It is true to say that my life
has been a series of turbulent
twists and turns
the lows were deep
and the highs only just broke the surface
and kept me from drowning
but one thing was for sure
when we collided my heart had
never been so full.

rip my heart with your beauty
then sew it together with the thread of
our love

There is a stiff ache that sits over my eyes.
My thoughts bully me into a state of constant self-pity
shame on me, for I think ill of this weak character floor.
I dream of being a man for you, but I am not he.
I am me and that will forever be too little.

So desperate were the frailer
minds of youth
that they neglected life
in return for a virtual plea for attention

The time that slips
effortlessly by
the things we miss
from eye to eye
the life we want
the life we love
the life we dream
gifted from above
you fail this
and you fail that
you fail to see
what life is about
you understand
the smallest things
but let slip by
the cruelest happenings
you are life
you are life
you are my life
and that is all
a life that i love
a life for all

The man's heart aches,
but his woe is lifted by
the desire of having his bed
warmed by foolish fornication.

The bottle is empty
yet his head is filled
with demons,
the conversation is
macabre yet hard
to translate from the
transient slur of speech
caught between his
tongue and teeth.

His cigarette won't light
from the naked flame
at the end of his finger,
something inside him
burns leaving the belly
of life marred by its
fervent addictions.

God hates him profoundly
but he's cool with that.

So marred by war
was the soul that
I adored

what was before
so easily filled with
love
bares now a fruitless
attempt not worth
its salt
rather now it be
consumed by
destruction

I see the cluster
of stars that are lit
in the heart of your eyes
I watch the crease
of your lips curl
into a wicked smile
and I know then
that in that moment
we are drawn
to each other
like magnets
neither one of us able
to pull away
a fatal attraction
born in the torrid
flame of desire

Your greatest audience
are those who love you most
so without that love
you find your words fall
empty no matter how full
you feel they are.

The way the piano called into the night,
it wept and danced and moved like
the birch trees brushed by the wind.
The silver of the tree's caught the moon
which smiled,
an unexpected cluster of teeth proved
to the world that there really is a man
in the moon.

She wore her beauty like a silk blouse, it flowed effortlessly as she took life one stride at a time.

She was a poet
they're all poets these days
spoilt and beautiful
drowned in old books
that they have only ever
scratched the surface of
head buried in the handheld
technology that shrinks
the brain cells
yet she was beautiful
unfortunately she was
a poet

Hazel eyes and long curls of chocolate hair,
these were just what caught me first.
Clean skin, unspoiled, never marred
by the crooked calloused hands of man.
She was and always will be the paragon
of beauty, and to only smell her was
more intimacy than I probably deserved,
but it carried me through my days,
searching for that perfection.
It was an intoxication that poisoned me
day in and day out, but it was the kind
I begged for.
flagellation of the soul.

I sit opposite her a blockade between any embrace.
I have stared into these eyes a thousand times,
I know these lines so well I can trace them blindfolded.
Your words are mine before they are even yours,
yet your heart is always misunderstood.
I guess I just still don't know what love means.

A jab in the heart
by a blunt blade
of wit,
followed by an
unfashionable smile;
you come to me
barefoot across the
dew spread grass,
eyes of glass violet
glazed with the
violent past you
try so desperately to
hide.
Innocence is the burden
you lost before your
years reached double
figurers,
most men grow tired
of your perpetual
silent complaint
but I beg you for every
syllable
no matter how macabre.
You ignite me

I would rather be a poor man
writing what i love,
than be a rich man
shackled to a life
of capitalistic rule,
stuck in a dreary job
that gives me no freedom
for creativity.

I find something beautifully heartbreaking about the sound of a string quartet playing in a minor key. As the first bow glides across the strings my heart moves in ways unknown to me. I close my eyes and imagine I am a fallen leaf floating atop a crisp flowing stream; the sun shines blissfully, the white clouds sporadically dance in formless waves across the blue sky, and though I am surrounded by passing beauty I feel the inevitable damnation for what approaches. We all know where the mountain stream leads. Ancient rock stands carved by the clawing marks of running water, desperately trying to escape its fall. With each bar played my heart sinks a little further as I know the end approaches, and when it does I find myself falling; at first gracefully, then as quick as it all began, it ends. The end is never quite as beautiful as you first hope it to be, because it is the end, and what is truly beautiful, never really dies.

'No bad writing' I say to myself,
and from there I begin deleting all that I have written

That east wind clawed at my skin
leaving me fragile again
I was once impervious
to reckoning
but now every element
guffaws at how weak
I have become
the shrill call of the
night birds humiliate me
for I am alone again
far apart
and torn at heart

We moved quickly in the night,
our weapons heavy in our hands.
We fought fiercely through to a ****** dawn,
making our final stand.
Those among us that died
were the heroes of the tale,
those that died were the lucky ones.
The rest of us, the ones denied a warrior's death
had to return home.
We were the ****** few
shattered and broken boy soldiers
left to fight the war
still raging inside our broken minds

To fill a bag with dreams
you must first sew the leather
stitch by stitch
until it can be filled with
the depth of desire
to accomplish brilliance
you must find your muse
I found mine.
its courage is infectious
it teach you to succeed
bit by bit
day by day
count each day that passes
it brings you closer to
absolution.

She sits alone
rolling the ice cubes around
the bottom of her empty glass
at first I am filled with
the overwhelming desire to approach
but as I look harder
between the blades of strobed lights
I see her cracks
though she sits as still at the night owl
deafened by the cacophony of
foolish conversation and bad music
I see she is unstable
I see she has not come for company
yet neither does she wish to be alone
this is her
the night owl
an empty house
an empty bed
but what is not empty
is the inside of her head
she is truly magnificent
but know one will ever know

I have been aboard
the great iron ship
curls of white escaping
the bow
it cuts like a blade
fleeing clouds tumble
as I stand  above and benieth
the beautiful blue.
The day is at its brightest
yet I yearn for the stars
as that is when the sky
will truly wake

The spilt milk soured,
it happened almost as quick
as when the glass first fell.

