lucidMouse

There is an old man. He gets by. He rubs WD-40 into his knees because they creek. He is mad as a hatter
but because there’s no one around to point it out, it doesn’t matter, 
It’s fine.

You’d take a good look, if he walked past you in the street. And you would probably think, ‘Who is he mumbling to?’, and frown.

But I would think: Just because there is no one to listen, should we not make a sound? If that be the case, I am soon to forget how to speak myself. (I have just noticed my ‘K’s look like ‘T’s). The old mad probably once realised this.
In which case, if a tree falls in an ear-less forest, it does indeed make a sound.
The tree doesn’t care about how it’s perceived.
… Why should we? 

 Written Sunday 18th March 2012, 05:14am.
(Hand written originally).

Note to my followers:
Hello. (I have never actually ‘spoken’ on my feed. Don’t worry, I’m not going to make a habit of it). Just to let you know though, from now on as well as my poems I’m going to start including snippets of my poetic creative writings in my blog, that wouldn’t necessarily be classed as ‘Poems’, strictly speaking. 
Hope you enjoy them all the same.
Thanks for following.
Goodbye.

P.S. My ‘personality’ blog is  http://timezone-unknown.tumblr.com/  if you are at all interested, (oh dear, self-promotion).

(read slowly for dramatic effect) 
If you walk down your
street at 3:40am
and look up at
the windows of the houses,
you can catch them out.
Catch a glimpse of the 
sick and shit of the
‘behind closed doors’ life
that we all have and try
our best to hide. The
lights are on of the
rats amongst us. The
sex addicts and the
insomniacs. And if you
are walking down your
street, you are one of
them.

Written Wednesday 14th March (4:30am) 2012 

My face hurts
haven’t needed to paint that false smile for a while

My lips are to dry and my cheeks creek
blue, black, blood
in the middle there’s a slit

And My eyes are having a murky swim
… And they’re all sunk in

starved of sleep-sand
roughly rubbed regularly,

regularly rubbed roughly
maltreated
sore eyes for a sight
and four walls for tonight
and tonight
… and tonight 


Written 24th February 2012. Friday. 

Even as a child, I was aware
of how the world might one day treat me
an artist at heart
with a world torn apart
by losing use of these hands
these arms

I might just lose one
my pen holding hand
I thought to myself, age 14
and in an attempt
to prepare for such that event
I started to train up my left

now many years on
where my age has now come
I still have both my hands
but whenever I’m in
my most psychotic of states
they go limp and become two dead weights


Written 21st January 2012 

So what can you do? When the wind picks up and the sky’s not blue
…
And laughter sounds, but it sounds untrue
just let it go?

So what do we do? When our paths next cross and the stars are lost
…
And we’re both alone, in the nothingness
in the cold engulfing empty space
just run, and run
and run away?

So what I will do, is I shall wonder not into merging worlds
just chase the clouds and watch the birds
I’ll just,
watch and play, and I’ll learn their words 


Written 5th January 2011 

I am opening my eyes for the first time again
reborn with beauty and wings this time
the time now is ripe to break through to the air
and leave behind my silk solitude cocoon

the heat of the sun radiates to keep me warm
distorting the light in fluttering wave like rays
a continuous soft flowing breeze that gently lifts when low
an adventure stands awaiting in blind anticipation

As the fog turns to mist
which in turn lightens and clears
revealing horizons

it disappears
no more fear


Written 27th September 2011 

I look around and logic is lacking
shutting my eyes would only be
seen irrational
people disappoint me
every
day
I despise petty
predictable
clichés
I see so much repetition
too much
best intentions result in more
harm
than good
circles and cycles
where are the scissors?


Written 16th September 2011 

Being awake                                      confuses me
                                I know what it is               to dream             in another language
                but I don’t speak another language
the physics are off
                                                my windpipe has moved backward          with my eyes
my interest went up       the vacuum
my knuckles expand and                                              I don’t know any more



Written 15th September 2011 

Squeak or speak up now
the time has arrived
be you man, or a mouse?
the cock crowing thrice rings out
silent settling dust
men here separate from mice
rain starts down upon us
it pours
it’s killing time
battle shall commence, any, second
with there no time for flight
adrenalin
the unknown
pumping round and round and round
strength draining last reserves
this fight matters
this fight, is for your life
readiness, feet firmly on the ground
solid fists teeth a grit
out         to            Survive.


Written 7th September 2011 

The breath is coming. The breathing, it grows louder as it gets nearer. Soon I’ll be able to feel it, stroke my hair and tickle my ear. The breath we don’t look forward to. It’s hot and heavy feeling.
The tiny hairs on the back of your neck, all standing on end and prickling, they’re not made up you know, they’re real. Like when someone’s about to drop you, or being on a rollercoaster.
Screwing your eyes up, really tightly shut. If you do it for long enough you can see flashing lights.
Never in the daytime though, The Breath only comes at night.


Written 6th September 2011 

When it comes to writing it, there is a pause. For the odd few seconds you can’t physically begin. After a sigh you force your fingers to move.
Inside there are unspoken words like a bowling ball just beneath your ribs. Literally riddled to the core with secrets. Infested doesn’t feel good.
(I look down at my legs. They look weak. They feel weak. They don’t look like they could carry me through life). I barely make myself a drink.
Sat down to a metallic taste in my mouth, knowing it’s not blood, but the feeling like it could be. Everything is a little more slow motion.
It is a dark life when your sun is artificial. When your day is at night your only light is that bulb.
Twist yourself up, take a sip from the mug.
Dampen and burry what was about to come up. Stiffen for a moment. Let it sink back in.
Slumber.


Written 5th September 2011 

Here you go kid, here’s a bottle of bleach,
drink it down fast and get it over with,
trust me, you don’t want to see the world for what it really is
oh yeah, of course, let me help you with the lid

On second thought, give me that,
get your own way out.


Written 4th September 2011 

Cheese and pineapple chunks impaled on cocktail sticks
small plastic furniture, colourful plasters on grazed knees
mispronunciation of common words, repeating ‘thank you’ or ‘please’
not many candles on that birthday cake you know you can count on
the only time anyone has ever used a wax crayon
waiting for permission to do things, for toilet usage
sitting on the carpet by choice and not instruction
holding a hand for safety happened a lot more often
fizzy pop and uniforms, black shoes with white long socks
playing not just with imagination but physically exercised exhilaration
once upon a time,
the list could go on
indefinitely


Written 4th September 2011