mv-blake
www.mvblake.com / / Sitting. That's what it's all about for me. Sitting. And thinking. Definitely thinking. I think a lot. Too much. Sometimes I'm so full of thoughts that they spill over into the real world like a flood and I can't help but wonder is this real, or just a thought? Some times the thoughts are nice, funny even. Sometimes they're not so funny. Sometimes a little mean. Sometimes I worry about the thoughts as they seem disturbed and maybe they need help. I can't help them, not really. / / I capture these thoughts, these moments of introspection masquerading as external commentary, and I commit them to the bedlam of the page. They don't like being chained up, but they can be soothed with a gentle caress of the eye. Sometimes they get lonely and I chain up more thoughts to keep them company. / / I have a lot of thoughts. They want other people to catch them too. They're like a disease made of words. They get in through the eyes so be warned.
"I'm sure I'll be fine"
And I meant it of course
At least at the time.
"I'm finding myself"
Amongst bottles of wine
And collapsing health
I can't see for what's mine
Surrounded by filth
In my marriage's shrine.
"You need to be angry" they said
As if I could blame someone else
When I made my own bed.
"It won't last forever"
And I suppose that's true
But when time seeps together
You can't see "someone new"
When all of my time
Is devoted to you.
"It's time to move on"
And that's probably true
But how do I do that
When I still love you.
Aug 19, 2023
Aug 19, 2023 at 4:59 PM UTC
I don’t want to talk to angels,
Not for me, the bleeding priest.
I want my ****** doctor
So I can find some peace.
I want a ****** expert,
Not a hippie with some tea,
Charging excess for the karma,
And no money guarantee.
I can’t take ****** ginger,
It brings me out in hives,
And you can take the Echinacea
And stick it with the chives.
I want the ****** doctor,
Tired eyes and cynic smile,
Who’s seen it all before
And has my details on his file.
Pull out your cold machines,
Test me to the hilt;
Try to find what’s wrong with me,
Before I ****** wilt.
I don’t want to wait for callback,
I’m not interested in online;
It’ll only tell me that I’m dead,
Dying,
Or I’m fine.
Apr 2, 2023
Apr 2, 2023 at 4:53 AM UTC
I’m moving through rooms,
Restless and roving
Searching for something
That I know I won’t find.
Not under the sofa,
Or under the rug.
Not in the vacuum,
Or tucked in the folds
Of my wife’s throw
In subdued forest green.
It remains unseen.
It’s not in her vanity
Or the basket wear our clothes
Would wind together like lovers;
Sweat-soaked and bitter-sweet.
It’s not in the cupboard with the dog’s treats
Maybe it fell from a kitchen drawer
To lie with the spiders
Hidden in the floor.
It’s not in our great wide bed
Where our sheets lay flat and wrinkle-free,
Future dust-sheets all.
Let’s face it, it’s not in the hall.
It’s not in the garden we planted
Or the shed we built.
It’s definitely not in the garage
Where she never went,
Not even for a minute,
Which I thought heaven-sent.
It’s not on the porch
Or the patio bench,
Where we spent many an evening
Trying to learn French.
It’s not in the car,
That’s my one you see.
Hers is not there...
The thing that I’ve lost
I won’t find today,
Tomorrow,
Next week or in June.
She may as well be on the moon.
Jul 6, 2022
Jul 6, 2022 at 2:29 PM UTC
The river of ink flows dark cozened blue,
Flowing so smoothly from a source made of true.
It carves out a path with many a turn;
O! To see how those ill waters churn.
But the river drys up as the ink feels its age
And the lies begin to fill up the page;
Steeped in sepia, fading to sight
As the river of ink drys up in the light.
So we mourn for the river that told us the truth,
For the source we knew held the fountain of youth,
And we curl up our bones in the dust of our ink
And cry for the truths that taught us to think.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
O’ Death be gone from here;
I refuse thy sad affection.
Thy grave mouth offers no console,
Ne’er a cure for mine own affliction
Unless a cure means but an end;
For all thy promise a grant of life a lie
Thou hast no life to lend.
I name thee false friend,
And cast thee from mine side.
Find thee another fool to soothe,
For I am bound to life abide.
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 6:40 PM UTC
The scars on the moon were there for all to see,
Wounds cut deeper than any wound should be.
I don't need a lens to see her savaged form,
I see it in the way she looks at me.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
We were tied to the oar,
Many miles from sight of shore;
The ship wallowing in miserable waters
As the dank sea split the hull and poured right in.
So fast, so violent, so unexpected;
Like a shot to the chin.
The ship tore apart
While the sea took its heart;
And the oar wasn't much but we grabbed it.
Drifting, drowning, holding on for life;
A poor ships counterfeit.
We floated for years,
Fighting the weight of all our tears;
Each drop lost in an endless ocean.
Floating, heaving, chained fast to our oar;
A lullaby of relentless motion
Leading us gently to the shore.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
Do ya feel that?
The rough scratch of air scraping over skin,
God’s calloused hand running over heaving shoulders.
Outside, the wind never stops for a rest,
It just changes pace.
Do ya feel that?
The frantic shedding of desperate sin,
The chains of Tartarus falling like feathers;
An eaglet free of the nest,
Kicking the straw into the gaolers face.
Do ya feel that?
When the prison is broke from within,
And the fields are skies to beating wings,
Disappearing into sunlit clouds,
Lost in the storm of long sweet yellow grass.
Do ya feel that?
The rising wind carries the sound;
The horns of blind men bearing fanged arrows.
The long grass beckons in the breeze
And I’m running, flying.
Do ya feel that?
The stalks brush against my legs,
Weak hands fumbling for a grasp.
I hear my despair in my head,
A stumbled scream caught in the act.
Do ya feel that?
When the prison is broke from within,
And the fields are skies to beating wings;
Ware the fangs at your heels,
Arrows in the long grass.
Do ya feel?
The dogs sniff at the feathers,
Bloodied maws dripping with spite.
A crow takes the eagle’s eye,
The final irony of freedom is chaos.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
As Mars ascended,
One split in two;
The mitosis of fact
Splitting right through.
An anaphase ritual
Lining the floor,
Where I wanted mine,
And you wanted more.
But Venus was kind
When last she was here
And gave us a gift
Of temporal fear,
So we’d done this before
And the God was decried,
Yet out of the darkness of space
He cried:
‘Oh come to me Father,
I shan’t be denied.’
And Saturn, he heard
As he fought with Rhea,
And looked at his mother
And the remains of Theia.
A plan came to mind,
A clever time trick,
And we were caught fast
By the Great Malefic.
As Saturn ascended,
We split up again,
With no time to heal,
Our love was in vain;
For Venus had long since
Bored of our space,
And our love had begun
The sad telophase.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
The city breathes in,
A rattling wind of dusty smog,
Desperate in earnest,
Filling up the tubes and chambers
Like bellows on a hot furnace.
The air is pervasive, insidious;
It sticks to your skin and burns
Like holy water flicked from Jordan,
Downstream from the chemical plants
And pipes that lead health a merry chase.
It chews up the lungs with carcinogen teeth
And spits out the bits leaving holes of black
That spread through the organs like fire,
Immolating thoughts of hope and dreams,
And constantly whispering give up the race.
The city breathes out,
A rattling wind of corrupted fog,
And those that escaped the ill in the dark
Race like the wind away from its lungs,
Before the corruption spreads to their heart.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 6:11 AM UTC