Hamish Murray 2013/14
One Cornered Daughter
The definition of being strange is to find pleasure in one’s own company.
Only one knows of me,
I will seek anything and everything that cannot be held by her.
But we must shower in the morning,
We are bound by twisted rituals,
I am held back by myself only,
But I am mild.
She is held in every direction,
Separated are her lives for she has two.
She cannot be saved.
Small pills merely hold her in a soft glove,
Although not that soft,
They are slightly worn.
I’d hold her and wish her well,
Wish her well is an extent that extends no further.
I wish you well.
I wish I was small,
So small I could live undisturbed,
I could sit and observe the world in the crack of a wall,
I explore the world on the back of a dragonfly.
I crave a solitary world.
Some may view me as trapped,
I feel as though I am sheltered from the rest of the world;
Not quite protected.
Occasionally I would make the trip into town for a tattoo and a cigarette,
The simple things,
As pure and satisfying as poetry that speaks your mood.
I would be calmed.
I feel quite like my identity revolves around how calm I am.
I can accomplish when I am calm,
I can still accomplish while I am shaken;
Although not what I should be accomplishing, admittedly.
There is more to sadness,
It was the section of the 24 hours where it is hardest to see. The solution most people have to this dilemma is closing their eyes; making it impossible to see. They lay blind to the world waiting for it to go away. Success has been linked with this solution. But only for those who thrive in the sunlight. Human lizards. They enjoy warmth on their skin and speaking to others. The Sky was not blue. It was the typical colour to match a tale of sadness. The clouds in the sky were calm. Dark clouds where forming in the mind of a boy. He was on the brink of living for 15 years. Not much of an achievement if you are standing back and observing the big picture entitled life.
The boy had just been fighting with 50% of what created him. The only wounds were on the inside. The boy planned on changing that, although the new enemy was nowhere to be seen. He was thought and felt and dripping from the boys wrists. Complicated it is, when your mind is not under your control, when it twists and bends your truth. It burns you. The moon becomes closer.
This boy was two. He had two halves, two emotions, two useless eyes. His identity was split into two. One half loved a girl. The other was sad. His being was filled with the girl; he would die for her or die trying to brush her as he went; a matter of proving himself. He craved her, ached for her, he was obsessed with her every strand. Two became one. Sad love: a self-imploding chest ache. The boy was a colour. The girl was a colour also. One colour a shade to dark for peace. The boy was constantly flinging colours behind her back, and his, forever trying to match their colours within.
She was standing two meters away. A distance the boy’s arms could not reach, not even with the assistance of the added length by the boys hands. The boy’s unceremonious mind thought it would give him a gift. His mind knew he would be pleased. He would make sure of it; after all he did control the boy’s emotions did he not? He would dispose of all interference from the abrading heart, which, in the minds opinion could do everyone a favour if he kept to pumping blood. It would work. It will have to; otherwise the boy would be ruined. The boy’s being was already weak, his soul crumbling, his identity weak at the knees. Maybe a gift was not required. A gift of joy is a gift with a misplaced genre for a boy who only feels two emotions. Neither joy. If his mind was to really present him with a gift he would be contented with, his mind would present him with death. Endow him with a staircase to destruction, a staircase that you can only ascend on. He would mould the gift out of dark, paint it, and twist it. Make it a deceptively beautiful. Make it small and freckled.
A hand reached for a handle, its purpose was served. The handle was cold. The hand was colder. A door was opened; a room was entered, but only by a body. A sleeve was rolled; an arm glistened in the soft light produced by a bedside lamp. The lamp was green. He spun around, not like a top, more like an owls head. He observes all that is before him, his feathery head slowly spins. The owl sights a predator. The owl flies away, the boy cannot. A girl is before him, either his eyes or his mind see her. One does. One does not. I wonder if it is important to figure out which, I deem it relevant, possibly important. When a plane drops a bomb, does the bomb explode as soon as it touches ground? I do not believe it does, it takes a moment, it gives the victims a moment to feel fear, to look at it; astonished.
A weapon is the perfect tool to cause someone harm. Where is the line drawn between creativity, imagination and hallucination? How are they even different? I see no point in asking why the hand that feeds you has been bitten. It has been bitten. The recovery of the hand is more important, then at least the question of why can be looked over. Is it instinct? Is it anger? Most likely it is an act of selfishness or misunderstanding. Should it be forgiven? If so why?
