(Changing angles again, readers may notice again I have changed
angles here again - this time focusing on the aftermath of the madness
when the Police eventually arrived, changing the time zones but I
can promise you all shall become clearer by the end of the story
Despite being a story told in 30 parts or 30 poems, readers of this blog will have noticed I have also opened up the net for fellow writers to send in poems on their own ghost stories or within the narrative, (which is still ongoing if anybody is interested in sending a piece over) enclosed beneath Part 3 is a poem from a great young poet I know called Natfastic (or Natalie to me).
angles here again - this time focusing on the aftermath of the madness
when the Police eventually arrived, changing the time zones but I
can promise you all shall become clearer by the end of the story
Despite being a story told in 30 parts or 30 poems, readers of this blog will have noticed I have also opened up the net for fellow writers to send in poems on their own ghost stories or within the narrative, (which is still ongoing if anybody is interested in sending a piece over) enclosed beneath Part 3 is a poem from a great young poet I know called Natfastic (or Natalie to me).
More of her poetry can be sampled at http://www.writeoutloud.net/profiles/natfastic
Hope
you enjoy both of these and keep the blog as there
Is
tons more to come on the guest poets and the story itself)
III
Of
course by the time
The
police snipers flooded
Into the
back of the station
The
bodies were scattered
Like
debris
Carriages
left empty
Like
ghost trains
With
newspapers tumbled
Under
wheels
Gates
blown open
Into
unfenced shadows
Flowers
by the thousands
Blown
out over the platforms
Removing
all sizes of congestion
Trickling
water
Across
the piano in the pub
Taunted
into silence
Close to
a stunned gasp
Of what
had just happened.
The Dark Night of My Soul
I have undone all that was did,
unhidden truths sheathed
in a thick scum of unchallenged facts;
traditions wreathed with fairy tales,
stories, visions; bland adults
dressed as fantastical beings
on some scrambled saving mission.
Which is crueller?
Who the hell can know?
After all, there is no reason
for it to be or not be so.
Though, I have drilled down
to the nothing land;
weeded out excuses drugged
with lies, deception justified and
manipulated from this moment
right back to the moment
of my probed conception.
I have stared directly down the barrel
of a perilous, unending abyss
in curious and stubborn fear
to see what, if anything, of this was true.
I have screamed my pointlessness
into the darkest, blackest holes;
run ragged rings from pole to pole
around murky, muddy milky ways
and all for you.
To find some certain realistic magic
of a land I never knew -
one no longer marked, recited, twisted;
screened by second hand.
And now I find myself suspended
in a space between it all;
held in weightlessness,
falling nowhere,
freedom floating in free fall
from all untrue, misguided and unclean
waiting but not waiting
here and there for you
seen and not unseen.
Natfastic
The Dark Night of My Soul
I have undone all that was did,
unhidden truths sheathed
in a thick scum of unchallenged facts;
traditions wreathed with fairy tales,
stories, visions; bland adults
dressed as fantastical beings
on some scrambled saving mission.
Which is crueller?
Who the hell can know?
After all, there is no reason
for it to be or not be so.
Though, I have drilled down
to the nothing land;
weeded out excuses drugged
with lies, deception justified and
manipulated from this moment
right back to the moment
of my probed conception.
I have stared directly down the barrel
of a perilous, unending abyss
in curious and stubborn fear
to see what, if anything, of this was true.
I have screamed my pointlessness
into the darkest, blackest holes;
run ragged rings from pole to pole
around murky, muddy milky ways
and all for you.
To find some certain realistic magic
of a land I never knew -
one no longer marked, recited, twisted;
screened by second hand.
And now I find myself suspended
in a space between it all;
held in weightlessness,
falling nowhere,
freedom floating in free fall
from all untrue, misguided and unclean
waiting but not waiting
here and there for you
seen and not unseen.
Natfastic
No comments:
Post a Comment