Itzl, the man

Breaking away from the group, Itzl rode out. Head low to the horse as he cut against the wind, carried by a Golden Arrow towards the herd. Holding on with the lightest of touches, the most subtle of movements he stood in his saddle, eyes closed against the fierce air. All he could feel was the rush of wind and the rhythmic, practised pulsing of his mount beneath him, something more comforting than his mother’s voice, more familiar than his own heartbeat; these moments were all he lived for, all he was bred for. The pain of releasing the moment dragged his spirit low as he chocked back the feeling; it was necessary to let go of the Passion that drove him or else he might never come out again. He would take the first kill today and claim the Redmans share, as was his right, but it was the chase that fuelled him.

Pickles

Inspiration comes thick and fast and I don't know what to do with it. I don't feel able to do it justice.

What a pickle

154

And so, my intellectual fool
I see you hiding behind
the table
cloth clutched in your dirty hand thinking no-one will see the
finger prints
all over
the serving trays
they are clean
CLEAN

bite the fingers till they bleed
but NOT on the rug
but NOT on the chair either
bite them quietly
bite them with your yellow tooth
bite them any way you please
bite them quietly

Don’t look at me with those big eyes
They sicken me

Experimenting on trains

Trains of thought, that is. Ah, the small amount of amusement I gained from that was totally worth it.

Anyway, the flavour of the month is: working quickly and with as little thought as possible. The last two poems are examples of this work. I feel reasonably happy about them, especially because owls have made a return (see The Etched City).

M

chew chew chew
it spits it at us
chew
in pieces
chew chew chew
spit it in my face
like you don't like it

clean it off
with my tie
i
don't need it anymore

Walk on, Mr. Life-guy

Person walks
person carries
and
lashes
and
operates on a daily basis like a

dear friend(s)
sympathetic friend(s)
sincerely
friend
s

Plaguebearer

Temples hump
on the cloud
past a vain
cramp

of bacon it can be said
the people come
and

speak
of the things that plague them in their waking hours like
owls
owls
owls
standing on the fence
the rotten fence

Feel my pain

Writing

The less you talk about it, the better.

If you make promises or state an opinion one day you will quickly become a hypocrite the next, so it is best to be evasive and mysterious.

Mystery, as anyone who has watched Lost will be able to tell you, keeps people going. Even if (much like lost) it's just to stall for time and make people think you're deep. And I'm deep, deep like a hole.

Damn straight (or not, as the case may be).

Just do it

tapered
event to a point of
focus focus focus f o c u s
when it tastes less like lime and more like salt
(which is better?)
.....
some like
it
try it
spit it out
don't let anyone see you do it
.
.
.
do
.
it

Let's show them what we're made of

Water 35 litres
Carbon 20kg
Ammonia 4 litres
Lime 1.5kg
Phosphorus 800g
Salt 250g
Saltpetre 100g
Sulphur 80g
Fluorine 7.5g
Iron 5g
Silicon 3g
Trace amounts of 15 other elements

Loot loot loot

Asoka of the Mountain, River and Rain

Mountain

“Such days are rare”, Asoka says to no one in particular, for he has not seen anyone in some time. Not since the road had become rocky and broken in the shadow of the mountain, not since the jungle had come to greet the rough path lain by the detritus from the mountain. “Such days as these are rich and free yet numbered and counted. More’s the pity”.

Pebbles fall.

“You agree Old Mountain, you agree and gift me with yourself”, he bends down and looks at the stones. First squinting, and then twisting his head from one side to another allowing his copper hair to fall about his face, his eyes widen and he gently plucks one between his thumb and finger and holds it in his hand.
Asoka continues along his way, skipping among the pebbles, taking joy in the sound they make against each other in his passing. His journey is only interrupted by the vines crossing his path to climb up the mountain and into the clouds.

“Why, you are assailed brother”.

I AM INDEED. MY FACE HAS A BEARD OF GREEN THAT REACHES AND GRINDS TOWARDS MY HEART. ONE DAY I WILL BE NAUGHT BUT THE PEBBLES YOU DANCE UPON.

“We shall see, but while the pebbles fall I will dance to their sound”, as if to exclaim his point Asoka spins on the spot and the pebbles growl beneath him.

I SPELL MY OWN DEATH IN EACH PASSING MOMENT.

“Don’t we all, Old Mountain, don’t we all”, says Asoka absently, taken up in staring between his feet at a dark pebble with a hole in its centre, “Just hope that your life spells something worth reading”.

A stone drops from his hand, and he dances for a time longer.




River

A man once sat by a stream. The stream’s name is unimportant, its source and destination are irrelevant; it understands that it will arrive somewhere someday. All that is important is that a man once sat by it, his long brazen hair let to sit upon his green silk shoulders, content to watch the fishes that swam by in its slow waters.

A traveller happened by, his tired donkey heavy with goods destined for foreign markets and foreign money. Before you could see the traveller you could hear the thwack- thwack of the drivers stick upon the creatures hind, pushing it toward the stream.

“Lo there” said the traveller, waving his stick in the air.

The man in the green silk didn’t look up from his river, and simply nodded his head. He did not break his gaze from the river even when the trader put his donkey to water, gently licking at the surface and talking to the fishes.

“These beasts are a stubborn lot. The harder you hit them the slower they go, it seems. Lazy and stupid is their lot in life” he said, with an eagerness in his face; he had been travelling long and not seen a soul. Again, the man with the coils of copper hair nodded slowly, not willing to be distracted from his fish. Eventually the hawker, realising how tired he was, sat beside the man on the grassy river bank, pulling his knees up to his chest.

“They are happy that they have someone to talk too”, the sound shocked the traveller, for it had come from his silent companion. Looking over to him he could not see any change in the man as he continued watching the water.

Angry at having been ignored the man snapped “How can you decide they are happy? You are not a fish!”

The merchant started as the watcher turned and looked at him, his smile was gone and he looked confused, “And you are not me, so how can you say that I do not know how a fish feels?”

With that the hawker pulled his donkey from the water side and carried on, not looking back. The donkey had no time to say good bye.




Rain

On a dark night, no light but from the storm, the Bandit King waits to take what he can get from those he can find on this muddy road.

He waits by a tree, watching the road. Crash he sees a figure. Crash it comes closer. He readies himself.

Crash. “Give me your possessions! Or I will kill you where you stand!”

Crash. “If that I could”, says the wet man in the green robe “But shamefully I have nothing to give”

“Then give me the clothes on your back, they shall sell some for some”, came the darkness.

“If that I could”, it answers, “But this robe must stay with me a while more”
Crash. He is enraged! Crash. He is incensed!

“Do you know who I am? Do you know what I could do?”

The man shakes his head.

“Do you realise”, said the King, “I could run you through without batting an eye!”

“Do you realise”, said the green man, “I could be run through without batting an eye?”

And so the green robed man carried on his way, leaving the King and his storm.