Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.
Our alarm doesn't ring, it sings
Pharell beating our mornings
'til we remove from our snooze. We
forgot the tink-tinker or
and emerge the same.
The same commute to work:
Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk by
thumb movements. Our ears dumb
locked into a Will-I-Am trance. Not
a glance of the changing scenes;
the only birds we see are angry.
The same office echoes with
of emails blaming others and smack-talking.
instead of actual talking. We fall for
the hype of Skype and only Siri’s
voice drones narrow answers
we accept as truth.
The same playground, huddled corners;
Children pick a blackberry instead of
picking blackberries, for their late-night
Facebook fights. Words will always hurt see:
no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unless
there’s an app for it.
What do we do when stop?
Orwell you're too late
took thirty years to demonstrate your
doublethink and we all cling to
The Beard of intrigueHis beard was fascinating.
It was a loom, woven with intricate detail and so long it would put any wizard to shame. Each pattern in the coarse mound of hair seemed to share a secret. Perhaps they were memories- I’d heard others collect memories in such ways- etchings on their bodies, collecting objects and even journal writing. Maybe this man was his own journal.
The rest of him seemed positively ordinary. He rested in his chair in a blue business suit- albeit a little outdated for fashion, but suited the character I had begun to form in my head for him. His sorrowful eyes narrowed on a frustrated brow of greying features, illuminating a sense of tiredness. Perhaps the beard in all its might was weighting down. His skin was as rough as sandpaper, blotches and scars etching his hands and face with no revelation to the puzzle of his beard.
I wanted to move closer, debating whether it was rude to ask. The very notion excited me as I built up theories as to why his beard had the
Shopping and Wizards.A thousand bags
shuffle down the high street between
clasped hands, scrunched with new purchase.
They’re buggy-dodging the determined mothers,
the rushed businessmen-- a pinball
machine shopping centre.
A green-robed man, tall with wand and hood
must be a wizard. He’s happily
procuring sushi and sparkling water
whilst his companion;
short with her piercings and jeans treats him
as if he wore the same.
Down the high street,
two track-suited parents
zoom past on their children’s scooters—
half-smoked fags between fingers yell
how fucking amazing this is.
spotted teen raps
his love for Jesus on a muffled
He raps for the Father,
He raps for the Son
and Holy Spirit.
He raps for peace, for hope, for you.
In a corner,
Brown eyes, hefty tears,
a snot-ridden face--
four years old.
A train runs through the mall toot-tooting
as grumpy shoppers move out of the way.
Napo 8- SusanWhy did you lock her out of heaven
and throw the key
into the lions land?
A beautiful girl enjoying
a new fantasy to live.
She'd stopped believing, but
faith stays in a heart longer
than a head.
"She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now,
and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age"
Napo 7- Teen of the 90'sI wanted to be Posh Spice because my
hair was brown bobbed and she dated David
Beckham; I wanted to marry him. I
had no internet and recorded songs
on the radio to tape, daring to
pause and knock out the DJ’s droll. I sang
to S Club and thought I was the coolest
in my smiley faced top and my yingyang
friendship necklaces. You had to know the
Macarena not just for weddings but
school discos too and then every steps routine
to fit in. Slow dances with boys made me
wish again that they were David Beckham
and not greasy teens with bad curtains for
hair. They pressed themselves against you before
travelling to the next girl in leopard
print skirt. Viva forever was merely
a fantasy ; one I’d dream the whole of
the nineties, hoping my teenage self could
find her inner strength, her true girl power.
Napo 6- IreneShe left you a letter
outwitting at last the greatest.
A photograph, filched;
a King’s humiliation.
In your eyes she
holds the highest.
Napo 4- Warrior with painted faceThere’s a warrior with a painted face
and streaks of black across his chest; he stands
wild with pride. His merciless eyes ignited by the
echoes of fallen enemies. He slew
two hundred men and just scars mark their defence.
There’s a warrior with a painted face
who prays to gods mightier than he; he kneels
arms open to implore. He calls upon his army
to pray with him; equals once more. He watches
embers burn before retiring to his tent.
