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