An Other Quote.

'To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the inner music the words make'

- Truman Capote.

It means something to me.

Move On.

Since my time of writing's last, my trial has ended, numb, anti climatic.

As far as aforementioned trials go, I was not found guilty. I was not strapped to a chair, in the strictest sense. Merely found a word I can't put my finger on. Hair of the duck, I'm living in a cupboard, I socialized overly, a week spent drowning in nobody's home, now I drown in here on my own.

Life becomes of no words never meant more words to me, but what of irony?

Burning down like the last match.

But, poetic devices aside (clearly...), I feel that the situations mounting up have given me some perspective.

I am not a child, never will be, and teenage angst ridden fantasies of burning love, consuming everything around it, ending in fiery death, archetypal, doesn't move me any longer.

She was exactly what I wanted, until she proved that she wasn't.

My life, I just want to live, immortal.

I have troubles, no doubt, but I don't need them. If I can do what I say without saying I need to do.

Sentences fall off the edge of the cliff, where I sit in the chair, rocking.

The blues.

I'd be happy, in life, just to be, to write, to do, to exist at peace with my world. I don't want what I used to. Not even what I wanted a week ago. I'll never burn a lead sheet again.

In talking previously, to the past, I said.

I said in streams of consciousness, stuck in Tin Pan Alley alone and breathing. I mentioned today's failures, useless, worthless days ending in hopeless night and twisted dreams. Maybe I'm wired differently, a friend once said. Maybe twisted dreams are the start of my days, not the end.

I begin in the night, in the hour for magick.

Maybe some day soon, I'll fall down in the street, clutching my chest as I pass the places we used to sit, but at the moment, all I think about is sigh. An anti climax, the likes of which has never been seen.

There are so many ways I could describe the lucidity of feeling I believe I am in regarding many situations, but I feel, with my mind processing metaphors and rhymes, listless chimes, that I could never explain them in space and time. Eclipse.

There's nothing in my eyes but cloudy dreams of tomorrow.

I'm living nightmares in blue.

For you.

The Trial...

'I have been guilty of kicking myself in the teeth'.

Some more meaning, now I find myself, out of touch, out of mind, in like, serious like, light another cigarette, inhale the pain away.

All I write is stream of consciousness, running down the river, waiting for her to return, her own private hell, a requiem for a dream existence, no reason to be sad eyes burning in the sun (I feel like and screaming should be next).

Where is she? I killed an insect, scratching on my screen, unable to write, my fingers turned to toes once.

I can't stand without her there, she's my new crutch, sit back down, retard girl. A reputation unwanted, deserved, where did she sleep last night?

She's pretty on the inside. If she didn't make me want to die, would I want her? Would I want to chew for her, cradling as she rocks? Busting down walls?

My life of silent screams makes more sense when she's bringing darkness towards me. I'd want to be there, if only there was nobody else. If I was only given the chance, I'd lie with her forever, alone, going nowhere, even taking two steps back, but it'll never happen like this.

I'd count backwards from infinity, if only I could reach her. She makes me feel like I'm young again. When I didn't feel a hundred years old. When I didn't need to be Dorian Gray. But I want to take a knife to my chest whenever she leaves.

It's been two days. Again. Time flies by.

Absence makes the heart resentful,
Free the grudges rest.
Absence makes the heart grow faster,
I never requested a test.

Internal rhyming, assonation, unrecognizably word.

If there's nothing I can do for you (I'll chew for you), let me down before I die.

I will die for you if you ask me, babe. A new band, an old flame, burning out, full of references and dirty slate.

There's nothing I can do that's good enough for you.

The trial continues.

And screaming.

Yours, on fire.

Sometimes I Wish...

Titles refer to songs. Hole. Look and tell me.

It's been a weird night.

Given the assumption that only you will read this (I don't expect her to think to, I lyrical enough to her as it is), I may as well continue.

Alone, soaked, wine and socialist principles. Tonight I reside in a place unknown to you. There's a fact file of mental handicap at my windowsill. I look. Technology faded.

I live here, behind the eye of humanity, with minimalist rhythms from a distant place. The same. Over and over.