The boy was pleased; after all he was living the dream. A thing of beauty stood before him. The thing of beauty, for when she walked nothing else could be in sight, the world’s first angel. The most perfect human being ever created; a single flaw only; trusting the boy. She entranced him, he aspired too. His soul was lost. It was not returning; it had become a hermit. Its beard would grow long and luscious as he basked in the serenity of the valley of her heart. The boy was in the girl’s eyes, he was attempting to swim, but alas, he was drowning. Freestyle or survival breaststroke he was lost between and so he would drown in brown.
An illusion the mirror casts, they are normally honest, and sometimes it hurts to be. Some are wicked, they lie, and they bite the hand that feeds them for pleasure. They cast an evil reflection, with eyes as black as the cloak of the identity that beholds a scythe. The girl did not stand before him, of that there was no doubt. But he was glad to have her there. He was cautious of this girl, but only with flesh, and only briefly. He found himself fascinated in her. She became his treasure. He was open minded, he was happy to accept her, even though she was somewhat foreign. He liked her more.
His colour matched her colour. God had played his hand and the boy snapped first, the cards where in his hands. God chuckled as he observed the boy’s folly. Her lips twitched, his where licked. I knew she was about to lean, I already was, she was close. As their lips reached a distance you could not slip a hand through, they stopped. They could move no further, they were separated by a thin wall made of glass. The boy felt despair. How did he know this though? He looked no different, he was the same weight and the same height; how could he feel something so strong and be no different. It was within him, but if something had happened to his internal organs surely he would be aware of it. He was questioning the reality and structure of emotions. In my opinion, this is very fair.
The boy was to die, but not completely. The girl wanted the boys half that was built of love. She planned to store it in a hole in the earth; the earth would be soft and wet, in the hole the girl would be read to, by a thin man with a small black book while a ring of faces rained around her. The man would have glasses, what kind of glasses is for him to decide. In this story spectacles fits the plot. But it is not used. A knife was on the ground. It was a tool from one to another’s life. The knife led a pathway to the girl of a different colour. But the boy was no longer interested in her; he wanted passion with black eyes. He turned the knife upon the glass, as it came in contact it flittered away; many feathers fell onto the floor.
Impatience gripped the boy. The girl looked at him. That is what she did. He drew a feather. The feather was grey. Exactly the same grey as a knife. A knife is not a weapon, it a tool. It is a tool because it has more than one use. Two functions really. One is preparing rations; the other is killing your best friend. The boy had only one option, the fact that the boy only had one option frustrated the boy who only had one option. This emotion was not listed in the plot of a muddled mind. The girl produced a belt, the emerging problems resided. The sand on the beach could resume to be strolled upon.
A cloaked figure flexed his bones, his hands and the sky would be half a metre closer for a moment; a moment in which you had not even have enough time to draw a breath, the type of moment that you can feel, you can watch it slowly tumble over. Would you have the strength to kill the person you loved? Their only wrong doing was being beautiful to the point of insanity. This boy had the strength. He had enough motivation. To kill a girl that is everything to you, to kill a girl that defines you, to kill a girl that is your strongest belief, is to kill the biggest part of you.
In this case all of you, all of him. He was finding it hard to breathe now; almost more than impossible. The belt was a creation. Which means it was created. The boy was using it. The rules of belthood was frowning, the boy was using it on the wrong side of his outside body. The one body that only hurt at the part of him that curled around her back when they were at their fullest. The full was one sided. The full was spelt: fool; devils grammar. The boy had three possessions. More than the suffering part of the world could dream of, the possessions would happily transform into their everyday life. He had the girl, the belt and the knife. The girl was for life, the knife was for what he cared for, and the belt was for what he should of. The boy felt a desire to vomit. Actual vomit not metaphorical vomit.
The boy had very few desires, being dead was amongst them. The girl being dead was a though that would ram death through his mind. He could not live without her. However the fuck terrible that may sound. He was going to kill her. With his hellish love twin as his accomplice he hunted her. He could get close; close enough to mirror the man in the black cloak but alas, you cannot sneak upon something that knows you are there. She would run crying to the arms of the boy, run from the boy. He was no death bringer, yet three times he had completed death, each time he would grow more death. What could he do but kill that vulnerable little whole soul inside of him. The projector in his head switched off. Breathing was low on his list of struggles. The belt was blue, the tip fluorescent adolescent.
Inside the automobile that was his head spun a steering wheel sharply to the left. Sharply across his arm. The automobile was a kombi. That pleased the boy who idolised many eras. The boy was in his bed, blind through thunderstorm clouds. The belt was on the floor. The boy could now see another person’s point of view; the belt could be seen as a light grey. It is but a matter of preference. Having the option of choosing your preference is one of the greatest treasures not buried by pirates. So bury it in your heart and express a great matter of gratitude.
