5 O’ Clock Transit Zombies

The voracious crush of bodies.  Like a mad rush by starving zombies . A numbing mindlessness in their gaze,  as they charge towards the light. With stoic stares and silent closed mouth shrieks. They  make a incongruous  dash to rip you to shreds,  or merely to board this 5 O’Clock train.

It is hard to tell –  they all look the same.

As I stare into the gaping maw as  the door glides open, I am blinded by a light: A safe haven. Suddenly I can  feel the frenzy building at my back. I hesitate to head towards the salvation it offers. I can feel the urge of the masses  ready to charge  in a mad cavalcade.

Eventually  I move forward only to end up in a small tight space;  rubbing elbows with patrons with whom your eyes will never meet. I am overwhelmed by the Musk of eight-hour perspiration, cheap perfume, even cheaper cologne  and halitosis mixed with the sickly sweet scent of various  shades of  Edu De Pepé Le Pew.

In short, it was a journey of olfactory molestation, too horrific to portray.  Or, at least, that is what my sinuses informed me.

When egress is finally  achieved from my personal Zombie Apocalypse – I felt like Brave heart.
Bellowing a deep and soulful: FREEDOOOMM!!


Midnight Wanderer

Often, I am the mercy of my internal critic. It waxes and wanes like tides under the influence of a full moon.  Each word of my creations eroded by the crashing waves of scrutiny.

In rare moment, inspiration sails over the waters, no longer in search of the Isles of perfection.

Rarer still, when the object of inspiration is  as perfect as the tranquil waters in a cerulean cove.

Midnight Wanderer

My lovely lady dreams,

in my waking moments.

Within these alabaster halls,

your presence permeates.

Like a somnambulist

You are forever in motion,

wading along the the depths

Arrayed in the matter of stars

Silently, I voice my longing.

Unwilling to disturb the weaver of dreams

As she settles at the loom cloistered

betwixt life’s echoing chambers.

Do Not Go Fast or Furious Into That Good Night

Death is always distant. We feel empathy for those that pass. But it never really touches us.

Death is a distant stranger that we grudgingly respect.

I’ve watched The Fast and The Furious since its inception in 2001. I’ve watched every move since –  with Tokyo Drift being the black sheep in the family.

I was Fourteen years of age in 2001. It has been 14 years since the first film. A long time in any language.

Adrenaline inducing action and pyrotechnics, all elements of a compelling   visual thrill.
All these elements are ancillary – secondary –  to why I enjoy The Fast and Furious franchise.

The idea of family, loyalty, companionship and camaraderie are the real soul of these films.
The chemistry between the cast has always been the highlight.

Hidden between moments of intense action and violence there are moments of reprieve. It is in these moments… that the film truly shines, because it is here that the familial love they share shines the brightest

When death occurs in the family, it is never glossed over. It has always been given the required gravitas.

When you’ve been a fan of an art  for 14 years. When you’ve seen the Artists’  growth and evolution,  the lives of the  characters they portray. They begin to occupy a space in your consciousness; and by virtue: gains sentience. They come to life.

As those characters are given life, you being to  realise, the artists that portray them come alive as well.

When those artists have passed, their passing brings forth more than empathy. When the artist dies, his death is two-fold, because the character goes with him.

Though you may not have known them, their essence has been distilled – immortalised – in their art. An art I have consumed over the span of fourteen years.

It is through the appreciation for the art and the artists that I write this.

I can still recall my first time going to see this Film :

As I ascended the short flight of stair to the theatres box office.

I passed a set of Cars, looking like NASCAR’s. I still remember the rumble of their engines.

I recall the smell of the fumes from their exhaust and the minor irritation the fumes caused to my eyes.

But, most of all, I recall the rush of adrenaline just before I collected my ticket  – with friends – to see the First: The Fast and The Furious

Rest In Peace: Paul Walker

Freed Spirits

Freed Spirits stare hopelessly

A gormless grin adorned in a new guise.


Lights and signs lapping at the shores,

Diluvial reflections pervade

A vision of beauty shrouded in mists.

wading into these depths

Lust, Fear.  Desire

Cascading endlessly.

The Knife’s Edge

Precariously on  the knife’s edge

I think about you, I do not love you. But I tell my self that I do.

Because loving you would make this okay, right, meaningful.

Wading through ever shifting sands of granular emotions

I reach for you like a man dying of thirst in this desiccated

wasteland of relationships and social interactions.

You see right through this intricately constructed facade

Behind, the lid of my eyes, I hide , I burn with shame

But there is no water here, these wells have been dry

Nothing exists here but memories , phantasms.

If I were still the old me, I would seek to elevate,

I would gush eloquently, rant  in grandiose form,

Extoll my appreciation, my desire , my love.

Yet, these are nothing but  my walls, my bastion.

I see the disdain in your eyes , I imagine its intensity,

Yet, my need  for your burns brighter still.

As if feeding off the flames of your indifference.

It seems I have never quite understood,

I am the moth and your flame burns like a beacon

Signalling my fall from grace, from equanimity.

2:09 Am Outside The Box


What is creativity?  How is it tempered and harnessed into a concrete element that can be labelled: skill?

I have thought about writing more, Perhaps  – it is safe to say – I have thought more about writing than I have actually written.

It seems pondering is the sole skill to which I have some degree of competency. Yet, my pondering lacks the essential catalyst needed to coalesce thoughts into ideas and ideas into actions.

I have a real respect for those who create something through personal ingenuity. My creative process is rife with periods of frustration. I am often stymied into inaction.

As I write this, I have no particular aim. Where others would speak their thoughts aloud.

For me… I write them.