It Never Rains Where I Stand – A.G. Diedericks

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It never rains where I stand.

Cape Town’s water drought is rapidly approaching level zero, the city needs it more than I do. You died and I’m still waiting for that tantalizing storm they warned me about.

Your family wept for you and chose to utilize me as their scapegoat, waiting for me to immolate my emotions with looks that showed why I’m at home with foreigners and a foreigner when I’m at home.

Maybe it’s ’cause I don’t remember the memories; and I’ve foraged… all through our black & white photo albums. All I saw was anger, mirrored in the glass I removed from her hair after you couldn’t find your direction in life. And how my contempt for you was only eclipsed with self-denigration for not doing anything about it when I was still a kid.

You took me to the shop and littered my pockets with Molly candy hearts whilst my hands were tucked underneath gun control; you always knew how to circumvent the blue man group. Days spent dreaming of a dreamless sleep, breathing in asbestos and secondhand crack. Wasting away any potential we had.

I don’t want to denounce you, though. Only a coward would tell this true story and not let you to defend yourself and it’s not all your fault. I made a promise long ago to never turn out like you; I’ve kept that promise, ’cause I’m worse.

I know that I could have made more of an effort, or any effort for that matter to help improve our relationship. I know you’re still looking down on me, thinking, “he’s so full of shit!” and the worst part is, you’re not wrong.

There’s so much more that I need to say, so much more that I could do; I want to pour it out, all over this city where I rummage in desperation for the greyest cloud, waiting for the shudder of your lightning, waiting for some semblance of my elusive humanity, waiting to tell you that I became a writer…

But it won’t rain. It never rains… not where I stand.

Notes On A Suicide by Hemingway – A.G. Diedericks

The cosmos misplaced me
left me to meteor into this zeitgeist
of insipid distractions
Where i roam as an anachronism
under the city of lights
in pursuit of remnants from Lutetia
with nothing but a pen & piece
of paper to live on

Problem is I’m not a poet
Let me tell you how i know it:
I kill a reader
every time i get published
I drag ’em out
to the Battle of Normandy
and en garde my quill
up against their arsenal;
I tread belligerently
over land mines, unarmored
until there’s nothing left
of me to spill

Because who am i
without these lacerations
cut on truth
cut to the left
cut with avant garde

I look on as they flee for shelter
in colloquial boats
Washed up on the shores
of contrived obeisance

I write myself out
and into pastiche
Here..
Where i can marvel at all the
artifacts
that has since been decimated
by phosphorescent eyes

In this solitary hamlet
away from the hullabaloo
of small voices;
I swim naked in a cesspool
of regret & excuses;
The past is a rope that pulls me up
from the quagmire of my present;
The ghost of Hemingway smirks
at my attempted suicide
as he steals all the bullets from
my plagiarized shotgun

Leaving me tied to the
dénouement
of his sagacious notes,

“Your abstract is redundant. The expatriates weren’t lost in an archaic era. We Roared the 20’s with the clamour of our own literature. How is the reader supposed to find any emotive resonance in this? Your soul is still buried underneath the words, and it will only come to life once you’ve unearthed your own voice. I suggest you go and pick a fight with a bull in the streets of Pamplona; You’ll find everything you need there.”

Ruffled Edges – Chris Nelson

We came here so

Many years ago,

Chasing the ruffled edges

Of a crumpled photograph

Its monochrome hues whispering

Hushed voices still echoing

From white-edged border to faded frame,

Days stilled by wishful perception

Of contentment borne on wings

Which hung like the slow-mouthed moon

Captured by the eye but slipping ever

Between the fingers that reached out

Lost like the hopeful,

And frozen images caught our eye

Like souls entrapped –

And did we know that ours would follow?

Or was it all a dream

The promise that we shared

With a belief in something better?

