Monday, 17 December 2007

Pull her down by the wings

She moves about you, just out of your reach
It is all about the tease, it is part of the ritual
I guess you could call this the build up
She knows, at least you feel she does.
‘Don’t deny me’ you say to her through gritted teeth
but there is something you enjoy about this game too.
You sit, pen in mouth, nonchalant air, for all the world to see
The paragon of composure.
You imagine this to be desirous and attractive to the opposite sex.
And to wreak envy upon any competition, alpha or beta.
You fancy your look and poise say;
‘I am a man who knows what he is doing and needs nothing’,
inside it is a different story.
One of angst, longing.
Stuck in the eternal cycle of chasing, hunting, finding, laying and moving on.
You never find peace, never find completion.
You catch her move again from the corner of your eye.
‘Come to me’, you will her,
but nothing.
She pushes you to your limits.
Remaining just out of reach.
You want her more than ever.
Forever aloof, forever present, her scent in the air.
And just sometimes.
Once or twice in a lifetime maybe.
You catch her.
She struggles a bit,
You pull her down by the wings, and rape her onto the page.
For a while you feel a sense of relief
And then, for a brief moment, you are that man.

Into the dirt

I took a tyre iron to his head
I recall thinking there must be a precise degree of pressure to knock a man unconscious but not kill him.
As I made my move, I pushed it a little
Just to be certain.
Some of these fucking retards have thick, impenetrable skulls.
Hard to crack.
I took a second swing.
I wouldn’t say it felt good; it was out and out murder, to be sure.
But there was a certain sense of justice, righteousness in the act.
I felt divine and powerful.
I felt the back of the net.
I locked onto death and with needlepoint, rocket powered precision,
I swing fast.
Three times.
And down he went, into the dirt

This man was a terrorist; he had killed dozens of innocent people.
No, wait...
This man was a German; I was making my escape from a Panzer division 1940.
This man was a creep, a paedophile. I took my chance in the prison.
This man was no one I knew. I took his wallet.
This man was a traffic warden, that’ll teach the cunt.
This man was your friend, yea, maybe that makes it different.

What I love about life, and what scares me senseless about it too,
is that life hangs in the balance of your current perception,
and whoever can tell the most convincing story wins.
My point was, I guess; never believe anyone,
but most of all, don’t trust your emotions.

The Resistance

Intensity, passion, depth.
It scares me to reveal this side of me
I am not totally sure why.
Maybe it is the sense of intrusion I feel, as whatever it is I am, pierces your armour like an x-ray.
I may miss subtle observations and glaringly obvious reactions,
but at the core, I see it all.
Everything revealed
It is beautiful. Utterly overwhelmingly beautiful.
To reveal that, to bring that up to the surface in this world?
It’s like landing fish beneath a flock of hungry gulls.
So I pretend, but I pretend badly
And in the end I risk becoming a caricature of myself.
Or worse; drunk on the ability to know what you wish to keep secret.
I understand desire, I understand death, and I understand you.
But it may not be easy to talk on such things
Not here, not now.
Keep beauty hidden in the deep until it is safe to reveal.

There is a subtle but deadly war raging, and you should be aware
that we are the hunted.
If you understand this, then maybe your duty lies
with The Resistance