Echoes of Vacuity

Welcome. I write poetry, so that is what you will find here ... Nothing more, nothing less. I have a few exciting things in the pipeline in terms of my writing on here, so I shall keep you all posted.

[echoesofvacuity]

Thirty Morning Journeys / Thirty

The finality of the month hangs over me, giving an air of ending, although my day has just begun. I wonder if, when my work is done, I will stop to notice the finer details of each day? The intoxicating fragrance of freshly cooked bread in the air. The languid sex appeal of the guy sitting relaxed on the bus. The dulled mindset needed to work. Maybe I’ll just become blind again. And the clock strikes twelve.

[echoesofvacuity]

Thirty Morning Journeys / Twenty-Nine

Carriage of metal, cheap plastic and even cheaper upholstery hurtles towards the capital. Conveying students and travellers and city workers with no concept of what we call down time. Sitting surrounded by anecdotes, meeting plans and soft clicks of a nearby laptop keyboard. Air-conditioning on and temperature marginally too cold, my cohorts and I wait impatiently to get there. And the clock strikes twelve.

[echoesofvacuity]

Thirty Morning Journeys / Twenty-Eight

It’s time to go. If I don’t leave now I will have no time for all the plans I made for today. “Five more minutes,” I mutter, pulling the duvet up to my chin, effectively halting my progress. The short time I assigned has become an hour, spent by mostly clicking around the internet with no real purpose. Asked where I am, I say that I’m on my way. Another hour passes. And the clock strikes twelve.

[echoesofvacuity]

Thirty Morning Journeys / Twenty-Seven

Overly polite voices reading the news break my sleep and bring me back from dreams that I have since forgotten. The opening chords go ‘We Built This City’ by Starship surge from the clock radio and I laugh at its misplacement. This was not the first alarm, the first came two hours before, but I cannot be late with no plans. So this, like the other, is silenced. And the clock strikes twelve.

[echoesofvacuity]

Thirty Morning Journeys / Twenty-Six

I'm back in my room, where I was still echoes, beautiful, emotional, a projection of what I want most. A place so impossible that I'm surprised I didn't notice that it was nothing but a lie. Instead I woke up somewhere where there's no you, no us, no embraces or soft kisses. I look over, I'm alone in bed, I've never felt worse. And the clock strikes twelve.

[echoesofvacuity]

Thirty Morning Journeys / Twenty-Five

The party's winding down. It's 3am, my housemates are missing and the remaining drunken revellers have lost lustre. The laptop in the corner is playing the Parma Violets and I'm still speaking to you. We're both dressed like idiots and I'm laughing at your singing. It's half 3, you're leaving, We embrace and I smile into your shoulder, before heading to bed. And the clock strikes twelve.

[echoesofvacuity]

Thirty Morning Journeys / Twenty-Four

Words. Words to entertain, to shock and to repulse. To be spoken and heard, of lives and loves and broken dreams and hearts. Writing words of our own pasts, or of fictional worlds of our own decision. Peace and war entwined in reckless abandon causing laughs, thoughts and sighs. I wonder if my words are worthy. And the clock strikes twelve.

[echoesofvacuity]

Thirty Morning Journeys / Twenty-Three

Where did this water come from? This flow that’s forming streams, ponds and rippling reservoirs in the invisible imperfections that mark the hard ground. In fact, I can’t even tell if it is water, as the dark navy colour of the flooring masks the fluids hue from the naked eye. I watch it change course with the determined sway of the bus. I think someone spilt a drink. And the clock strikes twelve.

[echoesofvacuity]

Thirty Morning Journeys / Twenty-Two

We talk about what time we should meet, passing around prospective times like precious cargo; tentative. Ten is suggested and I defer as, sitting here in my underwear, it’s impossible. “Ten-thirty,” I suggest. “There’s no rush,” comes your reply. I knew you would say that and you knew I would refuse; smiling at my phone, I step out. And the clock strikes twelve.

[echoesofvacuity]

Thirty Morning Journeys / Twenty-One

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Flood of messages breaks my sleep pattern and drags me back into the world. Unlock my phone. Why did they send so many messages when they could have just sent one? Their point could have been made in much fewer words, now I’m grumpy and awake. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. And the clock strikes twelve.

[echoesofvacuity]

Thirty Morning Journeys / Twenty

Returning to that place of learning; of books and lectures and cups of tea in paper cups. A place of questions with few answers, and the only time my brain works before ten. Where I can speak and be heard, and a place where I can find smiles and comforting words from friends and peers. Finally a place of peace, of rolling green hills and sun; here. And the clock strikes twelve.

[echoesofvacuity]

Thirty Morning Journeys / Nineteen

Press the button, that’s too much, hit the ceiling, dead. Try less pressure, not enough, collide with something, dead again. Lost track of how many lives I have lost on this damn level, especially as I keep getting more. Why does it give me four hits that only count as one? This is utter bullshit, why am I still playing this fucking ... (sigh) Okay, one more try. And the clock strikes twelve.

[echoesofvacuity]

Thirty Morning Journeys / Eighteen

Left to right, right to left, the method distracts from the mundane. String in hand, slick to the touch, threaded through the eyelets. Whirring motor pulls the tension through and stops with a thunk. Pulling the ends tight by hand and forming the knots; It’s done. And the clock strikes twelve.

[echoesofvacuity]

Thirty Morning Journeys / Seventeen

Fingers entwined with mine, moving my hand over your warm and naked body, you place it where you want me to keep it and smile. Gentle caress; sighs, gasps and low breathed moans. Gentle subsides to rough, slow picks up its speed, lips parting and sounds getting louder and louder, breathing quickens until one last exhalation. And the clock strikes twelve.

[echoesofvacuity]

Thirty Morning Journeys / Sixteen

The engine rumbles underneath, sending shockwaves up through my legs, leaving them feeling like they haven’t woken yet. There’s a woman talking at her phone, clearly not aware that they’re supposed to be pressed against your head for use. The sunlight gives excuse for me to wear sunglasses at eight am, so I can look at my fellow patrons without guilt or any detection. And the clock strikes twelve.

[echoesofvacuity]

Thirty Morning Journeys / Fifteen

The summer feels like it has already arrived, skin warmed by the sunlight and the lack of sleep slowly fading away from me. Walking in the shade gives little respite from the heat; bringing out the shorts, the t-shirts and pretty summer dresses. All of the memories of winter are forgotten, and more forgiven. And the clock strikes twelve.

[echoesofvacuity]

Thirty Morning Journeys / Fourteen

Open my eyes only to close them again in pain. A searing ache spreads through my skull, setting my mind ablaze, proving that there’s fire without the presence of any smoke. Movement makes it worse, stillness cannot stifle it. The warmth of the shower eases my aching body, but my head resists its power. And the clock strikes twelve.