Hopefully this blog will become an alcove of thoughts that seem to envelope my everyday life. An ecclectic spew of things that anger me, amuse me, bewilder me, and inspire me. Through music reviews, photographs, art, random ramblings, to the corners of one worded posts.

‘If the doors of perception were cleansed every-thing would appear to man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narow chinks of his cavern.’ - Blake

A while ago I wrote a poem called ‘Seaons’s Rust’, It was a working progress and at the time I sort of binded it together with random imagery and thoughts I had/have in my head. It’s only now when I look back that I see it holds quite alot of meaning to me,despite it being a somewhat manic attempt at some poetry. My favourite stanza is the second, mainly because of how and when I wrote it. I think any attempt at poetry no matter how disjointed proves pretty theraputic. I would reccomend it to anyone wanting to channel something!

Anyway, I hope you like it.

Mechnical mouths move ever so slightly, the spit,the tears, of oil-drenched fears, melt, persevere. Rust.
And clouds gather to shelter their young and cast and shun the natural light,
And rain will soak the skin and blight the hope to which we cling.
 
Suppose that waves will tear away and sun’s rupture of gold will fray the edges of a painting you didn’t paint,
And all those silver stitchings fall and shred like disrupted riverbeds among reeves of fingers and flesh’s taint.
 
Could you catch shards of light above human ruins that preach and decompose, knotted among conditioned time, inclined feelings of fine.
Downstream you’ll float with natural orders breeze, with words that pierce your throat, screaming for release.
 
In your reflective surface you’ll burn amber, tranquil, still, cushioned by the voice that chokes you, still.
You’ll dream in weight and colour as you hit the forest floor spilling tins of milk at the foot of a metallic door.
Winters breath grazes your face while tongues will scab the endearments of past mistakes.
 
Because nothing stays the same, but change and past will clamber, scratch, to stay intact,
And after all, letting go will out-grow the wisest of bones,
And skin will fold away like tracing paper, and blood will rinse away,
 
But finite eyes won’t forget, their chipped and copper ways.

Currently Listening To:

King Curtis - A Whiter Shade of Pale

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