I watch her move
like smoke
dancing off a
torrid ember.
The earth weeps
knowing that there
will never be anything
quite as beautiful as her,
and it weeps
at the fact that her last moments
are filled with panic and fright.
she cuts through her nefarious foe
like the ocean spray
that slices its way through
crag rock to dampen a once dry space.
She falls to darkness,
with the searing pain of a slicing blade,
but she will not cry, beg nor
give in.
She welcomes death as a dear friend,
and looks to the light of the world beyond.

I saw the rain fall sideways,
striking the cello case cruelly.
The case was white and beaten,
weathered and worn.
It was sad to be alone in the rain.
I could almost hear the cello sing
from inside its case,
like a trapped songbird
forced to play the saddest
of songs
for no other reason but
to make others feel as sad as
itself.
I hold my breath and the rain
taps on the case,
tap
tap
tapping noisily
for the cellos attention,
but he does not come out
and play,
and I dont blame him.

Today I saw the world
inside my father’s smile.
It was a brand new world
peaceful
pleasant
and joyous.
There was warmth
and light
and love,
inside my father’s smile.
If I could capture a moment
and hold it forever in my sight,
it would be that moment,
inside my father’s smile.

Why does normality **** creativity!
Why does it always get in the way
like yesterdays rain spilling into
tomorrows sun.
I cant run from this.
I cant escape this dreary rule of
mundane society.
I want to write!
'Then write' you say.
but I can't,
not with normality being
the murderer of my muse.
How can I create something beautiful,
wonderful,
brilliant,
magnificent
When normality is just one step outside my door.

Time,
it see's the death of us all.
I have endless empathy for time,
knowing that its forever surrounded
by life, but its forever friendless.
We will all soon be dust,
passing through our own timeless
darkness.
So time has too much of itself
to have friends,
even though some of us want
to be close to time, to see more of it.
Some of us are given more.
But time favours no one.

If I am a madman,
how will I know?
Will I catch a glimpse
of myself climbing
to an empty roof top.
Will I hear an inner laugh
or see that my reflection
is fractured?
How will I know?
Do the perpetual voices
in my head
render me mad?
Or is it just my conscience
arguing my sanity?
I know I am marred
but nobody is perfect.
We are inferior
to ourselves.
And
since when did
brilliance
never harbor
insanity.

Oh boy hasn't it left me weak,
Like too many ice cubes
melted into a glass of scotch.
I had grand visions on the eve
of this foul dream,
vision's that rest on a life changing
scale,
but now I lay here
miserable and weak.
Im like a once proud stag,
hit by a car,
reduced to little more
than road ****.

Misery can clam us all if we let it.
I battle it each day that I am awake,
but it has now crept into my dreams
to claim me.
I rise each vile morn with its wry smile
of stolen victory glaring,
gloating,
grimacing.

I have succumbed.

The city sleeps among its incandescence,
however,
she does not.
she watches,
she waits.
Locked in the safety
of her ivory tower,
her pale nakedness
becoming a silky glow in
the dim light of the room.
She is imprisoned
by her beauty,
though she is loved by many
she loves only one.
She waits up for him,
as a stranger
to the sea of sheets
that cling to her bare legs.
She hears footsteps
from down the hall
and questions,
is it her lover?
or is it another
who insists to pay for
her love.
She works the night,
a high end harlot.
Her sorrow wanes
like a wounded cry from
a beaten wolf.
Knuckles wrap against
the hotel door,
and she turns her gaze
from the city outside the window,
her hair moving
like dancing rays of
stolen light.
She reaches for the lipstick
on the night stand,
and walks bare skinned
and beautiful to the door.

Life is delusion.
The only truth in life,
is in knowing that death
will claim us all.

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

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.

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.

I broke a glass
and the shards of destruction
were more beautiful
than any diamond
I have ever seen.

Her eyes,
they were these
chasms of glass violet
magnifying the beauty
within.
Her gaze
held me silent
for days on end.
I had no words that
could match her beauty,
so I stayed silent,
but in my silence
I never got to
tell her to stay.
And now she is gone.

I lost myself today.
Not through malice,
nor through darkness,
but the revered wonder of
what my future may hold.

Our future is a secret
and the secrets are hidden in the stars.
Each one glistening brightly,
waiting for us to reach high enough
and pull it down,
and become who we are meant to be.
You don't want to be sad?
Lonely?
Loveless?
Selfish?
Lost?
So reach......
As high as you can,
and live the best version of you.

My reflection is damaged.
I am too afraid to touch
the mirror,
for I do not wish to know
what is beyond the shards
of my shattered reflection.

I weep
for the hours I have lost,
strung out in discontent.

I turn and walk,
seeking the shadows
that hide my true face.

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.

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

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

- Carson Hurley

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

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.

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.

Do you remember the first time
that you kissed her?
Your lips were dry
and they stuck to hers,
only slightly,
but enough to make your cheeks go red.
From that moment you were
overcome
by an insufferable desire to
grasp love with a tireless grip.
She became your everything
in the midst of that kiss.
Her voice
was the most beautiful voice.
Her smell
was the most incredible smell.
Her hair
was the most magnificent hair.
Her smile
was unmatched to any smile ever seen.
You will never find that same infatuation
that you found from your first love.
Your childhood love.
And you will never feel heart break
like the first time
that you see her kissing
your next door neighbour
for a go on his new push bike.
Your broken,
scarred,
but you  learned something that day.
That life goes on
no matter how marred
love can make you.