If you save yourself, will you think you're happy, or skipped to the end of the line? Sap?

Feedback rings through my silent head. No direction as far as I can see.

I know how I feel now. I truly do. Like candles muting in the wind (if you notice, I write my mind), I drink of this wine, noble rot infesting the grapes, dying on the vine?

I have said this before?

You tell me. Read me. Kill me. Copy me. I'm desperate for her both. I know I've said Pyramus before, an unknown word, my mind thinks in metaphors of angels and angles. It's less dangerous on the same line, no longer, my libido would never be useless buckets of salt.

But if none of this is th real life? Is this just fantasy? I'd be landsliding down in a hole where I belong.

Some intimate knowledge of burning hope. I say burning a lot and screaming. Silent screams. I live a life in waking dreams. I don't recognise this place I lay, insects crawling from my skin.

Will anybody? Will they ever understand my words? Do they know what I mean?

Do you?

How about you?

Unintentional space, slivering stream of consciousness

I feel that these rant should be precursory to take me home. Some lyrics? This black hole sun. This black hole one.

One...

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

RAIN.

Well you know this life is killing me,
They took my soul away.
All that's left is just an empty space,
There's no such thing as come what may.

Well here I go now,
Can't I just hide away?

Hard rain washes the world away,
Bleeding memories are all I see.
I'm drowning, dry, a weary battle cry,
And beauty is a knife to me.

Well here I go now,
Can't I just hide away?

Someone give me shelter, please.
Shelter from this rain.

People drift by and never notice me,
They took my dreams away.
I'll fade away into the clouds tonight,
They'll build a new one out of clay.

Can't I just hide away?

Someone give me shelter, please.
Shelter from the rain.

Stop the rain.

Stop the rain.

All it ever does is rain,
All it ever does is rain.

My feet are off the ground,
My soul is missing,
Was it ever really there at all?

(c) 2009 Rob Eff.

Some old words, long since conception. One man and his old blind dog in the rain. hiding from the world in the world.

Time In Like...

Bury me in everything that you are, everything we could become.
I don't know how to write the way I feel, beyond metaphor, verse or rhyme...

In time.

I know we can soar together, free from this illness I still cling to, a crutch,
holding me up in melting days. Tomorrow, I'll leave where I rot today, waiting
for your call, I'll plan my day in secrets around you, under the radar of
existence, governed.

See the cripple dancing for you, I'd stand up for you, any time, if I could.

We're stronger than this wine, I know. In trust, in like, under my skin and
repeating softly spoken words of yesterday.

I spend my days out of mind, like a song, struggling to burn within an enclosed
glass, withering into nothing until you write.

Last night.

Nothing in the world on my mind, inside, I'm on your side, I'll be everything you
want if you need me to be. Read this quickly, desperately, without breath.

You take me back to a time.

A time, before melting, when everything seemed so much simpler. I'm the boy with
the time in his side until I see you, clockwise.

Exhausted...

There are no words.

My life falls apart every time I open my eyes. Afterlife, Afterdeath, everything is harsh, bright, and seared into my mind. A world on fire catches up to me, from behind, hurtling towards me like death. It silently approaches, stalking me in the burning sunlit morning.

This sun is at its brightest, ready to explode.
This lion at it's fiercest, dying.

A sacrificial stone, drenched to the drone.

Half a bar of silence brings me back to reality, I'm no Dorian Gray, but I see the future. My face emaciates as I touch it with scorched hands. Eyes rolling back, sinking like stones in my pass, I'm past.

Have you heard a death rattle?

I shake mine every day.

I hear silent screams and twisted dreams, morbid angels, the fearless fearing you.

Who?

The past. Coming for me. I can't see straight in front of me. Would you look at who's become?

There are no words. Nothing to say but nothing at all. Imagery melted long ago. Paragraphs rubbing together, like still wet paint cracking in the heat. There was a burning intensity, from where the future ended.

I'm crawling here, beneath you, with eyes of ash.

Have you ever heard the death rattle?

Of Mice And You.

I just had a moment.

Talking. Well, e-chatting.

It seemed like our whole future, I could see both sides of the crossroads, both eventualities, choose a side, choose it wise. The whole relationship came down to this one moment, this one comment.

