For I Am Gone

Do not look for me, for I am gone.

I am the silent songs of birds, the words

Of ancient etchings scratched off warm stones.

The lone tumbleweed on open sands,

Spreading nothing more across vast lands

And crashing into sparse trees.

I am the breeze on the path that is left behind.

The vacant mind of an elderly man captured

In a photograph. I am the white edge,

The ledge of a precipice above an empty sea.

An unease of lost origin, drifting aimlessly

Through opaque skies. I am virginity.

I am the lies that are never told,

The arthritic ache of a child

That never grows old. I am the folds in the earth,

The wall at the end of the universe.

I am the moment between now and never,

The eternal forever before it begins.

A spinning of stillness, unthinkable thoughts,
The unbreakable part of the atom
And the fathoms of gravity left by the majesty 
Of a dying sun, undone.

I am the nothing between turning pages,

The ages of stopped time; not rhyme or reason.
I am a treason, uncommitted, the pitted marks
On a flawless star. A grain of the world unscarred.

I am everything that is no longer there,

And I am everywhere, and always will be. 
But do not look for me,

For I am gone.

Copyright © 2012 by Simon Austin
 

Abandoned

They left, the last of them, some time ago,
Fear drove them out, but fear of what?
Cowards, the lot of them.
They know not from what they run,
As though the sun below should cause such distress;
I confess, I was restless at first
But I stand and attest to their unfounded concerns,
That which burns, it has done so in secret
And the chasms of earth still there keep it.
There is nothing to run from, a concern, benign,
For we no longer go to the mines,
Where there, even Mercury melts
And smelts to its primordial parts.
This is art we have made, a mere accident
Of cataclysmic beauties
That now roars to the chill
Of a thousand degrees.

My neighbours, now shadows and ghosts,
The poisoned remains of their homes
Their pathetic legacy, running frantically
Down roads that simply go
Nowhere anymore.
I do not care, I will not flee, not be tempted
By money, by promises empty as those caves
That apparently, eventually and suddenly
Will claim me.
The poisonous air that would choke Venus' skies
Belies the reality of their irrationality
And the lies they eventually ate -  insanity.
My god, I really do hate them all.
The fall of this town will not happen
As long as I stay my feet
And show them all that it is their white livers
That will see their untimely defeat.

And I say it again, I will not go,
No man should be driven from his home
Which he built ‘til his hands blood-stained the stone.
The devils lair just below my feet
Will not defeat me. Let him rage at me,
Threaten and engage with me,
Burning the very foundations of me.
I swear to him now, wiping sweat from my brow,
And scream through the inferno beneath -
“Hellion, hear me, I will not go!”
Hand my town to the damned should you wish,
I will not be demolished.
Your poisonous gasses, your fiery breath
Will not conflagrate me, I will survive your hell, 
And as your final fires die out
I will stand on your smouldering ruins and show
That even in death, I would not go. 

Copyright © 2012 by Simon Austin

Inspired by the events of Centralia, Pennsylvania

A lone, still occupied house in Centralia, Pennsylvania where a few residents still remain despite the huge mine fire raging beneath the town

Centralia is a borough and ghost town in Columbia County, Pennsylvania, United States. Its population has dwindled from over 1,000 residents in 1981 to just 10 in 2010, as a result of a mine fire burning beneath the borough since 1962. The cause of the fire is disputed, though it is believed that a routine rubbish tip burning was not properly controlled and therefore spread to the mines underneath.

The fire is expected to continue for at least a further 250 years.

All properties in the borough were claimed under eminent domain by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania in 1992 (and all buildings therein were condemned), and Centralia's ZIP code was revoked by the Postal Service in 2002. However, a few residents continue to reside there in spite of the failure of a lawsuit to reverse the eminent domain claim.

Kennedy

Around the shadowed corner, wicked lies,

Through telescopic lens and focussed eyes.

The autumn trees encapsulate the path

And crunch beneath the wheels they idolise.

The building crowds descend before the knoll

To catch a glimpse of this passing idol.

He, showered from all sides with the applause

And peppered from above by seasons fall.

Idyllic is this scene to which he greets,

As smiling faces line the city streets

But soon the smiles will fade in disarray

Through murderous intentions indiscreet.

The polished carriage turns the corner slow

Whilst soaking up the rapture in its flow

And then it steadies to a deathly crawl,

Allowing three their targeting to hone.

And as the open casket slows its pace

A crack of rifle fire fills the place.

But drowned by cheering crowds that do not see

The terror on the now condemned man’s face.

His wife, confused, knows not quite what to do,

Attends the man she’s loved since ‘52,

But with a further crack, the bullet falls

And splits her only love at once in two.

Her screaming filled that plaza, flecked with hate

But few were yet aware of this man’s fate,

She falls onto the metal painted black

And scrambles to retrieve her husbands’ traits.

Not two, nor three but four times they have won,

As autumn leaves fall drunk to winters sun.

The cheers begin to give way to the screams

For now they see their idol is undone.

And all the while the cowards sit up high,

Watching with sheer gladness at him die

But soon the grandest act is to begin,

As conspirators set the greatest lie.

