[This poem is based on the novel I'm writing, which, in turn, is based on my experiences as a teenager]
It was a thousand lives ago
When I first stepped into the light
Though it seems like only yesterday
I remember endless Friday nights
When we were young and restless
Killing time by the motorway
And then in Summer's crazy heat
I sat crosslegged in the grass
And contemplated matters of the heart
Wasted words in a dead end book
Were all that issued from my pen
As i tried to emulate the poet's art
I was drawn into the circle
By six or seven half crazed misfits
Who taught me what it meant to be free
We stood around discussing
The trivialities of life
And all the things that we could see
My heart began to crave
The warmness of another
But at the time I had no idea who
When I finally found her
She said she'd be mine forever
But twelve days later tore my heart in two
So I wandered through life
As though it was a dream
Afraid of what another day would hold
Then one morning I awoke
And I was in another city
And suddenly the world didn't seem so cold
For a week I stayed
In the city of light
Where I let my mind unravel all the pain
And when I got back home
My thoughts were much more clear
As though cleansed by the summer rain
As winter strolled it's way on in
The circle began to break apart
When the King of Fools went away for good
But we all remained blind
To the loss of unity
If only, at the time, we understood
All through winter
Did I wonder
What my life would bring to me
And as I wandered endlessly
I discovered ancient unknown songs
That taught my mind to be free
One day I met Betrayal
Her hair was fiery red
And her eyes were bluer than the sky
Betrayal and the King of Fools
Stabbed my trusting back
And left me there alone to bleed and die
But their efforts were in vain
Cos my spirit wasn't broken
And I stood up to fight another day
It was then that I noticed
The coldness was retreating
And I saw the winter run away
Then summer came with its caress
Warm and sweet against my skin
With the promise of a thousand endless nights
Every night and every day
I lived my life my own way
As I sought out all the suns delights
Then one hot and sunbaked day
In the presence of the King of Fools
I decided that I should lose my mind
All my life I won't forget
The things I saw and felt
The day I let my sanity unwind
Then summer went away
And as I called it to return
Darkness cut me like an assassins knife
But I'll never regret the things I did
All those worlds ago
Cos how can you regret another life?
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
The Visitor
The wind and rain howled through the gravestones as I did my final check for the evening. There'd been a spate of grave-vandalisms and, as the cemetery caretaker, I was responsible for making sure no kids were sneaking in to cause mischief.
I felt a chill go through my spine. Not unusual considering my line of work.
Satisfied that all the gates were locked and that no kids had snuck in, I began to walk back to my house, which stood in the centre of the cemetery.
As I walked between two rows I slipped on the wet grass and banged into a gravestone. I felt the stone give way (many of the older stones were in a state of disrepair, so that one tiny push was enough to topple them). I shone my torch on it and made sure it wasn't broken.
"I'll come back and put you right in the morning." I said under my breath.
I got back onto the path and ran to my house to get out of the rain. I got inside and took my wet things off and changed into dry clothes.
It was warm in the house. My heater had been running practically all day, for which I was thankful. I made a pot of coffee and sat down on my bed (the whole house was split into two rooms, a combined kitchen/lounge/bedroom and a bathroom) and began to read.
Shortly after there came a heavy knock on the door. I glanced at the clock: 11:55pm.
I went to the door and opened it. I was faced by a tall man in a long black jacket. He had a widebrimmed hat on his head that created a shadow which obscured half his face.
From the moment I laid eyes on the man, something about him made me uneasy.
"My car broke down and I was wondering if I could use your phone"
The man's voice had a hollow, vacant sound to it. It was as if he wasn't talking to me at all.
"I-I'm sorry man, I haven't got a phone, but you're welcome to come in until the rain lets up."
What was I doing? