Monday, January 9, 2017

Playing With Fire

There is something so
Satisfying in stoking
The ashes of a dying fire,
Not in some metaphorical
Or symbolic sense,
But very real comfort

In the welcoming warmth,
Or the gorgeous orange glow
Of hidden embers
Flaring like favourite memories
Ready to live again
With the right fuel and fresh air,

The naive thrill of
Playing with danger,
The power in knowing

All that you have burned
And what you could yet destroy,
Erase, hide away,

Scattering the remnants
Through the gaps in the grate,
A quick cosmetic cleaning
Of the fireplace,
Just dust left to smoulder underneath,
Hidden behind the bars of the guard. 

Thursday, January 5, 2017

Winter Wrath (a stream of consciousness writing experiment)

Tonight the rain pounds on the roof
And splatters around the gutter
And drips in splashing drops
In the back garden around
The water butt, already full,

And I pour another drink,
Another strong one,
Something potent and delicious
And slightly poisonous,
Something to quench the spark,

The dirty burnt golden hues
Of an imperial pale ale
Strong enough to make me feel better
For just a little while
About following the same old formula
And falling back on old motifs

And reminiscing once again
About the girl who used to stay awake at night
To watch the raindrops and listen to the rain
As it hypnotised her out of misery,
And reminiscing once again about my first love
And how she once told me how she longed
To kiss with passion in the rain.

I pour another half a glass to drown it out,
Destroy it all, pretend the feelings don't exist,
To feel warm and fiery and distract myself
From all the thoughts of all the lovers whom I miss,
And all the others whom I could never quite convince,

And the haunting sensibility of my conscience
Knows how I'll regret this bittersweet elixir
When I wake in the morning or close to noon,

And this time last night I recall the rain stopping
For long enough to reveal the brightness of the moon
And I was too cold to be impressed
And convinced myself it was not full,

And tonight I convince myself I am not full,
As I pour another drink and think
Of how the rain pours and pounds and splashes
And never washes away anything,
Never clears my conscience or cleanses me of sin,

And I just lie in bed or lie in words
And curse the fact that I have no direction,
And curse that I am still too strong to drown,
And lament that I still have the sense to swim
In this flood of thought and words and booze and ink,
And regret that there are too few ways to sink
Into the cold and splashing flow of this -
My darkest stream of consciousness.