And like a virus, this is quickly spread

As nations demand justice for their dead

But all the while his woman holds his hand

And mourns her shattered love upon the bed.

Copyright © 2012 by Simon Austin

 Jacqueline and John F. Kennedy

  

John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the 35th President of the UnitedStates, was assassinated at 12:30pm Friday, November 22, 1963, in Dealey Plaza,Dallas, Texas.  Kennedy was fatally shotwhile travelling with his wife Jacqueline. The ten-month investigation by the Warren Commission concluded thatKennedy was assassinated by Lee Harvey Oswald acting alone and that Jack Rubyacted alone when he killed Oswald before he could stand trial. The Commission'sconclusions were initially supported by a majority of the American public.However, polls conducted from 1966 to 2004 found that as many as 80 percent ofAmericans have suspected that there was a plot or cover-up.

Contrary to the Warren Commission, the United StatesHouse Select Committee on Assassinations (HSCA) concluded that Kennedy wasprobably assassinated as a result of a conspiracy. The HSCA found both theoriginal FBI investigation and the Warren Commission Report to be seriouslyflawed. While agreeing with the Commission that Oswald fired all the shotswhich caused the wounds to Kennedy and Connally, the HSCA stated that therewere at least four shots fired and that there was "...a high probabilitythat two gunmen fired at [the] President."

Kennedy's assassination is still the subject ofwidespread debate and has spawned numerous conspiracy theories and alternativescenarios.

Seven Kids from RG12

Monday’s child is fair of face,

(although their nose is out of place)

Tuesday’s child is full of grace,

(when they're not pissed out of their face)

Wednesday’s child is full of woe,

(it's tough to choose from smack or blow)

Thursday’s child has far to go,

(with DUI's you would have though)

Fridays child is loving and giving,

(and everyone knows that they’re game for receiving)

 Saturday’s child works hard for a living

(but benefit fraud is well worth a look in)

And the child that is born on the Sabbath day,
Is undoubtedly,

unquestionably,

undeniably

gay.

Copyright © 2012 by Simon Austin

Writer's Block (Distraction)

I sit with pen and paper firm in hand,

(OK, this is a keyboard, mouse and rum)

I cannot find a rhythmic thought, well planned

(And let’s be frank, I’m probably too drunk)

I think of misery and frosty nights

(But really want to watch Episode 4)

My brain is ploughed for ancient thoughts and sights

(God damn, my glass is empty; just one more)

How can I make these sentences connect?

(How did that bloody spider get in here?!)

Why are my words of scrambled dialect?

(Why did I eat that spicy lamb paneer?)

I screw the paper into snowball piles

(It’s more 'control, select all and delete')

My words are dull, dim-wit, disorganised

(...I think I’ll have a quick pick at my feet)

I light the candles, mood must simmer down

(I’ll save a fair few quid on leccy too)

I draw the curtains, darkness now enshrouds

(You think they’ll launch HD for channel two?)

Now the moment, creativity come!

(That spiders’ gone a-missing, FML!)

I feel the words appearing, I succumb

(I swear... I just heard someone ring the bell)

A flourish of beauty adorns the page

(Wikipedia: Random Article)

It’s been so long since I have sat this stage

(... how can the bloody thing be 8 feet tall?!)

My masterpiece, my magnus opus done!

(… there’s only quarter bottle of rum left)

I’ll have it printed, published, run, rerun

(I better hide the coke and down the rest)

And thus, my gifted waters flow again

(And thus it’s time to bleed the lizard dry!)

Never shall I be common, cold, condemned.

(... and now I got the hand soap in my eye!)

I sink into my joy, my well deserved.

(I think I’ll shut down now, I’m proper whacked)

My sleep is long and peaceful, undisturbed.

(Long as that fucking spider don't come back...)

My writers block is cleared, I'll race ahead
(But best that I don't drive 'til after three)
My next poem will be my pyramid

(Inspired on a buy two get one free)

Copyright © 2012 by Simon Austin

My Beautiful Lie

I hide behind a lie forged by my hand

Before this chiseled frame,  

Beyond the perfect shell they will not see my deceit

Thrown acrimoniously at their feet

But they love the lie, the truth would only disappoint;

Disarray their shallow intentions

After all, my invention pleases them

So why not let them drink up the joy

That it possesses? It impresses their eyes

How the lies just continue to spiral to madness

But with gladness I let slip the snap of the treasure,

The feeling of pleasure ensnared in my hand

And the rushing deathblow it deals to their delusions

You see I am the master of such dark illusions

And my creature, my beauty, entices them in

With the slightest of nods, the subtlest grin

As the desperate begging keeps them pouring in

So I toy with their minds; their kind is so… fickle;

Just tickle the ego, caress their detestable best

To watch them so quickly impressed

And so willing to drop and undress

What a mess they are in their desperateness.

But still, I confess, I love that they’re mine

Ensnared in my propaganda made of flesh

At the will of my god, my Adonis, my shrine

The most perfect creation, sculpted divine

Sublime in its presence but mendaciously sly;
In essence, nothing more than an ugly actuality

Beneath such a beautiful lie.