All of the boy’s head that could think straight (when in actual fact it was at a slight slant) wanted her eyes to be closed forever. But he still wanted her to be able to see, he wanted her to realise he was worth it, he wanted himself proved to her. His humble heart just wanted her to reach across and hold his hand with hers. They are so small. The girl was no were to be seen. But she had listened and she had been notified. Not for the first time the boy had cast the spell of weeping upon the girl. This time was different though. This time he had made her weep using his anger; his fury and hatred. Not by sad tales this time. The boy has a few hours of legal admiration left until he will awaken with a story to tell and a blunt pencil that will refuse to write. For now the boy will join the stream of normality and blind himself until he awakens to a crime he did not commit. He now has the task of explaining the pain and the rainclouds in the eyes of his shield.
Everyone is jealous; the label the disadvantaged. Disadvantaged as seen is filled with advantage. I can see more than you can see. I am more than you. I can hear more than you can hear. I have risen higher than you can be. The great are a minority. The majority bring them down. Separate them. Take them to proclaimed gods with ‘ph’ caps. You cannot handle me or anyone. We are not the minority for we have all the life we need. We have a stronger, everlasting generation.
You separate imagination and hallucination. You cannot fix the healthier. You are disadvantaged beyond reason. You are hopelessly out gunned. Fight us. Fight true rage. We have black eyes. We have a black cloak and you cannot stand nor sit a chance. Weep and sail away. We are mentally thrill. Fix yourselves and lock up your own. It should be us trying to cure you. It is no coincidence that your young take pills to temporarily become us. They fell rotten and decayed afterwards because they cannot be us.
That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore
I’m not sure whether I try or not. Try for those who don’t care if I live or I die. But there are a few who care; those who would take me out, tonight. I would go out tonight but I have many to stitches to wear. I cannot drive, thus I drive the point home, and Heaven knows I’m miserable now.
Wonderful women. We were two loves entwined. Just one actually. This is not even remotely normal. If the day came, in fact, that I felt a natural emotion I’d get such a shock I’d probably jump in the ocean, I have just walked away, hand in glove, arm in coat. I will take it off, and if the people stare, I really don’t know and I really don’t care. To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die. I am aware that I will never have earnt it yet, baby.
Panic on the streets of our London. Spending warm summer days indoors, panic on our streets. This charming man. Leave me alone for these things take time. This will take forever for I cannot do it without her, I am still Ill and I always will be. In this case pretty girls make graves; empty graves. Does the body rule the mind or does the mind rule the body. Ask me. But do not ask me why or I will spit in your eye. Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me. It was a false alarm for in was a non-existent twin.
Verse: How raw and uncertain,
Truth be told, false be not,
Of false alarms and bleeding arms,
Of what is yet to be seen,
Pack it up, a blue pouch,
It will travel back then forth,
Time spent away, oh education,
Been there once before,
Could be there a third,
Chorus: I try to care I really do
But I sit in the centre of myself,
I really try to care,
Am I going back again?
Verse: hair was brown, hair is black,
How fine a feather is,
How many times can:
They be pulled apart,
Dry love of salty eyes,
Slimy coats take me away
Shine, shine melt away
Take your place ah,
Take your place,
Craft me a rug, for I shiver,
Craft me a rug, I’m not cold
Chorus: I try to care I really do
But I sit in the centre of myself,
I really try to care,
Am I going back again?
Lots of ooo ahhhing and am I going back again.
The Peppermint Hermit
I present myself,
In a corduroy jacket,
The Next in rags,
Surrounded by peppermint trees.
Most would think,
I like green,
But I am orange,
I enjoy the warmth,
I am a creature of cold culture,
A reasoned contradiction.
My face will grow,
Down and brown.
A solitude in which,
One can never be disturbed,
A peaceful visual diet,
A vegetarian feast,
No blood at all,
From raw bitten meat,
In a shell,
No hermit home for me
Sleep You Fragile Boy
The tips of your fingertips,
An action of nerve,
Your bonding to this earth,
An act of what?
Beyond a friend,
Beyond a lover,
Beyond a word yet created,
The saviour of a human life,
I should be a scout,
I tie knots,
I should be a diver,
I dive quite deep,
Start an eternal slumber,
Interruption via life,
A churning swirling mess,
I owe you my breath,
Do I look so peaceful?
Hanging near the sky,
Do I look so calm?
Drowning in sink.
