Self Portrait

So here is the first draft of my self portrait poem, warts and all.

Untitled, Apart from its name.

My eyes are heavy,
sunken and small.
Receding deeply into
the shadows of
my age.

My face is thin,
with prominent cheek bones
rising like extinct volcanoes
from beneath my
gaunt, tired flesh.

Coarse dehydrated skin
pulled tight by my
minds starvation.

Taut and pale, it
wraps itself around
each protuberance
like vacuum packed plastic

Stretched over mass produced
features.  Dry animal hide
sucked into the curves
and crevices of meandering
bone, while nutrient deprived
cells slowly shrivel and retreat
into the shallow creases
of decomposing muscle.

A full beard sits
half grow on my chin,
ragged and distressed,
it hangs unkempt, billowing
towards the earth
and elongating my face,
adding unlived years
to my haggard complexion.

A nose ring splits
my septum while
shy scars retreat
behind epidermal varnish,
the healing of
old rebellions resembling
imploding singularities.

Proof of my
minds evolution.

An old face half
repaired, a new face
eternally changed.

A death mask soaked
in rivers of tired blood.
while a slow jaundice
infiltrates the sallow
pigments of egg white
eyes, and tributaries of
dark red filter out like
arthritic fingers
from pinprick pupils

culminating in
a sagging expression
resembling
menopausal breasts
pulled down by
Jovian gravity.


the ultimate tiredness of
a damaged philosophy.

A memory only half forgotten

I've been thinking a lot lately about a particular period of my life, going over old memories and wondering just how much of an impact they have had on me.  How have they shaped the person that I am, have been, and want to become?  So I decided to write a series of poems describing particular events that have influenced me in a profound way.  There is no chronology to the poems, as most of them are yet to be written, however I chose this particular poem because it resonated with my frame of mind at the moment and brought back some happy, if not a little strange,  recollections of a more free and reckless time.  It is a work in progress but I still think it has enough substance to be posted.

Drug

I miss the drugs
and I miss you.

I wish you could remember
like I am now,

the music melting
inside our distracted minds,

I wish you could remember
that you taught me
how to forget.

I wish I could forget again.

I want those hours
we spent across
from each other, writing

I want those poems again,
I want that time again,
I want you again.

Your blond hair
and dyed beard.
Your fondness for
vodka and
cheap pills.

Your vast,
insatiable
hunger
for living.

I remember
the time we
only had
eight pounds
between us,
two pints each

if we drank
the cheapest
piss water
they were serving,

but you had
other ideas.

You always had
other ideas.

Five minutes later
you returned
with two small pills

placing one in
my mouth
and handing me
the dregs
of your drink.

I swallowed that
dusty brown tablet
without inquiry

and you did the same.

I don't remember
the walk back to
your flat, only sitting
on your couch
watching some random
film on your
over sized t.v.

Slowly hallucinating

as the atoms
on the wall danced
in perfect
hexagonal
formations

while mad
actors recited
their tortured
soliloquies,

accompanied
by our deep
guttural laughter.

Uncontrollable

and devoid
of humour,

we laughed
at each other
laughing,

over and over,
for no
particular reason.

Vast
diaphragmatic
joy

that
is now
travelling
through time,
refreshing
my memories
of you
and that night,

as if that
film had been
replayed
and our money
well spent.

As if
that tablet
was once more
dissolving on
my tongue,

teasing

and

revealing

some
hidden
truth

lost
somewhere
in the vast
transactions
of
our minds
economies,

as I
slowly
return.

But to what?

Reality?

Guest Poem 2.0

The self portrait poem is taking a little longer than I anticipated so I have decided to add a new guest poem from my good friend James Gibbons.  I have always admired his writing, but like me, he is the ultimate self critic.  So I hope this post will allow you all to see his talent and allow him to realise that it exists. 

Hope you all enjoy.

Die Awhile

And with the rain a little life must fall
and with the tears will come an end to it all.
If common sense and circumstance won't raise a smile.
I think I'll die here a while.

When every road seems just a bit too long
and all I focus on is the sad songs.
And if my feet won't keep the beat that extra mile,
I think I'll die here a while.

When every right I have turned into a wrong
and all that I can feel is that I don't belong
And though I'll break I know
I'll take it all with a little style.
I think I'll die here a while.

Self Portrait

The self portrait has been used by artists and sculptors for centuries yet rarely by poets.  So I decided to write a simple description of how I perceive myself physically.  It still contains aspects of my personality and philosophy but it is fundamentally a poetic interpretation of the flesh and bone that houses my consciousness. The poem is a work in progress, but hopefully it will be finished in the next few days and posted as soon as I am happy with the end result. 

I'll let you know when it's ready.

First of many

I wrote this poem for an exhibition at Gallery TS1.  The theme of the event is great achievements, so I decided to write about something small and seemingly insignificant, which, when considered under the umbrella of perspective, takes on huge and vital importance.  It's a poem without a title that I hope suggests more than it describes.

Untitled

I read Bukowski today
like he read the newspapers.

I dreamt of shaking someones hand
like he dreamt of crowds.

I fought the hours

and came out half victorious.

Tomorrow may get the better of me,

but for today

I'll read Bukowski
like he read the newspapers

and dream of shaking someones hand
like he dreamt of crowds.

Time to start again

I've been distracted by the very things that inspire me to write.  I almost gave up on this blog, decided it was another futile attempt to be a writer, sank deep into doubt and began pondering the very nature of my existence.  I was stuck, drowning in the slowly setting concrete of my unstable mind, more lost than ever, searching for meaning and finding none.  This blog was a way of describing the methods, reasons and motivations behind that uncontrollable need to write, but I think that was too naive. What use is a description of the desk I sit at to write, or the processing power of the keyboard I type away at if I am not absolutely honest about the underlying moods and fears that saturate my thought processes with all those vast and confusing ideas?  The very ideas that become a poem(if I'm lucky).

So it's time for a new start.  Time to explore my fears, not hide away from them.  Time to be a poet again.  To write honestly and freely and not shy away from my flaws.

It's time.

New Villanelle

Its been a while since my last post for a variety of reasons.  I've been working on a number of new poems at the same time, looking over old lines that I hoped could become finished poems whilst also dipping my toes into forms that I have not used before.  However I thought I would post this villanelle, which I have had for a while, just so there was a new poem on my blog. I hope you enjoy it.

PLEASE HIDE ME FROM THE DAY

Please hide me from the day, five minutes more.
Ignore the light as it comes flooding in
and lean a chair against the bedroom door.

We have each others bodies to explore,
So while the world outside is grey and grim,
Please hide me from the day, fives minutes more,

All that I ask, in fact what I implore,
Is that you never let this day begin
and lean a chair against the bedroom door,

so that our fractured love we might restore
And purge our minds of this infernal din.
Please hide me from the day, five minutes more.

Who knows the pleasures life may have in store
If we absolve each other of the sin
And lean a chair against the bedroom door,

Where we will not be able to ignore
the love that stretches out each subtle grin.
Please hide me from the day, five minutes more
And lean a chair against the bedroom door.