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...

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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.

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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...