And we’ll meet again one day

When all the pictures have faded

And all our dreams have died,

We’ll visit them at night

And walk along the rows

Of all we never knew

And ponder why we came

And shred ourselves on all we ever lost.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

 

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Bipolar’s Mistress – A.G. Diedericks

Our scars were vibing together
long before we ever learnt
how to dance
She unearths the secrets
I didn’t know i had

Torn up maps & cracked compasses
subjugated by the unknown
She comes with a lot of baggage
but she packs light

We feel on the outside
blowing smoke on their mirrors
Our reflection isn’t fit for Kodak;
it is too real, and out of place
We’re the perfect faux pas

In this reality of Russian Roulette;
she’s the one lying in my chamber,
pacing with a bottle of Vodka

Tear off this pallid skin,
she decreed..
Make me forget;
shade me with your flaws
be my best regret

She was my catharsis;
when poetry couldn’t palliate
my darkness
It was her..
My Bipolar’s Mistress

Loud as Love – Chris Nelson

Sing it loud

Sing it clear

From the rooftops

Through the tears

Lift your voice

Let it roar

The heavens shake

Still no more

Scream your name

Let it sound

Like thundered skies

Silent ground

Loud as love

Whispered words

Moving mountains

Seldom heard

Cry it loud

Let it ring

The love you have

To make me sing.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

 

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I Would Have Loved – Chris Nelson

I would have loved you then,

Your tumbling hair

A cascade of words

Around my heart,

Your silken skin

A sliver of hope

Amidst the dark,

But my eyes had not yet opened.

I would have loved you then,

Your precious lips

Their berry-sweet taste

Against my own,

Your endless eyes

Welcome drowning pools

In which to dive,

But my heart had not yet thawed.

I would have loved you then,

Your gentle touch

Warm electric glow

Against my flesh,

Your turning back

Sign for me to say

Deep hidden words,

But I knew I was too late.

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

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Ink me in colour – Chris Nelson

Ink me in colour

This monochrome heart

That’s bled black

For a thousand years and

Stained the Earth with pain,

Given birth to the sorrow

That wails through the night

A banshee’s song

Makes the Moon in her shame

Cover her face

And drop an icy tear which melts

A torrent which washes this despair

From corner to corner

Of a globe already sodden,

I’ll watch as each droplet seeps

Slowly from the pipette

Splashing upon the canvas

Like the first kiss of Spring

Its trickle running with quiet insistence

From page to page

Impregnates the white impassive

Sketches of life

Drowned from birth

By the flow from my eye,

Watch with impossible hope

For the pigment to take

And wash the black blood

Red – passion’s hue –

The disinterested white

Now coloured with love,

Empty the well

And I’ll drink with the thirst

Of the dying

And cling to yesterday’s hope

That the colour won’t come

Too late.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

 

If you enjoyed this, thank you! To read more please visit chrisnelson61

The Leaving – The Stories in Between

My little girl pleaded for me not to go. That was the hardest moment of my life, looking down at those big blue teary eyes, ripping me apart with every sob. I was shook by the memory of the words I had told her when this all began. All the nights I held her close, promising I would never leave her, that I would always be there to keep her safe. She’s too young to understand but this is the only thing left for me to do for her. If I go now, her and her mother will have their names moved to the bottom of the list. So this is my love for her, my final gift. A little more time.

I stand in line with over six hundred others on this morning. The way it has been since the onset of the event. Hundreds, thousands of people, day after day, herded like cattle across the platform and on board the waiting vessels. From the beginning they had made their intentions clear. They would take those willing to go first and then the rest would be taken systematically by force. Everyone who has been part of the leaving, so far, has gone voluntarily. This willingness to sacrifice themselves so others could remain has given me a renewed faith in humanity. Never in the span of human history had all the people of the world come together like this, with a common goal, a common sacrifice. And through this faith I recognize the hope I had thought lost.

As we near the entrance to the vessel, I look to the man at my right, then the woman to my left. We each instinctively reach for the others hand. With fingers locked, hand in hand, as brother and sister, we step aboard and leave this world behind.

My last breath is a breath sweet with the belief that those who remain will come together and find a way. All they need is a little more time.

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This will be my final post at Morality Park.  I would like to thank everyone who has supported my work at the park, there are a lot of great writers and readers here and you are all appreciated.  The Stories in Between