Hair that Changes Half Way Through
I want to help, I want to talk,
But I am away from the world,
On legs like a stalk,
I cannot think straight,
My minds at a curve,
Stabbed in the chest by:
This coldblooded nerve,
I can’t do this,
This or anything,
Let alone live like a ring,
I would if I could,
Place a small kiss upon you,
But life as I was born doesn’t let me live like I want to,
I’m by myself,
Yet there are others around,
They all breathe while I slowly drown,
I want your joy,
You have to be pleased,
This will be slow,
It may never go,
Inside this door,
This small crooked store,
It’s almost like I’m acting by law,
I wish there was a pill,
That would let me supply you with thrill,
But I am Jill,
Rolling down a hill,
Please be happy,
This is an apology,
I am the very definition of worry.
Afoul Blue Ethic
What was where he sat?
As he sat among the ponds and waterfalls of the physical world,
He could float among the clouds,
The grass had never been seen greener,
As he would be warm in his cave,
As the rocks above would never fall onto his frozen self,
Because where he sat was nowhere near,
He could be lost forever in looking and knowing where he was,
But he could never know,
He was of now decided to be wherever he wanted to be,
As he was so contained to what he did not have,
He would want joined in this place of his,
Where the sun shined real right,
For the bodies could be seen among the smiles,
The smiles you would swear so beautiful in heart,
Would you, you would believe,
That a pure, invisible, physical happiness,
Had been reflected into the air,
And held together by what he now held in him,
For no fear of judgement when so protected by his blind joy,
Comfort so constant,
Broken was never existed,
For there would be none in history,
As it was hidden,
This place of his,
This place of his as it was hidden,
In his f****d imagination that he sought to for comfort, in his sorrow, as f*****d, (insert last breath).
‘Cold’, is a f***ing basic word, in a simple vocabulary, owned by nothing, not at all, one of the few things in his possession that he owned, because what were material objects than objects made of material that in their apparent existence are less use to this person than the air he breathes, this air, as so said, is f***ing cold. The cold, in him and around him. But now enough of this s****y repetition. Look into a mirror and see what the mirror sees of you and you will understand, know, and be acting what he was doing. But now think your own thoughts. You can very possibly do this, of course. But that task alone, is not quite amazing, for some, cursed, are not their own thoughts in control, and of course leading to actions not of their own but these whose?
Why did we call it a Butterfly?
Mind, in my mind, entwined to the thought back of thinking to back then, and to typically her, protection was of a flawed nature, what is to be protected of the harmless pure visual. Of what cannot touch, or be touched, but was to be touched, as was being touched right then, but beyond physical, because that is the problem, that what we cannot touch may touch us still in a way that shreds us more than any possible physical object falling from the hells above. Not that I am religious. But believing? This is of a faith, by all means. To believe in anything, is not then all a religion? Because we feel that crappy love, we cannot see it? We cannot touch it or taste it. Yet we believe that we feel this non existual, we have faith in the invisible. Then why cannot we not believe what cannot be seen, because it may be seen, if even harmless. Can still be touched, and too true spoken have I? That I could see. As a claim? Or of a lack? A lack of sanity and normality. But why should I believe you? And not you believe me? Not that I would want you too (you as in all) (speaking to all), but all is everyone, right? So is speaking to the reality of normality, as in now? Define normality. You can base all your flaws on your flawed concept of majority, in such a poor attempt to comfort your own loss as you are of course lost. Lost because you can look and see what is in front of you, but your loss is that you cannot see the reason. The point. You can look up and consider that the fact that you are here is meaningless, and you look to the person next to you that may not be there, because you can see them. But can another? Sanity is insane. Sanity is based on a majority, and the majority and us all will die, to become the loss of what we never had and what we will never be.
Plait Me with Nyctophobia
He followed that cobblestone path,
As it felt smooth beneath bare feet,
His torn jeans, bleed through, as he,
Forever he will follow that rainbow,
The grass was green, it's always green,
They would notice each other, they had eyes,
He and the green, f***ing green grass,
He could feel the flow, its waves in lines,
I am, so closer than when back there,
He climbed the invisible mountain,
The gates would open, what gates?
He would climb, grasp the waterfall, for it,
It was to be climbed, and beneath the love,
That clear, for it was, the fog was, the fog,
Was so visible, he clung to its warmth,
He sat on the dirt, his legs crossed,
He could feel what he saw, for his knees,
His knees were exposed for he wore torn jeans,
His breath contained the air so crisp, his only,
His only exhale was what impurity could be mustered,
From his body, for the first time, he opened his eyes,
Saw, what he saw straight forward, distance in,
There it was sat and seeing what not was looking,
He held all his self, sunk within, he had now,
Sight in beauty, crystal receivers; he is eyed,
So with passion in faith, tore himself the f*** open and died.