What do I care what the title is?

Like the scientists who undertook the S.E.T.I mission to determine if there was in fact life beyond the reaches of our galaxy, I feel it is time that myself and indeed the Spiral -if he wants to stop playing Kerplunk and reading Instruction manuals- to begin a probing search for life in Cyber-space, as I believe there is life beyond our blog. I shall start now, with a signal only the highest, most evolved being could decipher in the hopes that one day our call will be answered.

Is There Anybody Out there? Tossers!

Title

New Post

Uninvited

There's a mother,
With her makeup on,
And a father,
With his trousers on.
There's a wedding cake,
with icing on,
And a back seat,
That I sit upon.

Diminishing Returns

I hope the people with good in their hearts,
be they protectors of their families
or protectors of themsleves
stay the fuck alive,
And breed.

Blog Review: Tumbleweed Memories

A blog so obsessed with its own ideas it wouldn't know its target audience even if it:

a) actusally had a target audience;

b) knew how to publish reviews spelling "actually" correctly;

c) stopped making fun of things in the future;

d) didn't have colon-placement doubts;

e) ;;

f) see?;

g) stopped asking strange questions;

h) began revealing ordinary answers;

i) could count to ten;

j) wouldn't count the words to heaven;

k) or worse, the letters to...;

l) ;

m) started making fun of things in the past;

n) saw the need for etiquette;

o) and the need to mind its;

p) 's, and;

q) 's;

r) stopped indulging in cliches;

s) stopped preparing ropes to hang itself with;

t) understood irony;

u) actusally learned from its mistakes;

v) instead of repeating them;

w) instead of repeating them;

x) xylophone;

y) asked not "why?", but what is;

z) ?;

In short, it's an A to Nowhere in particular. It's a rudderless ship that anyone can cling onto but that everyone wisely chooses to ignore as they ride their own alphabet ocean to Percentagland.

It's a blog worthy of an A+ out of one to infinity - nothing more, nothing less.

Mirrors For Eyes

She's got mirrors for eyes.

You can catch reflections of yourself
If you look at them.

She's got mirrors for eyes.

And she can't see out
Which only means you can't see in.

She's got mirrors for eyes.

Art Is Dead

Paint on canvas, chiseled rock, welded metal. I turn my back on it, it's power now gone.
The searing power of string, the throbbing collision of bass, the perfect moment between mismatched notes. Their majestic beauty killed by the muffling of my mind.
The word written by that more powerful than the sword, rhyming couplet, meaning in metaphor, beauty in simile. Close my eyes and it's no more than ink on wasted pulp.
The flicker of celluloid, the moment captured forever, symbiosis of the real and the un. The images limit the mind's endless hum. It's sixteen frames a second, scorned by my shun.
Ballet, Theatre, spectacle, dance. Spurned by a devastating but simple ignorance.
Art dies the moment I turn away, so what chance does it have, in a world that cannot see?

Perfect Emptiness

The ocean spews forth colour from the depths where it's truth dwells. The endless void of the above and the beyond cast down on boundless waters whose will knows no enemies nor allies. Vessels of wood and metal cut through uneasy wave hoping not to anger their host or be subject to it's wrath. A no-mans land where one is in the palm of an angry deity's fist or adrift amidst the desolation and pain of hopeless solitude. A place on Earth where unknown forces gather with enduring legend and indescribable myth.
Yet even here where only the blithely bold or the incalculably insane venture alone there is untold beauty. The perfection of nothing, the marvel of a continually evolving landscape, making and unmaking itself, it's form cast in flux, never happy with the what was or is only the promise of what may be. A picture never finished, a story told without a full stop
In clement weather or a storm wrought hell for leather, the endless seascape reveals nothing, it's mysteries concealed by the curvature of the Earth it floods. The distant ring of the fog horn preventing potential doom, the cry of an Albatross under a Hunter's Moon the soundtrack to chaos before the storm.
Beneath the waves a world more alien than the heavens, where the unseen, hidden denizens await our time passing and sink further into the darkness.

