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Ackerrman Oct 11
Faded as that 90’s graffiti on the train station walls,
Old locomotives, their engines cease to spin and sputter.
Little mice, too famished in their task, caress cogs and messages,
From places, too dark to read, the notes pile up.
Some, I think, may be blank.
Some, I could not read, as I scribbled those promises too fast.
A great mound of empty words made from a tree now dead.
The cogs move no more, I doubt they were ever connected before…


In line for a one-way ticket out of this grave land,
My baggage gripped tight with both hands- makes it difficult to keep in check,
I try to hide it with a smile, no one offers to help.
Surprisingly sullen, my every movement seems to echo from bold, cold walls,
The insignia behind the ticket master’s house is sprayed in red and it reads:
‘This was always a one-way trip’
I bite my lip, try to understand how to turn menace into sand,
This station is run by ghosts. I can feel them watching from holes in the wall.


I was asked by a stranger, “why did you come here”,
My staggered recoil from justice and reason must have been enough,
When I looked back, my persecutor was lost to an empty hall,
And the bones of this room can be seen when it breathes,
So clear, not seen the sun shine in a long time,
Startled like a bird falling into a pool, I wonder why I came here at all.


I talk to the ticket officer, this hat worn low, talking from a dark place,
I want to know, “the time of the next train please”,
But the man only holds my gaze, from beneath his low cap
Motionless, the spindly man holds all the cards, then blows away into the wind.
Left his own station in search of tracks. Somewhere remote
The sun is shining, and life is dead upon this new day.


Perhaps it is too early, I sit and wait for someone to talk to,
“You know that bag must be awfully heavy, please let me carry it for you”,
I shake my head and grip what is mine a little tighter,
“Don’t be afraid to let me in, I only want to help you free your light”,
But I don’t care for skin or bones, I set down my bag and watch,
The man of bones, with dreams larger than his stake,
Perhaps, if you were not so far away, you would have the strength to exist,
I look up to see the man who tried so frugally,
Met by dead air, perfectly comfortable- without a friend in the world.


I take a stroll down the decrepit tracks, cold air grasps at skin and sense,
Just to see the colour of the rust, and what the reaction was,
The trains and tracks are turning bitter-brown and discoloured purple,
Holes are manifesting themselves into the carriage, much less comfortable than I ever knew.
I step on the dead cartridge, much less comfortable than I ever-
Reliving a time when the carriage was bright, and laughter echoed the halls,
Far down the musky, dark-grey scope, I can hear the faint sobs of a child,
Inevitably, I find the kid, small and frail, sobbing into his hands from under his hat.


“Dear Michael, this carcass is the last place that I expected to find you”,
I kneel down beside the boy and tell him what comes from inside”
“You didn’t spend much time here when we were alive, I am leaving you Michael, your world is cold and dead”.
The boy trembles before sobbing turns to cold laughter,
He lifts his head and I peer into two dark and empty sockets,
Pristine, white bones contrast the encroaching darkness,
Michael tells me: “There is no leaving this place”.


The skeleton child’s words are empty.


A little while down the track, darkness pours from every crack,
Each train looks as dead as the one that was mine,
I follow a trail of disfunction to the end of the line,
Where I find a train, most unlike the rest, its silky black skin has been kept intact,
Monstrous, foreboding and intimidating, the conductor keeps the fire stoked,
Red mist puffs from the window, horror stagnant beauty feels and flows.


The walls of the carriage are meticulously decorated,
Framed pictures resting on crimson silk, a life frozen in time,
I am not welcome here,
Presently, a feral scream from far away- the engine room,
A mad man armed with fire eyed fury,
Jackal Rushes through moment and memory in fear and panic,
The first thing in this nightmare clad in skin,
The man stands still, full height, coloured in… I look into his eyes:


I fall back through twisted carriages.
Light.
Butterflies protecting fire from rain.
I sleep safe knowing that no one thinks of me.
I am writing a book. One day a character wanted to say something...
Ackerrman Oct 9
Woke up,
Had existential crisis,
Went home to bed.

Woke up,
Held hope in my hands,
Had existential crisis,
Went home to bed.

Woke up,
Held hope in my hands,
Saw God tread on an Ant,
Had existential crisis,
Went home to bed.

Woke up,
Tried to be better,
Held hope in my hands,
Saw God tread on an Ant,
Had existential crisis,
Went home to bed.

Woke up,
Saw God tread on an Ant,
Tried to be better,
Became a victim of my own humanity,
Held hope in my hands,
Had existential crisis,
Went home to bed.

Woke up,
Watched the sun rise,
Saw God tread on an Ant,
Tried to be better,
Held hope in my hands,
Became a victim of my own humanity,
Had existential crisis,
Went home to bed.

