Exquisite black lace
Sheer black nylon
Spicy perfume air
Smooth black hair
Blood red lips
Deep blue eyes
Soft warm skin
Hot pulsing blood
Cool night beckons
Exquisite black lace
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We
are blind
to the truth
Everyday
Suffering goes on
And we deny it all
Unable to find a way
Through the maze of our modern lives
To a place where we can be ourselves
And hold out that hand that helps our neighbour
Instead we clench our hand in a tight fist
Holding tight onto what we have gained
Not seeing what we are losing
What slips away from our grasp
Diminishing our souls
Focused on our goals
With such passion
That we are
simply
Blind
A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Other are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.
Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.
Check it out on Amazon and Smashwords and other online e-book retailers.
A paperback version is now available for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……
I will not be able to review them or comment on them but feel free to join in and use them as an inspiration for your own work. They have been randomly generated by this site so there is a chance they have already been used by the Daily Post.
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I will not be able to review them or comment on them but feel free to join in and use them as an inspiration for your own work. They have been randomly generated by this site so there is a chance they have already been used by the Daily Post.
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So the soldier walks alone
beneath the
starry night
He has no aim but distance
from the bloody fight
But the war it still pursues him
snapping at his heels
He slips into the forest deep
beyond those broken hills
O glory days
Those glory days
They’ve shattered
and they fade
They only left a rumour
A shadow
where they laid
So the sword is silenced
with a deep and lasting chill
In his heart, the war goes on
the beating never still
Behind the hallowed orders
that laid so many low
Is revealed the empty truth
the sickest, cruellest blow
O glory days
Those glory days
They’re gone
they never were
So the soldier walks away
from guilt
that he defers
Waves of gold crash onto the shore
Bringing fire and steel and songs and roars
Colour and light bleed into the dark
Writing new borders,new Gods, new laws
Times of war and the shining axe
The pagan, the warrior, the thegn
The land divided up once more
Darkness was here again
Lost the marble luxuries
Returned to hall and hearth
Here began the journey
Of these words winding path
And here were born the names
That linger down through time
That give us all identity
Born from conquests crime
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What lies within that deep dark world?
That immensity of green threat
Where lies the leviathan of doom
In that swelling encompassing brine
Where plankton swirl through tentacles
That writhe and sway and curl and wave
And small fish dart discreet?
The leviathan’s milky domain!
Filled with cries of beasts the creature eats
Where crescendos rise and pull the heart with sighs.
The leviathan shifts with a thrashing fit
A rumble excites the waves.
And gulls drop and chop their prey and hop
from surf to spray to cloud to rock.
The whole sea moves with a great heart’s beat
Where will its great thoughts lead?
Will it be content to nibble and gnaw
Or rise with a tumultuous roar?
A great green wall with weight of stone
While here, nearby, and all alone
I
Stand
On the sand
Unsure
What ifs hang on
Like poisoned barbs
Even in the face of reality
All reason tells you
Let them go
Rip them from the flesh
Yet deep they go
Sharp their points
Beyond the anaesthetic
Of mere words
So rise up
From the river
Of doubt
Rip that flesh and bleed
Step on the shore of tomorrow
Healing first needs hurt
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Slip away for a few hours, into other worlds – away from all the troubles of this one.
Perhaps into the future – a near future – dark and disturbing and yet – so close. There follow the fates of four people worn down and broken – or angry with the system. Who break out of it and try to break it. Who question why they did and falter in their resolve only to be thrown back into the fray to discover the truth within themselves. A tale that questions rebellion and its motivations while railing at the oppression around us. Try it.
Or forget them all and take a moment each day – to read a little poetry and think. Three hundred and sixty-five poems in all shapes and sizes sprung from dreams and emotion. Published day after day for a year. There are haiku, sonnets, katauta, lanturnes and many other forms – including free form. The moods are as varied as the forms and often reflect my mood on the day. There is sadness and grief, joy and love.
I will not be able to review them or comment on them but feel free to join in and use them as an inspiration for your own work. They have been randomly generated by this site so there is a chance they have already been used by the Daily Post.
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Lace
Disparate resonances
Delicate dowagers, making doilies
And fine trim for prim and proper ladies
And
Lacy underwear
Designed to be divested
In fast passion
And
Purity
White and bright
Smiling bride
Lead to the groom
Leading to the room
And back to the
Lacy underwear
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Beneath all the drama
All the bluster and the mustering of arms
The blows and the hot hot wind
The shouts and screams
The glory and the tragedy
The dreams and the hopes
Through every act and movement
Every entrance and exit grand and small
After every curtain call and echo of applause
Do not overlook the fact that
Children died
Brothers and sisters remember
I will not be able to review them or comment on them but feel free to join in and use them as an inspiration for your own work. They have been randomly generated by this site so there is a chance they have already been used by the Daily Post.
