Everyday

Everyday
I promise that
tomorrow will be different.
That
I won't be self destructive
and
I will get things done.
That
I will listen to my logic
and
be kind to myself.

Everyday
I find that
today will be no different.
That
I will fall to self destruction
and
get not a thing done.
That
logic speaks too quietly
and
I forget quite how to be kind.

Everyday. 
- 5/11/2011

Consider this

Consider this. You’re an angel, bright white like the sun, shining only in the inherent absence of night; otherwise reflected off cold stone. 

Consider this. You’re frozen in a lake of glass, eyes glued open as shards bury deep into the flesh and viscous fluid. 

Consider this. You’re a daemon, cast out of hells most violent flames, your soul too bitterly dark for even Lucifer’s mercy. 

You try. You extend a hand and grip with all your force. But the petals drop of the rose with each passing second. And nothing you can do will stop the inevitable. They all die. Your contaminated heart leaks poison through each severed vein but it’s not enough. It still ferments and boils in your blood. You’re poison. People come into your life and they’re touched by your evil and they simply can’t live any longer. It sucks their life out and streams of tears and pain and anguish. It enters their souls in the form of cancer and wounds of the mind and scars of the psyche and drains every last drop of hope from their existence. Your evil does that. And no amount of repentance and begging will save them. 

Consider this. You’re a sinner, shaking and sweating in the pew as you await your turn for confession. 

Consider this. You’re a child, a small innocent being amongst the ticking reeds and scratching brambles. 

Consider this. You never were real.

Play

Stephen
Exhibits psychopathic tendencies throughout. A sadist. Speaks sarcastically and cynically.

Peter
Emphatic and caring. Takes pride in the world he lives in and is disappointed in its failings. Speaks warmly and with vigor.


Title (working) Roulette
Leaves blow around a long narrow road. The weather is overcast and dull. A creaking gate can be heard swinging back and forth, back and forth. The street is empty, with no signs of life or energy and the houses are nondescript and unkempt. 

Our focus is drawn to a single garden path. The gate swings back and forth in the wind, creaking and groaning until a hand grips it tightly to end it’s despair. Raising our eye line, we are drawn to a half-hidden face of Stephen shadowed beneath a black trilby cap. The face has stubble and dark hair curls that curl around his cheekbones.

On the ground beneath his feet lies a muddied newspaper, the headline speaking of murder. We observe his lip pull into a sneer. He begins to speak, voice gruff and slightly hoarse, possibly with a New York accent, or strong cockney. 

Stephen (VO):

****ing waste of paper. Another murder. Who gives a crap? What’s new?

The man kicks it aside, pulling the gate unsuccessfully shut behind him. The creaking continues as he walks down the cold street, black jacket tugged carelessly around him.

Stephen (VO):

Why bother informing us another pathetic soul’s gone from this earth… taken by another ****ing animal. Eradicated.

Beat

Should it surprise me? Look around you. See the dirt? The sex and lies and perverse fornications. The murder and porn. The drugs and blood. Where’s the light? Not here, that’s for sure. Not been light here for a long time.

Beat

Evil lurks in the corners. Bites at you. Sucks you dry and spits out your emaciated remains for Satan to burn.

As the man walks, his gaze scans the environment, taking in the people and buildings around him on his journey. 

Stephen (VO):

Think it’s always been dark here. The black tarmac floors. The grey concrete building. The dirtied grass and burnt, dead trees. Leaked sewer waste in pools of arcane depths. The colour of a coal that fuel hell’s most vicious flames.

Beat

Look at those fools. Rubbing their dripping noses, nostrils still full of crack, swallowing mouthfuls of semen and disease. They sure know how to live.

Behind him, a woman slams her door shut. 

We switch to a cul-de-sac. A man, Peter, dressed in light jeans and a white shirt exits his house, shutting the door behind him. As he travels the path to his gateless driveway, we see a child in the foreground, bouncing a ball, much at the same tempo as the gate creaked previously. The man waves at the child as he passes then focuses his attention on the paper delivered on the floor. Sighing at the headline of murder, he throws it carefully under his porch should it rain. Shaking his head, hair neatly trimmed and brushed back, he speaks in a clear unaccented voice as he travels down his road on which the leaves are carefully swept to the sides.

Peter (VO):

Such loss never ceases to sadden me. I think often how I’d feel if it were to be my family, or my friend. A life lost is a life missed out on. What could have been achieved? What has been lost?

Peter (VO):

The world seems so dark sometimes; one can hardly begin to find the light. But it’s there.

Beat

It’s hiding in the colour of the autumn leaves that fall from the trees. It’s in the smile of an innocent child. It’s in the wearing away of the tarmac – journey’s traveled and wonders experienced.

As he walks, he takes in the environment and people round him, greeting each with a wave and a smile.