Commence.

I won't say what it was, wasn't, might be, but I feel like Pyramus with a different ending. Quarreling parents refused permission, lovers speaking through a crack in the wall. This one observation broke through this wall, words of steel and burning heartstrings.

Absence makes the heart grow faster, I quiver when she is elsewhere. I'll write her letters, and write a million songs, screaming to crowds of strangers that this girl will be mine. In the morning I'll be with her, it'll be a different kind, my skinny love, last forever, never leave my side.

I've said this before, we all have, but it's never been like this. She.

She is everything, I haiku.

Through it all, stolen stories, soliloquy, ghosts haunt my sorrow and melt my soul, in a jar, firefly's turning the stream to steam. I'm always left with this feeling, gang aft a-gley, leave me nothing but grief and pain.

For promised joy, I write of Burns.

Now what do you suppose is eating me?

Ghost Reflection.

A short story I said, blanking out pages.

...

Songs Of Summer (Ghost Reflections).

I walk the way home, but take a detour through the fields and the trees, places I've gone hundreds of times during my life.

Today things are different.

As I walk from a beautiful, sun kissed field, a vast expanse of blissful nothing, that quietly sings songs of summer, burning grass, I enter the trees and notice on the way in, a melted mirror in a dead tree to my left, dripping from a branch, reflecting sunlight like some piece of time on canvas sheets. I stop to look a second,not rushing. I have several hours until sundown brings on the night. I see a reflection in this melting, of a ghost, dead to me, dead like you. It stares back at me, moving as I move. I take a look behind to fields of summer, missing. It's dark now, cold and sudden.

The clearing in the trees has gone now, just me in this dark forest that never seemed as tall and spiteful as a child.

I take a walk further in, forsaken like Caine?

A new setting like. Tall, dead, twisted trees all around, like a winterset. Entwined all along the narrow path taking me deeper. As previously stated time is concerned, maybe I was wrong, bad calculations, for now the sky is the deep, cold blue like the ocean, just before night.

I walk on, deeper and deeper, then stop...

Snow falls like solid liquid emotional coldness in a dream, read from a book. The bare trees shiver now, as it falls heavier by the second, blizzard, scissored fluid, an empty-handed ballad. No mention of sounds before,
a reason, serenity left behind. All I hear is wind, whipping, wild and white, all other senses have long since shut down, fled over fight, panic sets in, no way to go. My chest gets tight, clutching and stumbling, hand out in front of me becoming my eyes.

I'll die here, I know for sure, based on fact, sentences become longer, more confused, panic inducing, a sense of desperation, this journey continues, hours down the line, I fall to the floor, covered in snow, close my eyes and smile...

Awake, on the sunny, burnt ground. I rub my eyes, I think, a dream.

I light a cigarette and look around, still fuzzy, not sure where I am. Back at the entrance to the trees, melted mirror dripping from one bare tree. The day is bright. I hear songs of summer behind me.

I wonder.

I wander to the melted mirror to inspect it.

Ghost reflection...

--------------------------------------------

Not so much prose as mock prose, spontaneous, thirty essentials that Kerouac said.

Soliloquy To You.

As I rode home a stolen bike tonight, the world rushing at me, consuming, the chill wind tearing my skin, bleeding, it dawned on me that I could control everything going on. All I had to do was stop.

Close my eyes.

Cease to be I and me.

I saw railway tracks underfoot, underbridge, lines I could follow, wandering, wandering in the spiteful night. I think I cheated, stolen stories (she's everything, could be), what is this dagger I see before me, the handle toward my hand?

Come, let me clutch thee. Stop the world turning, are you listening?

Who am I?

My friends are dead and gone, a new life embryonic, I have bad skin, peeled, crazed.

These two eyes see what no one else can, distorted but clear, blurry but fine, a life treading on rusty daggers, razorblades and grand philosophies of existence.

Rhyme.

Every time.

Forever journey to the world passing by,
In the blink of my near dead eye.
Forever journey in candlelit terror,
Alone, alone, I sigh.

...

At Sea Are Me.

A way to write my life in words, humously.

