Well, here it is; the third and final segment of the Albert Docks thingie I’ve been steadily working on. I know I haven’t uploaded in a couple of days, but I’m using the vague justification of ‘Been workin” to stave off your judgement. You can read part One here and part Two here, if you feel so inclined.
I hope you’ve enjoyed reading so far; I’d like to take this opportunity to say thank you to everyone who’s visiting my nonsensical ramblings and taking the time to read them.
If you’d like to check out a couple of free short stories, be sure to look to you right at the ‘Things I’ve written’ box; even if you ignore the weird experimental stuff (though I think you should at least read the free preview, even if only to completely convince yourself that you don’t want to read it), there’s a (fairly) solid short story I wrote in a night available on Smashwords (cos’ that’s where people who have nohere else to put things tend to put them) and a strange, Camus-inspired, piece avalable only through this blog!
avoiding the rigours of public transport
by practicing the last of the honest arts.
I swing my legs widely, but clip my tread
like I was always taught.
I cannot blend,
with the fresh-faced if distant horde;
they avoid me til’ I am left travelling
with others like me.
To them, dare I call myself a lord?
They seem to follow my every step,
with ill-timed precision.
Am I a prophet to them, a surgeon or a Christ
to inspire such motive loyalty
as that which guides this horde’s decision?
And I waste myself at dawn
through these cobbled, narrow streets which
hint at alleyways over the arteries of trade,
the private boudoirs of vermin and me,
foul creatures who could copulate in such a ditch.
But what is morality
when faced with crippling solitude;
solitude I have long since mastered
until I feel more alone in conversation
and any company demands a bastardised fortitude.
And what hope has morality to boast,
against the influence of women!
What subsequent logic does she malign,
and reduces argument to ash with a contraction and an adjective;
explain to me the madness of my living!
Naturally, her mind is sharper than mine
though I apply mine to the whetstone
whilst she blunts herself on useless endeavours
she has designed, to occupy her time,
to stop her, too, from realising how she is alone.
I knock a man over and he has her face,
and I apologise directly to her breast;
he swears at me
in guttural, gutter scouse.
Does he fear, I wonder, to leave the nest?
When I offer him my hand,
the fingernails I see are hers!
He doesn’t thank me
and I don’t expect him to;
If ever I’ve touched one; a mangy cur.
He walks away and I try
to ignore her swaying hips.
His jeans cling, tightly to his bones,
like a summer dress billows out;
she raises hot chocolate to her lips,
I try to shake her out,
evict her from the recession in my head.
I don’t want to, but I do;
I’m afraid that I could succeed
as she succeeded in my eviction from her bed.
What creature would I be,
I wonder; without such a human to inspire
me. The Modern Man; the Homo Lentus,
living my apathy instead of my life,
before I age, and sag, and tire?
I delivered my youth;
a transaction decided on the night before.
I struggle to rhyme and walk in tune,
in a crowd of her features.
How much easier; life; had I found a whore!
A whore to release inhibition,
oh, if only I could!
Oh, Narcissus’ vignette
free through indoctrination;
each of us as slaves to such wood!
All a waste; the waters
whisper that I waste my time!
Why, they ask, do I waste in foreign cities close to mine,
mourning a living lover, and a dead love,
through the methodology of such barbarous rhyme?
Still, I hear distant traffic,
and these waves against forgotten stones.
The last of my whiskey and my wine,
simmers besides my processed meats.
A meal of modern a Christ, so close to home!
Home! Home, my feet complain!
They raise their voice in petulant demand
as though I had the authority
to command the motions of my body,
like I were some waxy sorcerer, waving my hands!
I could walk this city for days,
haunt ancient streets where Mariners fought,
find the bars frequented by Gods
and men; searching,
searching for something sold and bought.
There must be more money,
to guide these wakeful footsteps home?
There must be pounds and pence and dollars,
to grease the wheels, like bread needs honey!
Madness, madness it all;
the words these waters cry.
Your dreams are nothing,
ash on the seafloor,
in the ocean penned by your widow’s cry.
But Peace, and Freedom; Equality?
Lies, notions of crypt-keepers fumbling at rusty locks.
We forget that we are animals,
meat and bone, electricity and hunger;
consuming ourselves in our own silhouettes,
wasting away the Albert Docks.
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!
If you’ve got any advice for someone who isn’t a natural poet with regards to writing (either poetry or not) I’m always open to suggestions!
I also think I’ll upload a more reader friendly version of the complete poem at some point, just so people don’t need to trawl through every page to read it, or end up reading it out of order.