Peter (VO):

People are capable of such wonderful things. I love to see the light shine in their eyes upon a grand realization. I enjoy the cogs that turn as it’s formulated and planned. I cherish the moments of unity and pride when a society, a world, creates something good for one another. It makes things seem so… weightless.

There is a flash.

Stephen appears on the corner of the crossroads. He takes in the vision of a car crash and the people still trapped within with a distinct lack of care. 

Peter approaches form the other side and does the same. His reaction is fear and worry rather than the sadistic uninterested of Stephen. 

Stephen (VO):

What a mess.

Beat.

I’d hate to be the guy that has to clean this **** up. That blood’s gonna stain.

People gather and stare. From within the wreck, muffled cries and pained screams are heard

Peter (VO):

I feel fear run down my spine. My muscles tense and my heart beats faster. Panic. I don’t know what to do. The screaming seems too loud. It doesn’t feel real.

Stephen (VO):

Wish they’d stop ****ing screaming. Not gonna help. Look at those skid marks. Speeding. They’re gonna be in trouble. Doubt insurance will cover this.

Peter (VO):

My heart beat rises again as I take in the blood. I’m reminded of my own mortality.

Stephen (VO): 

It’s such a messy world

Peter (VO):

How one change of choice can affect so many outcomes.

Stephen (VO):

****ing people merely pawns to some game.

Peter (VO):

One gamble. Put it all on Red

Stephen (VO):

Game of chance. Poker face.

Stephen and Peter (VO): 

It’s like Russian Roulette.

Stephen (VO):

Only no one wins.

Stephen (VO):

He catches my gaze across the mess. Our eyes meet briefly. I don’t know how not to vomit at the sight of such empathy, so I smirk. And roll my eyes. The sun blinds them. All I see is the light.

Peter (VO):

I meet his gaze across the carnage. The coldness of his black eyes frightens me. I don’t know what to do in his presence. I don’t know how to respond under the gaze of evil. I close my eyes. The world is obscured by blackness.

In the distance, sirens can be heard, the ‘nee’ ‘naw’ sequence following the same tempo as the gate and ball. People do not move from the scene as we pull out and fade to black. 

End. 
28/02/2010
Jodie 

Destruction.

Open up the streams
and
poor out the life.

Force down the torment
and
release the anguish.

Scorch the pale land
and
blacken the grass that grows there.

Empty the vessel
and
emaciate the structure.

Count the lost souls
and
pack them into tight containers.

Whisper the pass code
and
scream out the secrets.

I felt the smoke rise within
and
'I felt like destroying something beautiful'.

Void.

I wonder if I write
random fragments of
poetry and
words,
that something somewhere deep within
the crevesces of my long forgotten mind will
snap
and
click into place, and
the fragments will find a way to fill the
void
and
somehow close the portals and holes of my psyche;
if somehow
she will be banished and my mind will
be my own,
or if it's long gone, taken over... and
where is my mind?
The countdown ticks on
the detonator buried
deep
within my soul, so far as
I can not dig it out, not
even with a long handled coffee spoon
nor a blade sharp as those words.
No acid will burn through the wires that carry
life around my body.
Try as one may.
But maybe, just maybe,
the blast will remain internal.
Reformat and reorder.
Omissions and revisions.
This, perhaps, is the start of
the end.

Haiku To You, Too,

Hands reaching, gripping
hard, onto breaking branches.
Hold on. Don't let go.

Fall. Fall from the tree
onto sharp rock and harsh stone.
Burn in the sun. Gone.

Hand gripping, pulling
hard. Tug a broken body
up from the ground. Hope.

Wrap warm arms around
fractured shoulders. Comfort and
protect from harm. Safe.

Ballerina

The train door opens. A wave of people spew forth like a wave and she is caught. Their sharp suits and sharp tongues pick at the threads of her coat and a small child snaps an apple scented bubble that tickles devilishly at her nose. It's almost time for the home-time bell to clang and she's climbing stairs - little leg muscles straining under her weight, her little feet tapping a song out on the tiled floor. And in an instance she is a music note caught up in the song of the underground. She adds rhythm to the mix of talent, a soundless vibration, a hum in the backdrop only noticeable if it fell short.

And, oh! how it falls. The little ballerina  loses grip of her music box spring and falls with a clatter to the ground - no velvet cushioned boxes are big enough to catch her, not anymore. She grows exponentially with each passing turn of her key and suddenly she is out of sync with the tune and out of time with the world. Her bun-topped head rests soundly on the step and it is only when her hum becomes a clang do people notice the missing beat.

Gasps and loud voices chatter - the song of the underground ceases for a bridge. They place gentle hands on her neck and test her life, caress her with urgent whispers that she rise again and play. They don't know what to do when her rhythm comes back weak and irregular. There is no battery to replace or recharge so they hold her still, reinsert her key and wind her back up to standing. A few test the melody and move forward. She fits back in, a little quieter, and the beat picks up. All that's left is hope they wound her far enough to get home.

Once there, it doesn't matter if the music box slams shut.