There’s a warrior with a painted face
and inside his heart rests a son and daughter
sleeping. There is a reason he is
Napo 3- Leaving the Train Station
Leaving the train station
alone I watch strangers head home.
The waves for yellow cabs and
stench of fresh-lit cigarettes, I let
the cold cloud white breath.
Even at midnight, a long-coated businessman
hurries past with laptop bag bulging and blackberry to ear. Behind me,
a clip-clack of heels and giggles-
their night hasn’t ended.
Across the road, three youths in hooded
tops kick a can whilst eating chips only stopping
as clip-clacks pass them and swoon
immaturity. Swear words exchange.
In the ice-wind rubbish travels as if taking
a commute, tapa-tapping the concrete.
Exhausted I can only wait with
white breath etching blue hands desperate to be
warmed. Eyes fight; tired and
Posthumous RevengeThe shrinks talked it over, labelled her a ‘dracophile’ and said she had been taking a stand against the centuries of misrepresentation. It seemed as good a reason as any to unleash a flamethrower on the St. George’s Day parade.
Zwulf's NightmareHe was falling. Falling into a void, beseeched by terror. On the brink of madness, the voices never stopped; the whispering, the giggling, the arguing. In the blackness that swirled about him, their eyes gleamed hungrily, always staring, never blinking, the eyes, those eyes …
In the purgatory he was consigned to, the Vulpine man stumbled through the mists, their chattering voices filling his brain and rattling about his head, great simian whoops and cackles that rang throughout the void and out into the ether, him clutching his skull in a futile attempt to keep them from breaching his walls. Yet still they bored through his mind and toyed with his sanity, and he was helpless to stop it. Always schooled never to feel any fear, the former gladiator was now beside himself with it. His mouth dry and his ears ringing, he stumbled deeper into the black abyss, searching for an escape. It was then that the nightmare swirled and changed, and he felt the cold steel of the manacles bite dow
Waitcha - Part 2I leave my torch where it lies in the leaf litter: I don’t expect to find any batteries in the heart of the forest. The girl leaves the circle of light cast by the torch – the men are still scouting around, checking if I’ve been followed. She walks a short distance away, but I stop following her when I see the shapes silhouetted in the mushroom-light. Horns as thick and long as my arm twist their way up from a head which is held proudly at twice my height. A brush-tipped tail swishes through the ferns; hooves larger than my spread hand plunge into the mulch. Beyond this first creature I make out the shapes of five other forest antelopes, some laid down, some munching on leaves, all huge.
“They won’t hurt you,” the girl says, noting my reticence as she reaches out to stroke the muzzle of the closest antelope. “These are ours, they don’t mind people so much as the wild ones.” I hear the men crunching through the leaf litter towards us
Stalker.Your steps were the softest. They were like an angel's wings fluttering against my skin - only, it was your feet against my bare sides. Such things only occurred, though, on nights worth ruining. Remember the first time? When the moon glimmered in the sky like the deception in your eyes, and when the stars shined like the tears that drained from my own. I can never forget the way your devilish smile caused my lips to pucker up. Doused in cherry red blood, they closed so as not to taste what sprayed from the knife gashing against my neck.
Oh, my dear stalker, I wasn't expecting you so soon.
Feeding TimeFeeding Time
People often ask me if I'm proud of myself. They ask how I can live with myself, with the things that I have done, with the people I have hurt, and such. They often write nasty things to me, as if I'm going to read any of it. Those people make me laugh. They call me things like “monster”, but that ain't true. Sure, I hurt people like an art form, but that doesn't mean that I have terrible parents or that I have no social life. I only really do the things I do for the hell of it.
They're all just mad at me because of the things I did to that retard who can't spell, or that faggot who likes to talk about himself and his boyfriend too much, or that slut who got herself drunk and naked on camera, or that freak who draws those stupid ponies. Can you really blame me though? They were all asking for it, and hey, I wasn't the only one who targeted them. Say what you want but I'm not the one who slit