I've Moved!

Hello wayward traveler - I thank you for visiting my blog.

I have recently moved to Wordpress, so I'll be slowly phasing my 'Blogger' blog out. If you've enjoyed my work and would like to keep seeing it, please go to simonaustinpoetry.wordpress.com and you can continue following me and my poetry.

I look forward to seeing you there :)

Simon.

I've Moved!

Hello wayward traveler - I thank you for visiting my blog.

I have recently moved to Wordpress, so I'll be slowly phasing my 'Blogger' blog out. If you've enjoyed my work and would like to keep seeing it, please go to simonaustinpoetry.wordpress.com and you can continue following me and my poetry.

I look forward to seeing you there :)

Simon.

Sunday 16 February 2014

Saturday Night Bow

Poorly propped in the corner of the room,
His head, spinning the waltz, faults.
The thumping sounds liquify his ears,
Fears allayed in clouds of vodka and rum
Succumbing quickly to their potent beauty -
Mutiny on the dance floor!

He stumbles to his feet, behind the eyes
The heat builds to a crescendo
And sends him crashing back to his chair.
Somehow, the innuendo of the situation evades him
And without a care in the world
He stares blindly at nothing,
Whilst his skull swims.

Odours of overworked bodies muddy the air.
Heads of blonde and brunette
Wildly flick their matted tips his way
But his gaze drifts, thoughts of her return,
Burning the back of his throat
Where the hate for her rumbles up,
Following the cheap whisky to his mouth;
He swallows the lumps back in disgust -
Fucking bitch.

Bass merges into inane turbulence
But the urgency of the night is on.
Checking his phone, unknown numbers laugh
At his desperate thoughts. His sight, cracked.
His mind lost under intoxicated sheets;
He peers our from underneath them
And that's when he suddenly sees them.
Who is that?

Across the room, not fifteen feet,
Through the gaps of cheap juvenile ravishment
(Like peering through greased branches caught
In a drain) he catches a glance.
A chance on their face suggests they're aware;
Perhaps the stare came the other way first?
He snaps his head back, but like rubber
His gaze bounces back through the bodies
To the other that is no longer there.

A panic sets in. Is it the gin
(Or the wine, or the rum, or the shots)
That brings a sweat to his brow?
Somehow he is worried, a hurried jump to his feet,
Staggering forward through the neon darkness.
Balance forms in his mind, but unconvinced legs
Send him crashing to the glutinous floor.
A haze of stars in his path,
Belly laughs above the cacophony confirm it;
He's down. 

His shirt drinks the dirt from the floor, drop by drop
The grime binds to his skin. Grim and groped
He slams his hands forward,
But drunk elbows bend unsympathetically
And he bows further into the filth.

Confusion sets in, the direction has been lost.
Up isn't up anymore (is it?)
Trapped by an avalanche of points and jeers
He sneers at his own state -
Fucking loser.
Resigning to fate, he does not move,
His flooded skull now full,
Sure enough, it expands
And he plummets into catatonic bliss.

But suddenly, he's up - lifted to his feet,
His chin no longer friends with the filth.
Arms clasped under his own, the unknown saviour
Nothing more than an opaque outline,
The flavour of their scent, a distant comfort
That closes in quick, the obvious discord
Masking the subtle questioning;
'Are you OK?' comes sarcastically.
He clumsily grasps at his liberator,
The baiters have gone and in one swift move
He intentionally pulls her to him.

Thoughts of 'the bitch' fade in an instant,
A distant reflection, only the acidic stain in his throat
His reminder.  Replaced with another,
This rescuer, this minder
Grasping him as if trying to stop glass
Tumbling down a staircase.
His intoxication, utter and complete;
Feet sway to a new beat
And without concern he leans in,
Stealing a kiss from the lips of his heroine.

It's odd.
Soft skin and cherry smiles do not greet him.
The sweet nectar of perfume - absent.
Slim hips and magnificent breasts
Do not push up against his chest.
Instead, his head greets the chisel of jaw and rock;
He looks up, not down, on his liberator.
The flavour is hard spice, spliced with oaky notes.
Arms that keep him afloat, not lacy
But blatantly solid, cut from stone;
They alone hold him aloft from the scene
Where he broke.

Oh fuck - it's a bloke.
Taxi. 

Copyright © 2014 by Simon Austin
 

Wednesday 5 February 2014

The Conqueror

He crossed the seven oceans, brought the seven tides
But did not bring the mercy in His rippled wake,
The loss was His to gain, was His to cast aside
And yet, to pillage, plunder, was all His to take.
The comets and the stars above could not lament,
Or cease the rapid odyssey of his ascent.

His armies were immeasurable, immense in size
And none amongst the ranks did dare question His cause,
For they had once been men of freedom, men of pride,
For they had once been men that fought in grander halls.
But challenging His tyranny that knew no bounds.
Was but to dig their own grave in the waiting grounds.

The earth itself rose up and split itself apart
As He traversed the ruptured scars of its remains.
He strode across the bleeding magma’s of her heart,
Across the glass-like ashes of her blackened plains.
His glare was limitless, surveying without pause,
Ensuring all succumb to monocratic laws.

The fires parted ways like oceans drawn by moons
And though they licked at He, His flesh was left untried,
He strode across the roaring chasms without wounds
And laughed upon the faces of the gods defied
The very cosmos could not halt His forward march
And burnt as though but fabric in His aftermath.

But still between He and that which He seeks to hold
His stature riding high as death himself looked on,
He, utterly aware of those that were so bold
To challenge such a thunderstorm, a maelstrom.
His wrath alone diminished quick their measly gains
And cast their tortured carcasses upon the flames.

The sky above turns black from ceaseless firefight,
As blood begins to pour out of the cracks of earth,
An endless age of men fall down in wasted plight,
Then buckle into piles of ashes, mounds of dirt.
But He rides hard and fast upon His blackened horse,
Crushing foe and follower without remorse.

Millennia draw on but his defenses stand, 
As millions are notched beneath His brutal laws,
The waves of those that could not serve before His hand;
Devoured before uttering's of His great jaws.
A thousand years of immolation whispered in
And countless souls annihilated at His whim.

Until no more was left, and nothingness endured,
His domination absolute and ever long
The mountains, crumbled wastelands to his fate immured,
The oceans, barren canyons of oblivion.
And as the ceaseless winds rage on across His lands
They pour the scattered wastes through His triumphant hands. 

Copyright © 2014 by Simon Austin

Sunday 2 February 2014

I, Defined

You may judge me
On my successes
But I am defined
By my mistakes.
For it is these
That have truly made me,
Me.

Copyright © 2014 by Simon Austin

You may judge me on my successes but i am defined by my mistakes for it is these that have truly made me me