The Melancholy Song

(I wrote this a while back going through a rough patch, but that’s all over now)

The Melancholy Song

You want to escape
Yet you are afraid of the passing faces
The faster paces they make to desert you
They are quick to mock all they see
You want to isolate yourself in a room
Yet you fear what you will become without
Touch, without
Assurance, without
You want to escape
Yet everything seems to make you sad
It is not an unstable feeling
It is a deep, pensive familiarity
It is Melancholy, and it is a long-lasting fixture
It soaks your bones
It lulls your conscious
It creaks and groans
You’d wish it gone if you had
The will to wish it gone
Anonymity would suit you well
Yet these days you would need a permit in hell


In A Moment

It happened within the speck of a second
Like a whistling arrow cutting through
The air and splintering its target.
He felt the inevitable pause
Between peace and chaos and blinked;
Buckled glass. Tightened muscle.
Last minute thoughts of love.
He squeezed his eyes in prayer
To the gravel road to be kind to his fragile spine.
He soared.

It happened within the speck of a second
Like a whistling arrow flying through
The air and striking its target.
He felt the inevitable pause
Between peace and chaos and blinked;
Buckled knees. Tightened embrace.
Last minute thoughts of lust.
He closed his eyes in prayer
To the divine girl to be kind to his fragile heart.
He soared.

A Portrait Of Nick Drake

Nick Drake was a singer-songwriter of the late sixties and early seventies, particularly skilled with the acoustic guitar. His music was soft and meaningful. Unfortunately, his songs only gained popularity posthumously. His death, in 1974 at the age of 26 from drug overdose, is not known to be an act suicide or an accident.

He is one of my favourite artists and if you aren’t familiar with his work I suggest you look him up 🙂

Nick Drake

The young man’s eyes gazed up to the ceiling, attempting to filter through the darkness. His feet were sticking out the end of the hand stitched quilt, which sent a chill up the rest of his lanky body. He gently sat up, letting himself hunch over in an attempt to recollect his complex dreams. A sliver of morning light streamed through a gap in his velvet curtains, highlighting the golden streaks in his long brown hair. It beckoned him over to the window as his long fingers drew the fabric aside. A fruit tree faced him in the garden, thriving in the touches of warmth. The sight caused him to smile, which felt funny to his usual stiff expression. This was the same fruit tree that had inspired him to write an entire song.

“Fame is but a fruit tree, so very unsound.
It can never flourish, till its stock is in the ground.
So men of fame, can never find a way,
Till time has flown far from their dying day”

Suddenly, he felt the tingle in his hands to pick up the nearby acoustic guitar and replicate what he experienced from last nights sleep.
His mother peered into his room, obviously pleased he had a healthy glow to his smooth face. She left after informing him breakfast was about to be served. He could smell the sugary waft of blueberry pancakes.
His callused fingers began a slow melody. He pictured an audience were sitting outside the window, fingers leaving dirty marks and breath bequeathing ghostly silhouettes. He shuddered and turned to face the head of his bed instead. An oil painting with a rose tinted moon was more pleasant to perform to. He thought about his last recording, the faces of his friends that had been so troubled. They could not possibly understand what that song had done to him. Was the subject of the song, “black eyed dog” a symbol for the hell hounds? Had all his music been contaminated with metaphors and riddles? Should the fruit tree out his window be a cypress?
After hitting an ugly note he stopped playing and inhaled deeply. The single note sustained through the silence. He swallowed a lump that had been caught at the back of his throat. There. He got up to get changed in his brown corduroys, white paisley shirt and warm black jacket. His clothes smelt of grass and dirt, an earthy scent that Nick found comfort in. His dark eyes closed and let his soft lips part. He felt a pressure subside. He was in his parents home, safe, away from people that constantly demanded things of him. Of  painstaking deadlines and embarrassing live performances. He felt like a baby bird safe in the wings of a warm nest.
He ruffled through his knapsack till he found his favourite plectrum and hurried, guitar in hand, to the kitchen. He heard the faint sound of something spilling out of his bag, but gave it no further thought as he went to join his Mother and Father for breakfast. A bottle labeled “Tryptizol,” rolled to a stop on the floor. Orange pills were scattered everywhere. Laughter could be heard echoing down the hallway

Fog Song (Reworking of T.S Eliot’s poem ‘Marina’)

This was a part of an exercise in my Experimental Writing class where we had to rework a piece of writing we liked.