It's like I'm lost at sea, sat on a lonely rowing boat, cracked, pea green, with no oar to give me direction.

I drift along, in a parallel universe where all there is is this sea, dark blue-green and murky.

I can take all the time I need here to perfect sitting perfectly still, going nowhere, time has stopped here.

With no ability, swimming, phobia, I'm constantly panicking, even when the water is serene, rocking gently back and forth.

Occasionally, increasingly, the water becomes tumultuous, everything below me shifts and my world falls away,
the boat rocks, I stand up, desperately trying to keep myself in the boat, grabbing at the sides and stumbling.

Eventually, when the water calms, all I'm left with is silent desperation, silent panic, screaming silent
screams until the next storm shatters dreams.

Drifting along.

The rest of eternity. I don't think I have the right to stay or go, life or death, none of it matters.

My eyes are full of water, nothing seems in front of me.

Only The Day.

ONLY THE DAY.

Broken shards inside of me,
Cut me up every time I breathe.
I choke it back just to be someone else,
I'm fit for nothing and nobody.

Well this skin is thin as frost,
I've cracked and peeled now I'm shattered and lost.
I watch it melt, I watch it burn,
Until I have no words left to exhaust.

And then I hear you say...

'It's only the day'.

A clouded dream to mystify,
I'll kill myself 'cause I don't want to die.
I see your name carved in the frost,
By melancholy, his friends and I.

And then I hear you say...

'It's only the day'.

Oh, under the frozen sea,
I'll burn you.
Oh, don't you get close to me,
I'll ruin you.

And then I hear you say...

'Broken shards inside of me'.

(c) 2009 Rob Eff.

This Time Irrelevant, These Words Surreal...

Are these thing I see in front of me?

Or are these Babylonian legends, myths?

Time is nothing, a construct, it's merely what we perceive it to be. We can speed up time in a rapid blink of an eye, unresolving the past, rushing through our lives, waiting for a click.

But at the same time.

Staring into melting clocks, watch it. A second always seems longer when you watch it happen.

Words always seem realer until you read them.

Every word she sings to me, I burn to hear it again, forever. But what could they mean? Should I shut up and let her go? I know the way it works.

I am useless buckets of salt, burning for the end. Her head fills with sand in the morning.

There's a moonlit night, tonight. Tomorrow I embark on religious ground, I only exist because of her, will graves burn my hands like she burns my lips? One baby to another.

She's my sweet princess, or so it seems, between the lines at least.

There's nothing wrong with you, but absence makes the heart grow faster, climbing sandy banks, is it really happening, in front of me? All around me?

Will they make a movie about you and me?

She could be my story question mark.

Turnaround.

Could she be my story? Or is it all surreal?

Unreal?

Still life inside an empty book, of pages, she kisses me until the morning light, time gone by.

As quickly as we're told?

Each second is a million years when she's near me. I throw out discarded poetical values and speak from my bleeding heartstrings, strung out in heaven.

Another day to see her, if I sleep it will come sooner, like Christmas to a child.

But does it? Pulling string from my mouth.

This time is irrelevant, these words are surreal, since when did I decide I could feel?

Again.

Veronique...

So this is something I wrote a little time backwards, retreating, turning old pages back and bleeding.

VERONIQUE.

It's just like magick,
How flowers grow in salt,
Because of you.

You are the link,
Between the mortal and divine.

I kiss the sky,
And it tastes of you.
Just want to lie,
In this dark place with you.

[You put a spell on me overnight,
I'd like to drown for you if that's alright.
You put a spell on me overnight.

And when the trumpet blows,
Will I be all alone?

When we're swallowed whole...]

It's just like magick,
How every breath you take,
Seems like my first.

You be the queen,
You be the sire to my heart.

Tear out my heart,
I'm sure it wouldn't hurt.
Tear out my heart,
And prove to me that it still works.

[You put a spell on me overnight,
I'd like to drown for you if that's alright.
You put a spell on me overnight.

And when the trumpet blows,
Will I be all alone?

When we're swallowed whole...]

Well you're better than suicide to me.

You're the chill up my spine in the dead of night,
You're the thing the darkness fears,
You're the dead of night.


