Lack of Communication

Hovering on top of a parade

Of tiny black ants

They lead me to the sea

But not a step further

It’s a place they can’t grasp

So they fear it

Leaving whispers in the salty air

As they head home

 

I stare out to the sea

I try to make conversation with it’s waves

But they’re too fleeting

Rising and falling

Living and dying

I don’t want to occupy too

much of their short

Lives

 

So I shout out to the ocean

Timeless

But it has no mouth

So it can’t reply even if it wanted to

I guess some things on this planet

Aren’t meant to communicate

Is This Hell?

Flashing lights and frozen wheels

Burnt asphalt and melted rubber

Traffic lights stuck on red

No one can move, no one intends to

We all wait with bated breath

We all wait for something

That will never come

The crows are curious and

The rabbits are roused

We stand like statues

Made for this moment

Waiting for something

That will never come

 

Is this hell?

A Million Angry Flies

A million flies blind my view

Their swarming black bodies buzz against me

I can feel their sick warmth

They are all I can hear

All I can

See

I walk

In search of an exit

The more I move

The more aggrivated they become

Their buzzing changes tone

Landing en-masse on my pasty skin

Vibrating their wings so rapidly

I begin to melt gradually

I close my eyes in absolute

Terror

 

The buzzing stops

I open my eyes

Slowly

A pure white horizon

Burnt out silver sun

I see her silhouette

 

I swear I can hear harps

Meeting My Reflection

I used to walk

To a local pond every day

Sit on a bench

And stare at my reflection

It would stare back at me

We wouldn’t say a word

Then we’d both make our seperate ways home

One day I got bored

So, I picked up a pebble

And threw it right at his forehead

But the little blighter threw one right back at me!

Motorbike

I can feel every grain of gravel

Swallowed up and spat out by my wheels

Chewed, crunched and sprayed out like fine dust

The wind propels me on

The fine dust licked up

Into a mighty storm

That hangs behind me

Like a faithful hound

We go on together

Down this endless road

Losing ourselves in speed

Wrestling with death

It only takes one lousy pothole

 

 

Fishing in the Forest

The pines roar like the sea up above me

I am a fish

Swimming through the falling pine needles

The trees breathe air into my gills

Their fresh scent moistens my scales

I see a hook attached to a line

There is something alluring about it

The way it glistens in the sunlight

I take a chance

Swallowing it

The line suddenly whips upwards

The hook deep into my cheek

I am being reeled in

It seems the line is attached to a rod

Hanging from outside a Helicopter

A mighty bear holding it

Grunting approvingly

I find others just like me

Stacked up in cool boxes

Although they are not moving

 

 

The Deal I have with Queen Bee

I’m walking on a bridge

Made of ivy vines

Each step

Lets out a hiss, releasing

clouds of pollen into the air

The bees soak it up

Like natures sponges

There are hives

Hidden directly beneath the bridge

The bees are clever

 

I keep walking

Till I meet the Queen Bee

We sit down and sip tea together

Discussing politics

And the weather

I cut to the chase

“So, where is the honey?”

I see her breaking down into fits of tears

I am numb to her pain

Reluctantly, she points to wheelbarrows

Full of jars of honey

I walk them back

One by one

Over the bridge made of ivy

Feeling the hatred

From the many eyes of the bees

Hovering, very close

The Man, the Field and the Porridge Oats.

I don’t know how we ended up in this place. My memory doesn’t allow me to remember. We walk up and down this field many times each day. Those that escape through the hedged borders of this field only return solemn faced. Never again meeting anothers eye. There is an electric power line running through the centre of the field. Standing tall and defiant. Outside of the man’s reach. Some try to climb to the top but they never come back down again. The clouds forbid us to see.

No matter how hard we try, we simply cannot talk to eachother. The words do not form in our mouths. It’s been so long since another has graced my ears with conversation. All we do is endlessly walk up and down this field for a reason I cannot fathom. Every week the man will come in a range rover through the gate and unload a mound of porridge oats. This is our excitement. I’m too hungry to question what’s in the porridge oats. We scramble over each other in a frenzied race to reach the pile. shoving as many handfuls of porridge oats down our throats as we can manage.

He will observe us for quite some time while we eat. Removing those that begin to form words with their mouths. Those that learn to stand upright from all fours. Those that begin to question the porridge oats. Those that are simply unhealthy, no longer providing whatever it is the man needs.

While I chew my porridge oats I look up to the powerline. The clouds have dispersed. I can see them clearly. I stand upright and gaze above me. I hear laughter and conversation. They’re forming words! The man in the range rover cannot reach them so they are happy. Yet they can’t eat. Soon they will have to come down and share the same fate all of us are bound to. I quickly fall down to all fours. Every day more and more join us.

I don’t know what will happen in the future.

 

 

A conversation with my guitar

Tear drops paint the floor wet

I can see chords come out

From my guitar

It’s trying to tell me something

Something urgent

It can’t wait, it says

But I must not listen

You’re a guitar, I say

You don’t understand me

But I understand you