Rag and Bone

Dawn scatters these abandoned skies, cankered in memories of bone and burned outcast grey with the clinkers.

I say do as you’re told

Reborn days blink ashtray eyes, another nightlight outgrown and called into flesh by the fragrance of stinkers.

when you’re alone with the enemy

Torn dolls in hearsay lies, tales of rag and truth postponed and woven silk into the control of blinkers.

dance on the stolen road

Worn blank the replay dies, futures carved deep in headstones and riddled into the moss of night thinkers.

kiss away autonomy

Sworn to betray goodbyes, the rise and fall of empires condoned and sealed tight in the crushing of whimpers.

drink the lead in boiling gold

Mourn away doomsday cries, hopes flee overthrown and we who would be gods go crawling with the death of drinkers.

and find nothing but the silence of alchemy

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Peril and Performance

When I handed this blog over to the unpredictability of TPRS I had no idea where it would go. But, the diversity and depth of talent here on WordPress kills me every day. You push me, reading your work makes me a better writer, you see things that are far deeper than the salt and pepper of my insomniac seasonings and you are creative beyond understanding. Goddamn it, you guys are just bloody awesome.

For that reason alone TPRS will continue to delve into the safety pin sidelines, but it’s also taking a new direction. On May 18th 1897, DRACULA was published for the first time. It’s hard to fathom a world without this book or indeed the mind that created it. To celebrate his genius and in collaboration with SHE coffee lounge, TPRS is holding an Open Mic Night in Trowbridge, Wiltshire.

TPRS open mic draft

This is a One Night Only event, but will become something else, depending on the direction it wants to go. It’s a small world and our thoughts are limitless.

Any of you guys who live close by, please bring your ears, voices, poetry, prose, flash and most of all your delightful company.
Email: theperilousreadingsociety@gmail.com or use the Contact link through WP and I’ll shout out directions, book you a slot and probably stop talking long enough to buy you coffee.
Anyone who can’t make it but would like to contribute, send your words to the above email and, time permitting, they’ll be represented in true and wildly theatrical TPRS style. Anything submitted* will be included in the next Newsletter and subsequent blogs.

Thanks for everything you do here. Wish us luck,
Jac

*Submissions: keep in mind that this is a public event and I blush way too easily. Please don’t send anything with adult content.

Four Two

Another flare, and she forgets that there is anything but poison left in her mind.

Four Two. Files corrupted. Can’t use the right words.
Four Two. Take it. Take it. In bee stings and car crashes. Leave the money you bastards. She screams. And toxin stumbles, heavy as wet sand.

She says. Lanterns always burn brighter than lighthouses. When the storms come. And don’t go wasting no more time looking for the right name on the rescue boat. Scaffolded in paper cranes and paper cuts. Can’t be bothered to look for the difference between hands and fists. Anymore. She says.

It’s all dry land to the shipwrecked. She says.

And the in the silence between words she breathes another spoonful and waits for the wreckers to call her home.
For Two.
Late.

©2017 Jac Forsyth

Four Two was inspired by a wildly desolate piece of artwork created by Ash Finn. 

untitled (20170413)

Maybe I’ll never post anything again so I can keep this at the top of my page. Crow, you kill me.

Words and Feathers

hope is the thing with feathers
despair is the thing with scales

i am the watermelon man
reduced to a slick white rind
my seeds swallowed on accident
or spit into the street
for angels to pick and peck at

eli, eli, i’ve been thinking

some days the color leaches
out of everything
some days the everything
tastes of pine resin
and trail dust

eli, eli

if you swallow a watermelon seed
one will grow in your belly
and then what will you do

always feed them to the angels
with the oil slicks around their necks
rainbow nooses

i’ve been thinking

——

It’s still National Poetry Writing Month!
Day 13

Check out these sites:

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Red dot over epidemic depression 

‘A month worth of laundry and a month worth of bus ride.’ Dang. Check out this beauty of words by the superb, ankandas.

Exploring the epiphany

Lot of things don’t make any sense,

my sitting on the incinerating surface of the Venus and listening to this somnolent melody coming out of nowhere.

But it’s moulded with moroseness there,

bzzz…bzzz…bzzz…bzzz

Raping every fossils of this creation.

Numbness has it’s peculiar language to convey the turmoils within.

I wonder what if, of all people i could ever attain that,

my brain cells know about the guns and the tranquility after every bullets.

Am I too vulnerable to do anything or even to think anything?

I guess everyone is or isn’t.

A month worth of laundry and a month worth of bus ride,

living race only got these to dance through this aesthetic circus.

Indifferent city smoking away the scrumptious craps, honey like violence…and smitten hallucinations.

Thank you very much for this starless spell.

