Photomanipulation done in Paint.net
Andrew Watkins 2017
Photomanipulation done in Paint.net
Andrew Watkins 2017
The death of a loved one scours the soul.
Into darkness with only a wooden bowl
into a morass of dead ends and red herrings
until you question how soon is the ending
of a life of suffering and painful vision
of a future not worth living alone.
Andrew Mark Watkins © 2016
Big, square shaped, like a cube
That’s Billy my fifteen-year-old.
Slow, boring infinitely repeating
That’s Billy My Sixteen Year old
Large, Full of…
Well, I think we can assume young Billy is growing up, or sideways if you prefer.
The world is infinitely large or small, caring or indifferent depending on who you are;
In front of you lies a thousand or a million possibilities;
In so much as a whisper, your fortune can change
and this comes from one who has known for so long
as much as can be is only limited by what we see.
If you see the world as turning too fast then it will rarely if ever slow down
If you see the world as ugly then you will only see the grotesque;
If you see the world as kindly then you may be blind to cruelty;
If you see the world as sad then you may never ever be happy.
Insoluable in oxygen is this mystery; whereupon was found hate and greed
Perhaps there is too much to see and better off blinded are we
to the folding of compromise and how it reflects on ourselves on others, we care about.
Nigh is the King we crown when given the Royal Ring did say ‘ A ring for all, so all may sway’ Over and under the trolls bridge today.
Power it may be only held for a day but the memory persists like
pebbles in a stream not worn away from countless tries of the coldest water.
Be a pebble and persist in the gloom, in the mist. When it is darkest.
Away from here goes the crow. Didst thou see it grow? And sulphur from it’s beak glow burning yellow in the night?
The crones babble like the shallowest brook and catch its fish on their belial hooks.
A Young man is foolish, Let him learn at our pleasure they moan into their cauldron casting spells. Belial fortune they crown not men from the town.
It’s a lonely path said the psychopath blind in one eye and just scraping by.
It’s a golden road said the bewitched toad.
It’s a storm of Shit said Belial poking me in the eye.
Winding breaking off at places into the unknown is where you will find it.
What you are looking for. A Ha. A Ha. A Ha ha ha!
You may find it.
Art courtesy Andrew Watkins © 2016
I had a car and thought I was doing fine but it took a little ride at the fairground on some merry-go-round that rose and fell with piped music running through my veins to make me realise that I froze with the motion into nothingness. The air was cold. The blood in my veins felt thick and black and heavy. It was as if Death held a stick against my throat for a second restricting the passage of air to my lungs. Next, a painted clown came and did the same circling me like a lion his eyes just pinpricks of black light. Then it was the ringmaster in his high boots cracking jokes with me and the merry go round continued. I held on tight watching and listening senses burning alive and feeling marked now for inspection. Introspection! I got off the ride a different man and sank slowly to the ground. The dew soaked through onto my knees bent in agony against what might prevail should I look up again to the innocent sky, glance at the bodies of passers-by instead of their feet or regard the milling people buying things and browsing the stalls like candles glowing too brightly. Candle mass would have been appropriate with the organ music coming from the ride behind me. The moment passed I stand up and look around with my eyes and staggering feet and feel glad to be groggy but alive. I feel a little gloved hand take mine and I look down into gypsy black eyes and the little ride begs me Again! Again!. Splinters of ice pierce my heart and I get back on the ride again smiling widely. It’s now or never I think and wait for the ride to start..
Who owns the little fluffy clouds?
Is there a little fluffy cloud inside of me?
Do I do back flips inside my little fluffy cloud?
or does my little fluffy cloud do backflips on me?
When I sleep is my little fluffy cloud in motion?
Or still somewhere between the sky and the sun?
How do I leave my little fluffy cloud? Is there a magic key? Or is my little fluffy cloud a graveyard?
Does my weight get lost in a little fluffy cloud and gravity
take a day off between nine and three?
I forewarn you – little fluffy clouds do not come for free.
My little fluffy cloud is equipped
for hobbies and interests galore but diurnal cycles do not exist on board my little fluffy cloud. There is no time for me any more.
My passport is stamped. Resident in a little fluffy cloud.
The Devil. Angels. Fallen Angels. Which one are you?
Me I believe I was told at an early age that was ‘the Devil himself’ on more than one occasion.
Damian had the number 666 tattooed under his hair in a scar tissue tattoo. Me, I shaved my head and found nothing similar.
So I was just mundane Evil.
Insert Joke here.
Giant gobstoppers with eyeball bloodshot and _______
Pretend theatrical ‘blood’ that dries _______
The hangman’s noose.
treacherous displays behind glass counters. Nails through fingers. Electrocuted heads. Shock machines.
Cool. Maybe she will like this,
Card Tricks and champagne,
Clint Eastwood and John Wayne.
Keifer Sutherland and Charlie Sheen.
We know we all MEAN.
Brigitte Bardot and Drew Barrymore.
Mean me and my handgun gonna spread some love/blood.
Braindead, Bad Taste Highlander, The Lost Boys. I blame them.
This is a poem, not a confession.
I will rest now, upside down with my arms crossed over my pigeon chest.
In the knowledge that I like billions, have a heart that beats and will never, ever rest. For as long as I live…
Meaning is lite. Mean is right. So fuck off and die. See if I care boy.