[You put a spell on me overnight,
I'd like to drown for you if that's alright.
You put a spell on me overnight.

And when the trumpet blows,
Will I be all alone?

When we're swallowed whole...]

(c) 2009 Rob Eff...

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Now I look once more, there's blood on this page, but no lines. These ink stained letters are not my best, more collections of offensive vowel and consonant representations of a world I never saw than words.

But nonetheless, the less I write, the more I feel like this will never end.

Digging myself out of a hole with a single inky feather.

Pyramus and You.

Have you ever read Shakespeare, burning my lips?

The man lies, dead, stolen stories from yesterday.

I met her, eyes like thunder, I could talk to her forever. Would I talk to her through the walls when parents forbid us to speak? I very would.

She says I speak pretty words, I smile as she tells me anything. I'll bring the new wine to meet you at the mulberry tree, I'll burn for you until I chew for you again, organs racing, tight chest. You only have to bring that person, you, splayed out for all to see, nobody ever you and me.

I may think of the end [notes on freedom], blue fabric tearing at the seams, wait and see, but she can make it all go away. Maybe she can help me.

Maybe she's not here at all.

I could muse a million songs, tipping into the sky, secret babylon, myths of lions and elliott smith, my chest, the pain, it's all the same, gone whenever she's near.

Will she read this? I don't know. I hope so. I'd like to think that she's reading right now, but I know that's never right.

Anybody who remembers the stupid words I say, perfect, time and place, age and race, she really could be everything, horrible boy bruising and breaking, her sad eyes looking up at me.

I could talk forever, blackcurrants and apples, melted.

Pyramus?

I'd stab myself in the chest if a lion took upon her. I poet for her.

She could be my everything, I think. I know.

I might as though.

Twisting senses, I taste the song, hallelujah, skeletons, something pretty, dietro casa telling me the world we are. Is this? This is?

This way.

Fin.

Talk In Blue/Thank You.

I feel like writing, but I don't know what to write.

I like defining moments.

I guess I've been lucky so far, total eclipses, Obama, millennia, the turning of tides.

I like deliberately mis-spelt words. Grammar amuses me.

I'm like a dry sponge, the salt has turned to dust and drifted away, leaving me a lone, ensouled, [possibly pretentious] starving wolf alone on the river bed.

The birth canal.

Torn away from all we've ever known, we must repress these early memories. Do you cry? Do you hurt?

What more definitive moment in a creature's life?

Thank you.

...

THANK YOU.

I'm soaked to the soul,
With everything that I am.
I crawl from the water,
And I fall to the sand.

It clings to my wet skin,
As the sun burns my eyes.
Sunrise and riptides,
The struggle within.

Within the way out.

I'm crawling,
I'm crawling in two.

Yeah.

I'm coughing up water,
What a way to capsize.
There's a ship in the distance,
I know to despise.

I try to move backwards,
Just like the tide.
Sun-dried and cross-eyed,
I'm skeletal firewood.

Yeah.

There's a stale smell of salt,
As the ship turns away.
I'm lying here naked,
I'm ready-made.

And I want to thank you,
For leaving me here.
I want to thank you,
I really do.

Yeah.

(c) 2009 Rob Eff.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------




















We've agreed to disagree. It's the time of year. The town of my birth, buried.

Notes On Freedom...

I remember a time, not long gone, when I thought we were free as we wanted to be. Me and a pack on my back was all I needed to be truly free. Perhaps you sat at home, television death, rotting, was your freedom.

None of it was true.

Freedom exists at the end of the road. A dirt road dusty, crossroads along the way, we choose every day. Pick a direction, take it, never look back, the right way, there.

At the end of the road, true freedom, is death. When you die, the pain is gone.

The end of the road.

The end.

Coming to a middle in painting letters. The true ending of all things. Death. Heaven and hell? Rotting in the cold dead ground? Rusty leaves scorching the sky?

Who knows?

Freedom exists if we take our choices. We can hit the road, kicking up dust, leave it in our wake, we'll get freer as we walk. Closer to the inevitable end we'll never see, further from another choice.