Forgotten

A figure in the dark, in the eternal shadow of my own mind.
A memory to my past, a mystery to my future.
Drifting through the days like livestock in a slaughterhouse, seeing the end coming from the beginning with no chance to enjoy the now.
Who cares?
Everyone... But not about this dead soul, about the things that really matter, the life of ones self.
It is no surprise, the life of one is insignificant compared to the greatness of others.
That which does not affect our own sense of importance is cast aside, left for the dogs and the flies.
The biggest crime of all is to not exist, to misuse your one free gift in this world.
But what matter is crime if in the end nothing matters.

Helicopters

The highway drones beneath my feet,
And the rain falls hard against my face.

The wind howls,
Bending trees towards my tracks,
And beckoning ghosts from the past.

The railtrack clatters in the hills
that the night has shrouded in the mouth
of its cloaking face.

Out of breath, and breaking backs,
And summoning ghosts from the past.

Tonight, the sky's alive with bats
with red eyes, watching my chest weep.

And blood drips towards a grave
with neither a stone nor an epitaph
to mark its place.

The rainfall stings within my chest,
Teeming into a night
cloaked in the faces of family,
and those I'd sooner forget...

The summoning of ghosts from the past.

The highway fades beneath my feet,
And the trains are lost to the hills.

And the helicopters thunder into the night,
Heading back from where they came.

Start a revolution

For the invisible masses that congregate here I have come across an amazing website I highly recommend you try out.

www.grahampronk.blogspot.com

Check it out, or I will hurt you. Daniel Stairmaster may have accepted you sloth like behaviour but Chainz will not stand for it.

The Dark

I whispered in the dark, you can't hear me.
I looked for you in the dark, you can't see me.
I waited and listened in the dark. You weren't there.
Bollocks.


Well if you lot can't be bothered to read it, I can't be bothered to write it.

The Last Photo

I remember the scene,
Summer in the meadow,
Your brown eyes,
Looking into mine.
When we were smiling,
Sat by the lake,
My blue eyes,
Reflecting in you.
I remember the day,
Bees in the background,
Your blue dress,
Blowing in the breeze.
I can't relive the moment,
Smiling at the lens,
Then giggling,
When the shutter came down.

Recalling the scene
Streams from my eyes.
My blue thoughts
Take flight,
Reflecting on you.
Someday, I'll put
The last photo away.

Summer

Snow flakes fall,
Blown in from the freezing wastes of Tuesday,
And waking up the buds of spring.
Isn't the winter beautiful?
Isn't this life a wonderful thing?

Rain drops fall,
Gathered from the west-wind clouds of Tuesday,
And pouring down the opening.
Isn't the springtime beautiful?
Isn't this life a wonderful thing?

Summer.

Dry leaves lie,
Fallen from the golden trees of Tuesday,
And covering the failing stream.
Wasn't the summer beautiful?
Isn't this life a wonderful thing?

Snow flakes fall,
Blowing in the frozen wastes of Tuesday,
And covering the buds of spring,
Wasn't the Autumn beautiful?
Wasn't this life a wonderful thing?

From Heaven

The fireworks are irrational, cacophonous rainbows in the bleak night of my heart.
The muscle we romanticize becomes an extrovert, a specialist in experimental sonics capable of bringing the whole to a halt.
Then the fogging of the mind's eye, an inability to escape from the impression of you splashed in watercolour on my blank canvas.
The ordinary becomes ordinary, the important not so, the mundane merely boring compared to the everything I see in you.
My life once ordered now thrown askew by your simply indefinable but inescapable you.
The final piece of an unmentioned puzzle I hadn't considered, my life now alive, filled with magnificent truth

From Hell

The infernal chasm is open, black as a cancerous lung.
The cries from the depths are echoing around walls that cannot be scaled, reaching up from a carrion pit of perfect despair.
A vacuum of darkness envelopes the illuminated good, forever shrouding it it a blanket madness too pure to corrupt.
Fingers twitch at the thought of foul deeds, blood surges through veins throbbing with maniacal passion.
Synapses explode with devious intention.
I am terrible potential awaiting demonic inspiration.
What I did was glorious, a monument to chaos.
And like an artist with a muse I WILL KILL AGAIN.