Monday, July 15, 2013

On writers.

The madness came around again. Like an epidemic, it sank its diseased teeth into the sanity of men, women and children. It held torches under their eyelids and brewed a storm of torment within the paper-lantern walls of their hearts. Every one was shaken by the sediments of things long past. Their marrow grew cold with the child-ghosts of aborted dreams, as their resilience grew gaunt like consumptive little girls. Pale wraiths talked incessant, soft torment in their ears. Ink blots grew bigger, grew longer under their eyes, as shadows reached out from the depths of their pupils. Their hollow chests rattled with a hundred useless dreams, like stones caught in an empty drum. And all they could do, was write.

Friday, July 12, 2013

To a silly dog with a sillier name

Sleep well, sweet dog.
You've been more than a friend
You ridiculous clown
You smelly-mouthed heart-stealer
You restless fur ball
You loyal old soul
You overgrown puppy
You poker-faced opportunist
You unforgiving cat-killer
You reluctant obeyer
You quiet thinker
You curious-as-a- cat canine
You all-sharp-teeth-out grinner
You four-legged hugger
You wet-nosed manipulator
You super-intelligent goof
You unconditional worshiper of mummy
You mad sweetheart
You amber-eyed con artist
You biscuit bargainer
You suspicious-looks-over-the-bowl eater
You guileless charmer
You wonderful creature
Love couldn't find a funnier shell
Than all that you've been.
Sleep well, sweet dog,
Who never quite got the hang of shaking hands.