Stagnation. Suffer death in the place of our birth, material television, maternal derision, moving nowhere, gathering dust until we die.

Freedom exists.

Live life to your passions, not your limitations.

According to your strengths, not weaknesses.

Be the change you want to see.

Matchsticks And Miracles...

So tonight I thought I'd reveal some words, written.
I'm not sure if I dare. This is my work, don't use it. Maybe nobody will like it. Maybe I should delete this post. Maybe I should...

MATCHSTICKS AND MIRACLES.
I sit here alone in this sandbox,
The desert crumbles at my feet.
Infinite tools that are buried somewhere,
Beach tar on a burnt lead sheet.

I sit here alone in this sandbox,
With thoughts dripping through like wax.
As matchsticks and miracles cut through the air,
A statement that reads like facts.

[Burn me down,
And bury the ashes.
Burn me down tonight.
I hear my fear is my only courage,
But I know that's never right.
So burn me down,
Burn me down tonight.]

I stumble into streams beneath you,
A mirage of consciousness.
Fountains of gardens of waterlife wells,
And waxwork fruitlessness.

Burn me down.

Mosaic floors in a palace above me,
Past life, still life lives on.
Place my abstract heart in a maze or knell,
Secret colours in quarter-tone.

[Burn me down,
And bury the ashes.
Burn me down tonight.
I hear my fear is my only courage,
But I know that's never right.
So burn me down,
Burn me down tonight.]

I've tried to kill time,
I'm out of time.

(c) Rob Eff 2009.

...

This is stream of consciousness thought, in thinking of not being able to write.
I dropped my pen, the ink stained my skin.

PERMENANT.

Stars That Shine.

Tonight I sit here, much the same as last night. I was awoken, I believe, by friends, whisky and bruises. They told me of a time, in about a quarter of a century, when the stars would no longer shine. Supernova light reaching the earth, as bright as steel, blotting out the stars, ridding the night of the dark.

I got to thinking (derivative) about then. In thinking. An author or astronomer, staring through the telescope and seeing nothing, like seeing no ships in a dictators blind eye, but truthful.

The night won't be the night anymore. What will the darkness fear? In the present I look through the kaleidoscope, kaleidous eyes, I can read parables from a faithless bible, inscribe that paper with libel.

As defining a moment in the history of mankind as it may be, will be, it could be the end of space, for us rooted to the ground, bare trees struggling against the tide.

Quotations.

So here are some quotations I either really believe in or try to live my life by:

'For me, love must be ugly, looks must be divine, and death must be beautiful.' - Salvador Dali.

'The Blues isn't wrote. The Blues is lived.' - Johnny Shines.

'Did you have a good world when you died? Enough to base a movie on?' - Jim Morrison.

'The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!” - Jack Kerouac.

'I won't be happy until I'm as famous as god' - Madonna.

'Always walk around like there's a camera following you' - Julian Cope.

'If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is: Infinite' - William Blake.

Just a little insight.

The ceremony hasn't yet begun.

Okay...

Honestly, I hate the word 'blog'. It doesn't sit right. I remember reading about phonoaesthetics, and how, as you may know, 'cellar door' is supposedly the most intrinsically beautiful compound in the english language.

'Blog' is the complete opposite to me. Dischordant. Like G Minor 7 with a sharpened 5th.

But that isn't the point.

I really only set up this 'blog' (from now until the end of my memory, I shall be referring to 'blog' as 'cellar door'.) so I could get in touch with another member about something. But as I sit here thinking, looking at the front cover of Of Mice And Men, the stained tea cup, and a pack of cigarettes on my floor next to me, I'm beginning to like the idea of having my own Cellar Door. Maybe nobody will even read it. How would anybody even find it? I'm a technophobe. I don't really 'get it' (though I'm only 22). Maybe everybody will read it and think what a pretentious prick I am.

Yes. That's probably it.

So to sum up.

In the near future, unless I forget all about this night, stumbling into this Cellar Door community, I may post such things as the rants I usually keep to myself. Maybe my poetry. Maybe the strange noise that I keep hearing from the flat above. But I doubt that last bit.

Now, about that person I meant to contact.

The ceremony is about to begin...