You looked at me
denigrating my insolence,
pitying my pathetic attempt
at being smooth.

The only thing smooth
in this room was the
milk bleeding across the floor,
like clouded glass
I could see my
horrified face
in the reflection.

All I felt was shame
unequivocal shame

I cut myself
picking up the pieces
of your already
broken heart

- Carson Hurley

My heart has gone rogue,
it runs to you
where I know
it will be safe.
*Forever
&
Always

What remained was the greatest
cover I have ever seen.
I will always know
what lies beneath
your facade,
beyond the beautiful surface
has rotted the inside
with a marred obsession
of social scrutiny.

I built a solid resilience,
a new layer of armour
to your words that
are not only sharp,
but deadly.

If only I could cope
with how you look at me.
That single fleeting glance
shatters me.

It started with a flash
then it all came at once.
A tumble of broken lives,
shattered dreams
and hopelessness.
My last moments were captured
in a fogged tundra of despair,
confronted by the screams
of my past.
I cry....
'Is this my end?'
Nothing answered,
just a cold silence
and the sinking feeling
that I had not done enough.
Who are we,
if we leave no mark behind.
We must all endeavour to stain
the world with who we once were.

When the first light
of the new day
caught your eyes,
I saw my future
brighter than ever.

I have bitter sorrow lingering stubbornly in my mouth,
I have you to thank for thank.
I have an empty stain, where my heart was once drawn on by your steady hand,
It is you I thank for all my failings.
It is you I curse.
It is always you
because it cannot be me
for I have to live with me, alone, for all my days,
now that you are gone.

I have murdered my selfrespect.
It only took one look and in that time everything I stood for crumbled.
I am marred,
all it took was a smile, a touch,
skin on skin.
The gentle caress of your fingertips on the back of my hand,
that is all it took to break my restraint.
As we tore at our clothes, we freed ourselves
we became one,
in that moment something happened that I cannot explain.
I lost everything,
yet found something.

I have been plagued with a black page for three days now.
I visited the doctors this morning and he prescribed a walk along the beach front, and failing that told me to draw a glass of bourbon, smoke a straight and search for an inner demon that I can expel onto the page.

I couldn't muster the energy for any of his prescriptions, so I swam in the bath, using a beer bottle as a snorkel, drowning myself in apathy.

My page is still blank.....

I would walk the promenade in Los Cris,
I would beat the sun as it broke free from the surface of the ocean.
We would greet as I walked and it rose, climbing the fleeing clouds.
It hadn't the heat that it would come to bare by midday,
so I would make the most of our conversation.
the crashing waves would bring with it a slight chill,
I would welcome this as I tasted the salt in the air.
I would bury my toes in the sand and stare out to sea,
wondering what magic lies beneath the surface.  
I would contemplate taking a swim,
but my feet begged me to walk on.
A homeless man sat consumed by the emptiness of his bottle,
He was rags and bone, skin charred from my friend the sun,
hair bleached and matted from the sea breeze.
I would look at the man, and he would humble me with a smile.
We would share a nod, and I would let my feet take me away.

Don't be like anyone else,
you will just become a cacophony of bad habits.
Don't be like anyone else,
not when you can be yourself,
be perfectly different,
your own habits will become a signature of individuality,
where it like badge,
be proud
be brave
be different.
Don't be like anyone else,
just be you.

A sleepless night sits behind me like a wicked reminder of all my troubles.
I look back at it to try and find out why it stole my sleep,
It just sits there, a haze of darkness pointing forward.
A faceless beast.
Ahead of me, as I turn, I see a tunnel.
There is so little light but as I step forward I know it has consumed me.
Spirals flash like lightning breaking the suffocating darkness,
I know before me there is a tundra of lifeless souls milling like pointless cattle.
I must make it my goal to bring joy when surrounded by so much darkness and apathy.
I smile back to my sleep thief, and I edge into the unknown.

You are all my reasons
For everything
I am me, because of you
and without you, we would not be us.
I thank you with a thousand kisses,
each a promise of their own
A promise as strong as our vow

I yearn for a beautiful mind.
I sit crossed legged on the floor a foot from my tall bookcase, trying to absorb the wealth of knowledge that hides between the pages. If only I could stop time and read them all. I would read everything.
I would read the lines on every person's face, the history of each road and the story behind each wood, but time is forever chasing me.
I have put a bookmark in the pages of life, perhaps when I am old I will have the mind I so wish to have.

Last night I dreamt that Charles Bukowski chortled at my attempts to be brilliant.
He laughed so hard he creased the ominous glow of the moon in two,
leaving little light for me to find my way out of the **** dream.
I was stuck for hours.
Going round
and
round
and
round
and
round.
Until suddenly I woke.
A thin veil of hope slicing through the blinds,
But I did not want to open them.
The sick part of me regretted waking up at all.

Most of the time I am too afraid to write.
Scared of the poor grammar,
or the incorrect punctuation that haunts me,
because I didn't listen in school.
I found other interests,
like fornication and petty theft
of the hearts of my female friends.
What a sucker I am.
Lost in laughter and love,
and now abandoned in the practise of
my own language.
I shouldn't care,
why should I?
Its the story not the words that counts.


Perhaps I will write again.

Or perhaps I will fornicate and drink,
until the darkness of my soul drowns me.

If I was a painting
I would be the chewed up canvas, dashed in disgruntled colours,
torn from the easel in dismay and cast aside in neglect.

I am a failed first draft that nobody wants to read.