His name is Murphy.
Its funny old name,
for a dog.
When I wake,
I know he's there,
happy to see me.
When I sleep,
I know I am safe.
There is no love lost,
between a man's best friend,
for meticulous misgivings
do not exist.  

When I drink too much
and struggle the next day,
I know comfort is a mere
whistle away.
You clear my head,
and inspire me.
I see the look of freedom
spread across your face
each and every time
we walk across the fields.

I raise a glass,
to my dear best friend.

I wrote you a song
but I couldn't use the
the sweetest chords
as it would be a lie,
and I seek only
honesty in my life.
I tried to sing
but I was lost for words,
I know you stole them,
you did so in the same way
that you stole my heart.

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.

I caught her eye from across the dim lit room,
as she sang on the small stage.
Her voice was like a Whistling Thrush
and it stole my breath.
She smiled at me
and never before had I seen such beauty.
She made me weak in the places I once felt strong.
Her voice,
her bright eyes,
and her coquettish smile,
they made me feel vulnerable,
but I did not care.
I was captured by her inexorable splendour,
and she imbued my love, fiercely.
I knew I had to speak to her,
to tell her how wonderful she was,
and how incredible she made me feel.
As she finished her song,
and skipped down from the stage,
I watched, painfully as she fell into the arms of another man.
He did not look at her the way I did,
nor would he ever.
Though sometimes, our greatest love,
will never know who we are.

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

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

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.

“These are supposed to be our best years
our most memorable.
Shamefully,
we are a generation of alcohol amnesiacs
we barely remember the names of those who have
filled our beds.
Its all a quest to find the ONE they say.
The weekend warriors battle through
the multitude of diseases,
what troopers.
You really have to ask yourself,
is it all really worth it?
The hangovers,
the blackouts,
the bad dreams and tormenting dizzy memories.
The STI’s,
the fall outs, bust ups, and broken friendships.
All of this from inside a glass.
You pay for it from the cash in your pocket, but your left with shattered lines across your face.
We are marred by our regrets.
So,
is it worth it?
yes?
Then what can I get you?” Asked the bartender.
“These are supposed to be our best years
our most memorable.
Shamefully,
we are a generation of alcohol amnesiacs
we barely remember the names of those who have
filled our beds.
Its all a quest to find the ONE they say.
The weekend warriors battle through
the multitude of diseases,
what troopers.
You really have to ask yourself,
is it all really worth it?
The hangovers,
the blackouts,
the bad dreams and tormenting dizzy memories.
The STI’s,
the fall outs, bust ups, and broken friendships.
All of this from inside a glass.
You pay for it from the cash in your pocket, but your left with shattered lines across your face.
We are marred by our regrets.
So,
is it worth it?
yes?
Then what can I get you?” Asked the bartender.

I found a friend in a stoic spoon,
silver like the crescent patch of missing darkness
that rules the night.
I haven't many friends  so this one I came
to cherish.
in my absent sense I made a harrowing mistake,
an unforgiving error of human addiction.
Me and my dear spoon lit our path in incandesce,
gliding to the patch of missing darkness, engulfed
in the whirling torrent cast by the torrid flame beside us.
If I could paint, i would show you a place beyond beauty.
If I could sing, I would sing a melody that could move mountains.
however, I cannot. I am just me, and my spoon, searching for the patch of missing darkness.

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 am a slave to winters ruin.
My skin
torn by the eastern wind,
and the once torrid flame
in my heart
has now become a marred
flicker of light.
Where is the passion?
The soul?
The love?
Since when did silent
whispers cut like
Damascus steel?

I can only guess
that is since losing you........

I made a friend
as I drank alone.
I watched him
and he watched me.
I pitied him
and I know he pitied me.
he's barely a life
yet I am the lowlife.
They say the flies
go to ****,
I guess I know
what that makes me.

I hear the guitar play,
Its steel strings resinate a tune that is unfamiliar to me.
its at that point I notice you dancing in the corner of the room.
Moving like water, so beautiful.
If you were a colour you'd be lilac, or perhaps lavender, if there is a difference, I do not know.

If I were a courageous man, I would waltz over, timing it to the delicate music and make my entrance into your life, however I am not a courageous man.
Instead I will stay here and sip my bitter drink, thinking about how our life could have been together.
It would have been great.

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 slip between the crevasse that parts my mind.
Its an equal split from sanity to the obscene.
I am trapped in the middle, clinching on as the
precipice on either side begins to crumble.
If I slip, I do not know what darkness awaits me below.
I may even fall through to a place of pure white snow.
Yet I hang on tight, hoping for a tall breeze to lift me out.

I look up to a clouded sky
filled with dragons.
Its once bleak, pale
rolls of imprisoned rain,
now illuminated in
strikes of red gold and
yellow.
a flighty beast that
rules the empty space above,
it looks down in pity
to our shameful selves.
We do not run,
no
we are too afraid to run,
instead we cower,
and cry mercy,
though we deserve none.
So we die exactly the way
we were born,
screaming
afraid
and blind to the truth of life.

Where does my courage form,
if not from the belly of despair?
Where does my strength bread,
so to turn me into something magnificent.
I am the founder of glory,
the giver of greatness.
I have a stoic heart, washed in the blood of my
enemies,
But I know no love,
and that kills me.
For  man with love only for himself,
is bound to an inexorable death.

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.

Has me inebriated,
intoxicated,
spiralling to levels of
desperation.
But nothing will stop me,
not even myself.

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

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.

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