For those of you who don’t know it, you can go to this link:

My goal was to reverse the original poem. ‘Marina’ was about an aging father lamenting his deceased daughter who was lost at sea. ‘Fog Song’ is the response from Marina. The title came from the idea that her voice calls out to him from the fog on the shores.

Fog Song

O’Father further
cracked with ice-fire
you have forgotten you remember
rotting June weak September
dissolved by a fog song grace
your conscious unknown knows
time beyond yourself where you spoken
for I un-spoken resigning your awake for I
What world towards hurrying timbers
does nearer, lesser meet


Wow, I loved how visual this was! Like a work of art 🙂

Style and a Half

They rained down furiously, splashing, streaking, smearing. They left trails, thick, slowly began to blend together in attempts to dominate, their shrieks immortalized in red and black. They wailed with harsh strokes, edges sharp and biting. And they sang with long breaths of yellows and greens.

Louder they surged upwards, outwards, so keen, so eager to express what even words cannot say. Look at us, they cried with glistening tears of the softest blues. Their arms swept wide, flashing wildly for all to see, to take notice.

They beamed as eyes fell upon them, as eyes listened to their voices, seeing what was not there, hearing what was not said. When eyes gleamed with emotion, they soothed with soft pinks and smiles of white.

And when the brush ceased and left them forever, they stood strong upon the canvas that they had forever claimed. They launched themselves forward into the…

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Don’t Worry? Be Happy?

Since my childhood my Dad has always repeated this phrase to me in hope I would just abandon all my negativity and smile. Yes, it appears to be a good motto…I mean wouldn’t life be better if one just lived without that wretched thing called worry? Unfortunately, at least I found, it really is impossible to not worry about things. You have to worry about your future, if your income is steady, if you’re being reasonable spending a whole day in bed watching documentaries about serial killers, if you’re keeping up with all your friends, if you chose the right education path, if you’re healthy enough, if the world is going to shit, if you would survive a zombie apocalypse…you know, important stuff.

So, I wrote a piece using word association and phrase manipulation that picked apart that cute little saying ‘Don’t Worry Be Happy.’ It’s sort of like ‘Ignorance Is Bliss,’ isn’t it? If you just forget or turn a blind eye to the things that upset you, you’ll be alright, yeah?

(I would also like to note that even though the phrase bugs me, I still like Bobby McFerrin’s song.)

Happy Don’t Worry Be

Don’t worry, be happy. Worry not and happy you will be. Walk lot’s by the sea.
Short locks sway in the breeze. Cheese blocks and chocolate cake. Ink blots and total escape. Immersion costs but worry not, laughs are cheap and set us free. You won’t be sorry, you will be happy. The phone is ringing, your hair is thinning. The paper tower is getting higher but the kettle is on and your tongue’s on fire. You just got shat on, the car won’t start. The kids are crying and music the sucks. Despite the fact you’re slowly dying, dinner is ready and your dreams flying. Smack into the windshield, knuckles white, sunset swooning and muscles tight. Lovers moaning and sweat is pouring, doctors delivering and fathers snoring. The shorts are short and so is life, but not the queue or the bills or your strife. Don’t be sad when you can be stupid. The world is flat and god is forgiving, so lets see a play, play a board game, board a cruise ship and be happy.

Soliloquies From The Heartland #1

because who doesn’t like goats 🙂

E.L. Hopkins


I was over at the bodega when I ran into Hank and Wallace. They’re crazy shiny-haired suit types during the day but they’re also a couple of real chill dongers so we all ended up over at Marie’s place. Marie is this older but still pretty smoking lady that’s married to the guy that makes the goat-cheese pizzas for the little league games, and this was in June—real serious little league time, we’re talking major consumption of goat-cheese—so Jerry, the pizza guy, is seriously busy making pizzas and meanwhile his poor wife Marie is stuck at home taking care of the guy’s goats.

That’s right, this guy Jerry keeps goats in his apartment—for the cheese, I guess—and he expects the wife to sit home on the hot summer days seeing after all these goddamn goats, trying to stop them from eating up the furniture and everything. I don’t even know…

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