Fractured Light Through Stained Glass Window.

September 29, 2008 at 7:00 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 13 Comments
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it is afterall the last taboo
death spoken of in euphemisms
and some do softly pass
others rage and fight
and leave dark bruises on my arm
my dear that faded over days
into the yellow of your bile
i begged them let her go
it’s the destiny she chose
she blames me now but i

don’t worry son the copper said
we’ve heard it all before
them dying will say anything but
it’s them that broke God’s law

the fire lit around her feet
and then a mighty roar

Flat grey abstract.

October 20, 2007 at 4:47 pm | Posted in writing | 12 Comments
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The big silver car pulls in off the highway and stops at the very apex of the crescent driveway. He steps out, over the low barrier and down to the edge of the muddy still lake and kneels. The pants of his grey suit are immediately ruined by the textures and earth colours of the mud from which spiny rushes grow. He takes from the inside pocket of his jacket a letter. Reads the addressee, himself. Turns it over, reads the sender. From the other side of the lake, from behind the hills on the other side of the lake, drifts lazily the sound of a gunshot echo. He tears the letter in half and in half again. Plunges his hands holding the letter deep into the mud at his knees. To the elbows he plunges them and then slowly with slurping sound effects removes them and his hands are now empty and the letter remains elbowdeep beneath the mud. And magic, all the weird pieces of him reformed. Forming like the sullen sky the perfect sheet of sorrow, like the damp ground the comfiest mattress of despair. A white bird, not a heron, takes off from the opposite edge of the lake and flies across its surface like an arrow.

It is nighttime and the park is a place without light but not without motion. All manner of life continues, soft rain vibrates the leaves of the rushes and insects sing as insects do. The letter, its purpose served though it remains unread by its recipient, has begun the process of reintegration with the earth. And if we were to stand here, the dark close around us like armour, we would hallucinate the voices. In argument hear them struggle to be heard. Perhaps her anxiety shows in the way she runs her hands through her long hair or lights another cigarette or crosses her long legs. Even in this, as alive as they ever have been, they are still bored. See their child sneak to the toilet to cry again. And if we were to invent a tragedy for them, some life shattering, awful coincidence, would it bring them closer together do you think or would the wounds merely make it harder for each to recognise the other.

A Saturday morning and the park is full. The world abounds in the sounds of mosquitoes. There is that big silver car again. He is sitting in it, windows wound up. His head is tilted on the headrest but there is no sound of his snore just a strange circular shadow on his temple. Fathers start barbecues. Mothers run their hands through their hair and hope the rain stays away. Children are hunting for that frog who throws his voice so cleverly. A white bird, not a heron, takes off from the opposite edge of the lake and flies through the flat grey ceiling of the world like an arrow aimed at the sun.


September 22, 2007 at 2:50 pm | Posted in writing | 3 Comments
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gingatao (he whispers into the
ebbing tide)

there is no colour of death
here flickered candlelight
in vain to overcome the night
a muted breath



August 26, 2007 at 6:53 am | Posted in writing | 2 Comments
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by Howie

The room was steeped in a stillness broken only by the continuous metronome of the clock on the wall. Fractured light from a partially obscured moon cast pale shapes on the carpet and bleached the colour from the floral walls. The clock glinted in the silvery light, a stark reminder trespassing on the quiescence of pre-dawn. Outside, a faint breeze picked up and shifted the thin branches of the bare cherry tree causing them to tap faintly on the window as if beckoning.
Jack stared down at the slim fingers interlinked with his and gently massaged them. His throat was tight and his mouth a grim line as he cast his dull eyes to the clock, cursing its progress. Julia rested her head against his chest listening to the rhythmic throb of his heart as it beat in time with the clock. Everything was synchronised, a tormenting countdown, unremitting and unforgiving. She brushed a finger across her cheek and smeared the tear away. Her chest ached and her stomach lurched as she felt him shift his weight on the sofa, clasping his fingers ever tighter.
Jack tilted his head and pressed his lips to the crown of her head, closing his eyes and delighting in the perfume of her hair. Thoughts and emotions cascaded through his mind, rushing, whirling and falling over themselves like unruly children, unchallenged and riotous. “I love you,” he whispered.
Julia said nothing.

The low purr of a slowing engine caused them to both catch their breath and Julia sensed his heart rate accelerate. She pressed her lips to his fingers, soaking them with her tears. The muted resonation of a car horn in the darkness made her start. Jack gave a sigh and cast his eyes from the clock to his watch, he was early. Of all days, today he was early.
Gently unfolding her from his embrace he sat forward on the sofa and ran a hand through his hair.
“Have you got everything?” She said, forcing normality into her tone.
Jack gave a nod and stood up, unable to speak.
They walked to the front door where his bag was waiting and he turned to her, cupping her chin in his hand. He gave a tense smile and kissed her fleetingly thumbing away a tear that rolled down her cheek.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you too.”
Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he stroked her hair once, running his hand down her arm to clasp her fingers.
“See you soon.” He kissed her again and stepped out into the encroaching dawn. He did not look back.
Julia waited for the sound of the engine to die away before putting her face in her hands and sinking to her knees in the hallway.

– The headlines at 12 o’clock: three British servicemen are killed and more than thirty injured as insurgents detonate a car bomb in Sadr City, a Shi’ite stronghold in north-eastern Baghdad… –

(Howie is one of the best storytellers on the internet.)

Re: You, of course

August 18, 2007 at 9:35 pm | Posted in writing | 13 Comments
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[begin transmission]

You are the only subject. I have closed off all the power to everything except this terminal and there is probably only an hour or so left in the battery. I sent the journal to Central and the Log is complete. Harry and Yuko said to say hello. They were incredibly calm and seemed to have found peace in each other in the hours before they left. Oh that’s right, they asked me to remind you of the dinner that night in Sydney, at the Sheridan. I’m sure you remember, my darling. I remember looking at you and seeing you laughing and realising that I no longer needed to search for anything. And yet here I am.

It’s so cold now that a blazing fire wouldn’t warm me but as I imagine you later that night in my dressing gown making tea and sliding my hands around you to feel the softness of you and the warmth, it is as if all this time and distance passes away and there is nothing but the scent of your hair and the delicate warmth of your skin.

And the truth is, my darling, that the great ache in my chest which is my longing for you is also my love. Each moment eternal, radiates,

I have forgotten the answer to the question you must be asking. I am here and I cannot think of one possible reason for our parting except that there must be balance in all things. And I seek solace in our beliefs. But in that single touch, when I brushed those luscious curls from your eyes and you turned to me and smiled,

I’m sorry, my dear, but the lights are fading in and out and I’m typing from memory so please x cuse my absent ‘e’s

absentees I can hear you smile and I am crying with laughter and the joy I have found again in these last few thoughts of you. There is some real sense in the idea that you created me from the chaos of my life before you

and i cant leave my darling one without one more kiss

So here it is it starts as a fun affectionate peck but then your tongue gets involved and invites my tongue and then we part via a soft lingering of lips.

Oh, and by the way, I love yo

[end transmission]

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