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What’s inside
Distorts and shapes
The exterior
All those dreams and hopes
Hates and fears
That make up the interior
The moiling
Boiling
Packed and stacked
Stretched and tense
Earnest pretence
That inside us all
Makes us all
What we are
Rather than what
We wish
Would all the earth succumb to the concrete blanket of mankind? Was that the best legacy they could leave? Was their vision that limited?
One day there would come a time when it would be more profitable to tear these trees down than to leave them. Then there would be no power on earth that would save them. Even concerned consumers couldn’t stand in the way of profits anymore.
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So it grows
The discontent
Of fiscal winter
Even sceptics grumble
But will it tip
Will we finally
Drop our stiff letters
And stiff upper lips
And revolt?
Or sip a cup of tea
Settle back
And vote for the best singer/dancer/skater
Instead
So they gathered through all the seasons
No plan, no goal, no reason
Anyone would have thought they had agoraphobia
Reality, they imagined, could be held back forever
Socially seeking some satisfying Saturdays
Never needing new nighttime neon
All agreeing an admirable agenda
Rich raw results really render
Explorers – or pillagers? The line is thin on the high seas, in strange exotic lands. Those that operate without fear of consequence soon learn their folly. There are older powers in the world than gunpowder and steel.
A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Other are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.
Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.
Check it out at Amazon and Smashwords and other online e-book retailers.
A paperback version is now available for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……
I will not be able to review them or comment on them but feel free to join in and use them as an inspiration for your own work. They have been randomly generated by this site so there is a chance they have already been used by the Daily Post.
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So I was daydreaming in the bath – thinking about a book I read long ago – a biography of a famous 19th-century explorer and how he could be seen as representing men as a whole – but that’s a whole other post that will be coming soon.
Anyway – in the wandering way of my mind this lead me to thinking about how men have become demonised in the media generally. We are seen as stupid or beasts or slovenly – I could go on. But then, I thought women get it just as bad and then there’s ethnic minorities, the poor, immigrants – the list goes on. And on.
Maybe it’s just rich white people who get off lightly – but even as you read this what are you thinking? Of those Etonian brothers who keep their friend rich via nepotism and corruption while sneering at the poor? The rich wives from Chelsea with their lap dogs and expensive handbags and no clue about the real world?
See even they are demonised.
Why?
Who by – that’s an easier question. The media. And we all know that the media is run by those in power. I am no conspiracy theory nut – I don’t believe that there’s a tightly organised elite pulling the strings. Rather I think it’s like a self-sustaining system which lifts the people it needs to maintain its stability into positions of power. But whatever the reason – the media is the tool of that system.
So again why? Why demonise every single sector of society?
Control. If you cannot be proud of where you came from how can you rise to greatness? Great people can threaten the order of things, they can lead people out of their everyday drudgery and tedium. Out of wage slavery and obedience.
So greatness is stifled. In the modern garden of the world, the land is left to weeds and overgrowth. Anything that rises above the weed line is quickly cut down or sprayed with toxins until it wilts.
In such a barren and ill-tended garden, how can we expect flowers? How can we have anything more than poor harvests?
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Trapped. In a world where everything is measured and control pervades every area of life, four people begin to break down. Instead, they break through the walls of deceit and propaganda and into a world of revolution.
Each, in their way, vow to overthrow the established order. They embark on a journey against the forces arraigned against them, forces of state and self-doubt.
Ultimately their paths converge on a dangerous road and the discovery of an ancient secret.
One one level this is a story about how different people react the ever growing and relentless pressure of everyday oppression. It explores their journeys as they are broken and rebuilt and investigates their modes and motivations for rebelling.
At another level it is a critique on the darker side of capitalism and free markets and how that has driven us further and further away from the evolutionary advantage that gave us supremacy in the first place. It questions whether the human race has doomed itself or whether we still have the capacity to wrench ourselves from the track we have so tightly committed our society upon.
It looks like the arc of the defeated
The hunch of old and tired man
Worn down by time and routine
Only
The arc is a buttress
Against the burden of life
It is bent not broken
It serves its purpose well
If not gracefully
I have been put in so many boxes
No wonder I have lost my head
My left hand has lost the right
My heart is by the brown bread
My eyes are somewhere dark and grim
Can’t tell where or when
My feet are tied to a tired path
They wander again and again But it doesn’t matter My imagination can fly
I will not be able to review them or comment on them but feel free to join in and use them as an inspiration for your own work. They have been randomly generated by this site so there is a chance they have already been used by the Daily Post.
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“That’s proper lush, that is”
And you are in a time and place
While the grammar nazis squirm
Layer upon layer of meaning is conveyed
Language
Being used
For its intended purpose
Scott Andrew Bailey - Author 