Re(in)spiration

Many years later, he stumbled upon an old experiment. It was gathering dust in some far-flung corner of the internet.

[writersparry]

Billowy Drag

The wind blows And fills my jacket With billowy drag. It whistles through branches And slows my pace As it tousles my whiskers. It lives, exuberantly, Dancing with me In the street.

[writersparry]

Crumble and Release

There is obviously an easier way To release the sweet white flesh But we beat them broken with a hammer Against the concrete floor, Watch them crumble and release. The tree yielded a bumper crop this year And the nuts spill from the pot Over and around the statue of reclining Buddha Which lives in the shade of a succulent  On my outdoor table.

[writersparry]

Pre-Dusk Fade

A car door slams. Vehicle after vehicle Rushes by. The last of the sun Glows in the clouds Over the escarpment And we shiver In the dull afternoon.

[writersparry]

Racking Hard

I lay a plan upon the page Allocating tasks to days Racking hard my brain to see If something else is meant to be.

[writersparry]

Ripples

A familiar path leads me Over cigarette butts And cracks in the concrete Alongside and across roads To my usual haunt Where I sit and drink And eat and draw Listening to the same songs For the hundredth time Allowing ripples of conversation To penetrate my bubble As I sit solo in it Enjoying my own company And the feel of the felt-tip pen Gliding across the page.

[writersparry]

Sighing Softly

I exhale hissing breath That catches at the back of my throat. The air is cool and fresh When I breathe in again. It replenishes my lungs And oxygenates my blood. Grants me another minute to exist.

[writersparry]

Identify Me

I am lots of little dead things Charged and spinning On their own. If you zoom out I am a parasite Devouring and depleting. I am all that I think I am. I see all that is ahead of me And all that will ever be, is me.

[writersparry]

At the Cafe on the Corner

Scattered objects on the tabletop At the cafe on the corner With the crumbed remains of lunch At the cafe on the corner.

[writersparry]

Reactivation

Long neglected muscles strain Against tidy stacks of iron. Pushing. Lifting. Releasing.

[writersparry]

The Reserve

A crushed flannel flower Is trampled into sandy soil. Two birds perform an aerobic display Through and around the grevillea. Shoes squeak slightly as we walk Past Blood Point And the birds cheers us on As we trek through banksia flowers And dried leaves Back to the car.

[writersparry]

Revolve

If you cradled the world in your hands Would it spin? Would you dare shake the globe, Or keep the status quo? The way of things between cloud and crust Has you numb. You’ve closed your eyes and waited For so long. Your knee bounces nervously as you breathe. Things spin on. People pass by, going about their business. Things spin on. Lines deepen upon your brow. Things spin on. Time forgets. Monuments crumble. Things spin on.

[writersparry]

Alcohol

Ah the old vice I have struggled years to uncoil From around my neck Yet here I sit  In the early afternoon Drinking from cans

Like it’s all behind me No longer a daily habit But, when the fridge is stocked, Still consumed One after another Until I run dry.

[writersparry]

Walking Past the Old Laundrette

Steam puffs. A light flickers. Gravel crunches underfoot.

[writersparry]

The Blur

Alone in my experience, I don’t know how to say The thoughts swirling inside my head That gather day-by-day. I’m useless and I can’t be fucked To even rise from bed. The weeks blend into months again. I cannot get ahead. I’ve lost my sense of discipline. Anxiety runs rife. I’m worried by the time I wake I’ve wasted all my life. Should I shake off this mortal coil? It might be best that way To quell the tempest deep inside Is there another play? But then again all things will pass Including my despair. If I could build my confidence I’d have a life to share.

[writersparry]

Buzz

The clippers trace pathways Over my scalp. Clumps of brown hair fall Onto my shoulders Then slide down the black-and-white sheet To the floor. The barber attempts to chat And I briefly try to match him, But then retreat to silence. I close my eyes As he trims my beard. When he rubs oil across my chin The sharp fragrance fills my nostrils, Carried with me as I rise to pay And leave through the heavy glass door.

[writersparry]

An Excuse for Not

I think of many reasons why not And fewer reasons why. I find I’m opting out a lot. It’s simpler not to try. My phone rings in my pocket: “Hey!” An opportunity! “I’d rather not just now,” I say And make a cup of tea. I drain my second cup and sigh; My phone buzzes this time. An invitation. How can I? I’d rather sit and rhyme. I blame the bad anxiety for making me this way. How I avoid society And waste day after day. I know I need to face up soon, Answer when they call. Start moving to a different tune. Show up and stand up tall. For now I sit and write and fret Avoiding every task. My phone sits on my desk and yet I’ve switched it off at last.

[writersparry]

Slippery

The shower curtain is in the wash. I shower anyway And the water splashes off my back onto the bathroom floor.