Copyright © 2012 by Simon Austin

Oh Darkness, Sweet Darkness

With my acuminous arm

I saved her wretched soul, like the others,

I drew the blood through clotted veins

And lay her down upon the blackness.

I cleaved the meats from her ivory.

He knelt with me and watched her filth, her poison

Pour through the cobbled streets

Into welcoming drains.

Plucked from the cadaver,

Her vessels of virility are no more;

The erroneous allocation of such a blessing

Will not rot the world in a shallow pit.

I will leave her with her shit.

Her vile excrement belongs in the grave beside her,

Thrown to her shoulders, near the gutter

Of her tortured mouth.

Dim lamps brighten nearby.

As before, I disappear through a trapdoor in the earth

Leaving the swarms of the abyss to relish

In my masterpiece.

But they are not worthy,

They witness only the very tip of my mighty art,

And their vacuous cries, their pitiless insincerity

Is to me but a sonata of applause.

And I will return, to cleanse your cancerous city

Of its disease; on my knees

I’ll draw the infection out, through carotid right, night after night

With divine purpose.

You will search, but you will not see.

Beyond your ignorance; your insignificance

Will blind you and bathe you in thickened blood

Clotted in your unworthy minds.

I am from Hell, and only I will choose my return,

My craft will end at my desire, your only power

Is to behold the chaos of my order,

Of my mastery.

Beneath the flesh of history, are London’s veins

And I will bleed them of their malignancy, their vested plague,
Upon the blessed edge of my ascendancy
Your whores will lay dead.

The mist gathers once more,
I feel it calling to me, its cimmerian shade covets my design
And I dine once more on its inexorable energy;
Oh darkness, sweet darkness, come unto me!

Copyright © 2012 by Simon Austin

Sultress

All I have to do
Is tip her…
All over my lips, at first, then

She starts to go down

Better than the rest

Her wicked whip of joy cracks with a satisfaction

Unmatched

Snatched euphoria glitters on a crush

And then, oh the rush!

She slips to that place only she knows

My god, she knows where to go

And knows what to do when she gets there
Which, naturally, she does, so quickly

The blood rushes to my skull

I throw my head back as the electricity switches on

Numbing my eyes

Dumbing my senses

Senselessness repels my attempt to control her

So why try?

I let her slide all over my body

Her smoky face hazes, it raises the hairs on my neck

Then, she goes for the kill

With a skill, a precision unchallenged

She hits the spot.

My hearts stops, clots, then fires pistons

Visions blur, my head swims with a radiance

And as my rapture spills to the air all around

The sound of her pleasures ring in my ears

And weak tears swell in my eyes

Sending me to ecstasy
As I slump, relax, exhale
But as always, she is ready for me again
All I have to do, is tip her
And down she goes.

For she is as good as they come;

By far and above the only one

My most beautiful, my smooth sultress

My delectable 
Rum. 

Copyright © 2012 by Simon Austin

Waves (A Final Letter Home)

I lie and let the waves wrap 'round my feet,

As midnight skies perform the second act,

Where black and blue so effortlessly meet

And force the waters cold around my back.

I feel the sand bequeath my buried toes;

To let the grit defy my sodden skin

And as the open door to my soul grows

I let the frothy waters trickle in.

The moonbeams push my head into a daze

And buckle up the oceans into folds,

They crash upon the land through every phase

Then pleat the sands in melody moulds.

I cover up my body with the art

To hide away from maddening despair,

Where seas take from the shore a fractured heart

They wash back in a love in full repair.

This place where sand and sea exchange their gifts

Is written into fabrics bored of time

And openly they air their ancient rifts

But secretly they share their love, divine.

My body, frozen shards of broken dreams,

Was scattered to the winds as though but dust,

Though nature built my body’s woven seams;

By god was built my love, my faith, my trust.

And here amongst the shorelines of the world

I sit and let the wave’s envelope me.

They carry out my body, seams unfurled,

Unto the mighty froth, the boundless sea.

I sink into a darkness full of light

And let the bonds that hold me wash away.

The moon bows low and disappears from sight,

As life arrests before the dawning day.

But what is left of me, on pristine lands

Where once my body fell and trickled dry,

The outlines of my body stain the sands;

The passage of my spirit tears the sky.

But as was once before all is again,

As mighty waves erase my fragile hue,

Though here I ceased before the hands of men;

My soul will find its way back home, to you. 

Copyright © 2012 by Simon Austin

Dedicated to those lost during the Normandy Landings 'D-Day' 6th June 1944

 

The Normandy landings, were the landing operations of the Allied invasion of Normandy, in Operation Overlord, during World War II. The landings commenced on Tuesday, 6 June 1944 (D-Day), beginning at 6:30am and involved 156,000 Allied troops against an ingrained and battle hardened 10,000 German soldiers, along a 50-mile stretch of the Normandy coast divided into five sectors: Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno, and Sword.

The battle became a major turning point of the war in Europe but at a cost: in all, the landings resulted in over 12,000 Allied casualties, with some 2,500 dead.