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Phoenix fallen

Fire up a match. Share a cigarette and let me see the ghosts in your words. Did you ever think the fight would end here? That we would be caught feeding flax seed to the extinction of doves while drums cry hawk over the bones of skeletal cities? Fall on foot, foot on fall. I fold, nicotine in your anger. Will you take me, break me, make me in the furnace one last time?

And our breath, torn in sails

Across the plains

Of America

Fire up a match. Drag your smoke in hand holding patterns of exile. Once I cut a silver tally with the blades of pencil sharpeners and chose who would bleed my wounds. So the phoenix becomes the flames. For a while. But it’s always easier to burn bright than to blow out the match. And we who are raised in the ashes of what it was to be free, well we’re just having fun.

©2017 Jac Forsyth

Image: weheartit.com

Spaceman

The skies bled dark. And First Contact was unfurled in monuments of intent, as unfathomable in their science as the cold silence that had preceded their arrival.

And even before the news broke, we knew they were here to kill us.

There was nothing they wanted, the politician said through a firework of light, and all we could do now was to offer our cooperation around the whole extinction process. It wasn’t personal. He said. It was just business.

Refusal wasn’t optional. He said.

And it’s funny, I can see now that life carries on clinging to the sides of the upturned bottle even when there is no hope left.

The sun came up the day after. And even though we knew we were all crawling through the final remnants of our lives, we still needed to breathe.  To pee.  To eat.  So we got up too, and went to work. Everyone did. It wasn’t like we wanted to, we just didn’t know what else to do.

Sam asked Jessica out. Finally. And Mr Doughan gave us all a massive pay rise and bought a Tesla. My parents drove their caravan all the way from Cornwall and parked outside my house. We had a barbecue when they arrived. In the street. They brought all the burgers from their freezer. The neighbours brought food and beer and paddling pools for the kids. I know their names. Now. We all leave our doors open. Now.

In Denmark, the farmers let all the cows go. No one needs to worry about buying milk anymore.

They say that routine can hold you when everything else falls apart. They took the cities first.  And some days I feel older than thought.

 

©2017 Jac Forsyth

 

image: fi.wikipedia.org

Midnight anatomy

The whisper coiled translucent in veins of opal fire, ‘You would walk alone into my dominion?’

‘And you would seek to threaten me with ghosts?’ Jacob fought back a wave of nomadic nausea, ‘Vapors of bad dreams and past imaginings?’

‘Words bring a hollow comfort,’ the form twisted abhorrent in its flesh, ‘when I would watch you write a rope and drown in tempests of binary quicksand?’

Jacob lent against the cold glass and drew the tips of his fingers into a mirrored arc, ‘Ah, but she calls to me with siren tongue, what am I to do?’

‘So you speak of grazing for water in an ocean of sand?’ the speaking bubbled laughter through septic gills, ‘when I am grown fat on the rations of famine?’

And the cool night air stole in from the east carrying the scent of rain and dust.

‘Give me a choice and I’ll take it,’ Jacob whispered.

The darkness swarmed charred flesh down to sullied meat ‘Then you are cursed to live among the bones and settlements of shame.’

‘So it is then,’ his sigh broke in ribbons.

And in the heart of darkness, the first bird called out to drag the sun from its slumber.

Jacob turned to face the demon, ‘War can come from want of peace and peace from want of war.  Tell me then of your desires, you who would keep my sweetheart from me?’

‘Death,’ said the fettered.

‘Death,’ said the fury.

‘Death,’ said the foul.

Jacob smiled then, ‘True enough she can seem as death to those who would chase her. But the fragrance of her song is sweet when all sweetness is gone. And if this is to be my death, then I would rather die than leave her.’

And the moon, bloated and grey, smudged across the clouds like a rubbed out mistake.

Behemoths

Monsters are drawn so easily in burnt embers and the taste of ruin. And is this what it is to be human? A bag full of nothing but noughts and crosses? Philosophies of ghost-glass searching for that one last game of cyclic snap? Glory chained? Beauty crushed?  Alliance written Dickensian in the fear of folding?

And so the golden haired sons became monsters. Not because they were inherently evil, but because they had taken that one first step beyond the threshold of their battered conscience.

Stand silent. Scuff out cohesion in tempests of contrition. Words we have inked, stories we have scraped raw into weeping flesh. Crime told. Guilt carved. Memories drawn in rusted nails and forgotten gallows. Them. Us. Us. Them. Allegories and flags torn down, sunk with the catastrophe of truth. And future fold and future fable entropy in perpetual sandcastles. Stand silent! Stand silent! The behemoths cry. Dress defeat in the colours of ignorance. Roll out the canons. And call victory.

 

©2017 Jac Forsyth