The Flatshare

Saturdays are for extra slumber
and maybe some chores in the 'noon,
Those extra few hours are sacred to some
After the long, winding working week

is done. Incessent high volumed chatter
quickly comes tiresome, the laughter from a can
tedious and distracting, it penetrates
the mind and disturbs the thoughts in hand.

Night time for the owls of the world
is their own, precious to them, sacred.
The squeaking and the croaking and the groaning
steals away the quiet magic, whispers go unheard.

The mind can become cluttered and full,
like dishes and plates in a dirty sink,
things become lazy and more nasty things
take hold, a simple germ leads to more.

Something so simple as a stick of cancer
with its leaves and paper burning cooly
has such tranquil feeling. The smokey drifts
bring too retches of distaste, throats burning.

Little lined boxes make more boxes lined little,
the nature of the beast one fears. To take over
and consume, awareness just a word that exists
somewhere only known to the few.

Switch. The Light. Off.

The Point

And so to the life wonder spent
Where time too much has now gone
Days and weeks that are now months and years
lost to Mind's endless conception, but no

Pen has touched paper for some time,
The words that rushed round are silent
And the pictures of the mind disappear,
Instead filled with things and stuff

like appointments and schedules and
important things to do,
silly things and pointless activity
passing time passes, unproductive.

Only for the split second that spares
from the whirlwind of everything/nothing
comes regret and wistfulness
before another reminder of something

more important/not important at all,
Mind leads meaningless questions, no,
meaning to the tracks that are tread
and to the point if there is one to be had at all.

Welcome Back

Apologies for the rather long time since I have last posted. The months in the run up to Christmas are a very busy time for me currently at work and therefore this has taken up most of my time. Unfortunately, I also became very ill at the start of December and am still recovering. Thus it has taken me until now to post.

I won't deny that I have somewhat failed over the last few months and have let myself slide. I haven't wrote much, if anything and have drifted off the path that I should be on. However, this time that I have now been given and being on the road to recovery has led me back and I have a burning desire to be writing again.

Hopefully I shall gain a lot of material from the past few months and what they have brought to me and that I shall be back on the London (and further afield) circuits very shortly.

Here's wishing you a happy and prosperous New Year, I look forward to 2011 being a productive year that is full of good fortune.

Chris.

Atticus

Drunken hearts scribble words of cold breath while water still
Lies next to you, the beating drown amongst flattened pulse;
Risked chants backwards (stnahc deksir) and still
Long dog days are what trip onwards, a riot to live and learn
And swim past the cruel guards, strum the blues;
Big calm on strings tagged crimson, our private interlude
Where we stayed together on devil's spoke, rise and fall
Of compassion, full of distractions on the waiting line.
Take a trip out of town, to my old skin
And once your heart stops beating, a beautiful lie broken,
Only the simple things can give away the things that I have seen.

A Sunday Evening

It's already a quarter to five,
day now gone,
(mis)spent
on pointless thinking
and inconsequence.

Tissues scattered and paper scraps
trinkled over blots of wax,
dust balls side by side
are discarded in
an unwanted remains
cemetery.

Hamlet cigar tin overflows
with dispensed coppers
and silver of weighed down
back pockets
and wary days.

Life and love emptied out
and thoughts for today
are withdrawn,
put somewhere else
to forget
and not be brought upon.

Half full (empty)
bottles of wine
are shadows of waiting
for a week to end,
only to be time with you,
arguments and granting.

Unshifted and unmoved
on the dresser side
beside keys askew
and condoms and lube,
painkiller packs laid open,
foil cracked, torn inside.

Dried crusts on a plate
and hair still curly,
just another question
for mum and dad
on why life isn't
what it should be.

Folded clothes wait patiently
on the ironing board, but
we both know that first reached
will be glass and pen
to jot and drown self pities.

And come Monday morning,
when the week has not ended
and feelings aren't rested,
there is nothing to say, only
distaste boiled over,
more meaning less, eyes close
attempted rest.

While He Sleeps

While he sleeps lightly,
eyes roll and flash,
stars that burn through night
like an idea, planted in grey
floods and flashes,
subtle explosions twitch the eye
and hand jerks, body can't contain,
heavy breath takes over
bed bodyweight, shift and sigh
the day done and old now new
not forgotten but placed away.