Woke up,
Saw God tread on an Ant,
Succumbed to darkness,
Tried to be better,
Became a victim of my own humanity,
Held hope in my hands,
Had existential crisis,
Watched the sun rise,
Went home to bed.
This was a lot of fun to write
Ackerrman Oct 8
Bouncing bubbles, thin dew stands jubilant
Atop Poppie’s vibrant, happy colour.
Poppies in summer time are in a trance,
Smiling rapturously: scarlet music!
C notes rise on a breeze, crimson follows
In a waltz, a samba- zounds, Fiddlesticks!
The garden would be desperately hollow,
Daffodils mope until crimson rhythm
Bursts spontaneous, famous elation
Ricochets, the hanging baskets fathom,
The chain braking freedom born stagnation.
Poppies will dance for the rest of their lives
And drink the sweet nectar, high as a kite.
Third piece  from a series of garden flower sonnets
Ackerrman Oct 7
Pupils gaze into the sun, I am stunned,
Unearth the power of Raa in your eyes,
Revel! As we lay for long hours, sunned
To death in the warm embrace of your fires.

As we wrap our lives around each other's
Souls as stinging nettles cradle soft skin,
Our life embers trickle, rumbles, smothers-
Nothing. Just- blood. Scars, filth under cover.
And you tickle the hair under my chin...

Time swells and the kind universe cradles-
I can't- stomach this ******* orange juice anymore!
I choke on the bits, I told you before,
How many times- and where is that *****?
What do you mean- “Lucy has gone before”
Good Lord, where has that ***** gone now. That *****-
Cotton wrapped ‘round faithful fairy fables—
Grandad? Is that you? What did you send me for?

This dream bred a silk no spider could weave,
Heavenly nirvana, none could conceive...

You. Child like, notions of freedom. So naive,
Your ****** up little attitude is hard to conceive.

Lucy? Lucy, is that you? -You ***** tease!
I am confused, did you drug me again?-
I shall follow wherever you may lead...
-You’re no better than when you’re on your knees-
Don’t leave me, like a little frightened Fen...
Just ask and I should spend my life on my knees.

My light is yours to – blank –

Tie the rope to the tree and ******* hang.

Lucy must be with Grandad, that’s why I
Can't find them- can't find my love- my bee.

How long until this moment passes by
Lucy, do me the Honour. Marry me.

Lucy?

Lucy.
So I watched the penultimate of Bojack Horseman season 4, and wow, I am pretty sure I have PTSD. Anyway, the episode inspired me. Here is a poem about dementia.
Ackerrman Oct 4
Where is your head?
Is it here?
You won’t answer.

Did you not hear?
Should I ask again?
You won’t answer.

I am intimidated,
Feel cold,
Damaged.

I am not comprehending,
Banging my head silly,
My stare is more vacant than yours.

I assure you,
I don’t know what to do,
I’m here to help.

But I guess you don’t comprehend that,
The need?
My need to help you.

You have no need of me.
I am more scared of you
Than you are of me,

As default!
I think I admire you,
Your silence.

I don’t know how to push,
How far,
Will you break?

What can I ask?
How can I help?
I can’t.

Can’t I even look in your eyes?
Will it make you uncomfortable?
Can I try…

Again tomorrow?
Or the next day?
Let me stay.

Sit down
Next to you,
Please don’t be uncomfortable.

I usually say,
“I won’t fail again”,
But I think

I will have
To fail
A lot with this one…

Until
I
Understand.
Ackerrman Sep 26
It takes a very small man
To “Want to punch that girl in the face”,
Or to compare,
A young student to a “Sewer Rat”.

To bully twelve year olds,
Single out young girls,
Transparent fold in time,
Stunted growth.

It takes a small man
To bully children,
It takes a smaller man
To expect respect this way.

“Do yourself a favour
And just shut up”

“Get your head down-
Tick-Tock”

It is like watching a ******
Order 'sewer rats'
To be clean,
Tell the sea to recede.

Your idea of a model student
Is a student who
Already knows
What you are incapable of teaching.
I work in one of the worst school's in the country. Some of the teachers of cowardly, incompetent bullies. But in England, the worst performing schools are given the least amount of funding. In fact, the tiny salary that teachers and support staff are afforded mostly just attracts half-wits who could never earn 20k any other way, I have seen very few members of staff that care about the kids. What is being invested, does not attract professionals, it attracts phonys.
Ackerrman Sep 24
A desperate, burgeous experience,
Warm red light sneaks through the flimsy curtain
With briefcase and notes, no interference
From reason or conscience, not too certain
About scaling the walls of nihilism
And entering the warm head of dead-space,
Expanding my languid realism,
Rushing the end like a three legged race.
In the dying ashes of apathy
I accidentally caught a glimpse:
Dark and degenerated, flayed clarity,
Depravity... Empathy... Caustic rinse,
To the bone, the skeleton is not white,
I relate most to women of the night.
Must read more Oscar Wilde, or less.
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