every abandoned shop front, every silent bar, every deserted restaurant and gutted office.
He reached a silent plaza. The extent of it’s emptiness yawned and boomed. In a space that could be filled by thousands, that had been filled by thousands, that had once reverberated with the pound of feet and the whirring of human speech now lay empty. His feet carried him deeper and further over the smooth concrete, ragged, scarred and pockmarked with time, the intricate patterns and designs once carved into it rendered unrecognisable. Eventually he reached the centre of the square and stood, rotating slowly. He removed his hat and tossed it into the waiting jaws of the wind, his eyes already moving away from the black gull he had released and now tracing, caressing, desperately yearning at the clean, crippled lines of the uninhabited buildings.
He collapsed to his knees, his eyes wide and staring. The disbelief that had been hidden by his hat and collar was now etched for all to see.
But there was no ‘all’ to see it any more. He knelt, broken in the square. Around him, throughout the entire city, from the river to the fields, for 30 miles, there was a terrible stillness that resounded with a horror that was too much to bear.
Nothing moved but the thunder.
Through this tempest strode a figure of lines, straight and angular and rigid, composed of a roiling energy that seemed permanently mustered at the level just below explosion. His entire manner was one of poise and balance, everything prepared and controlled so that the perfect amount of effort was expended. His steps were not boisterous or rapid, nor were they slovenly and lacklustre. Each step connected with the ground with the same purpose a river or an avalanche or the fall of an icicle shows; simple, unrestrained and inexpensive movement.
His body was covered in a simple black coat that fell like a sheet of woven coal about him, it’s creases hinting at darker shadows that followed the lines of his tall and indomitable form. His head was hidden beneath a black fedora, the rim slanted so it almost met the upturned collar of his coat. All that could be distinguished of his face were the bright eyes, grey and glinting like wet stones that have been polished smooth by the flow of decades of water, and the sharp nose of a patrician, a right angle jutting out from the planes and shadows of his features.
He moved through the city, and his footsteps rang out, counting time between the explosions of power that rippled and cracked in the heights above him and arced between the spires of the buildings. The lightning spiralled between glass and steel as beneath it he walked. Occasionally a window would shatter, the pressures of the wind ripping it away and send it spiralling overhead, releasing a shattering of glinting silver sharpness to fall down amidst the rain. Despite all this the figure strode onwards over the cracked concrete, past the empty yawning doorways.
But with each step, despite the sense of boundless, perfectly balanced energy he conveyed, he seemed to slow and dwindle. His steps came at different intervals, with growing pauses splitting each motion. When moving he retained the sense of boundless grace, but it was lapsing into immobility the deeper on into the city he drew. His head turned slowly, rotating about, taking in every abandoned shop front, every silent bar, every deserted restaurant and gutted office.
He reached a silent plaza. The extent of it’s emptiness yawned and boomed. In a space that could be filled by thousands, that had been filled by thousands, that had once reverberated with the pound of feet and the whirring of human speech now lay empty. His feet carried him deeper and further over the smooth concrete, ragged, scarred and pockmarked with time, the intricate patterns and designs once carved into it rendered unrecognisable. Eventually he reached the centre of the square and stood, rotating slowly. He removed his hat and tossed it into the waiting jaws of the wind, his eyes already moving away from the black gull he had released and now tracing, caressing, desperately yearning at the clean, crippled lines of the uninhabited buildings.
He collapsed to his knees, his eyes wide and staring. The disbelief that had been hidden by his hat and collar was now etched for all to see.
But there was no ‘all’ to see it any more. He knelt, broken in the square. Around him, throughout the entire city, from the river to the fields, for 30 miles, there was a terrible stillness that resounded with a horror that was too much to bear.
Nothing moved but the thunder.
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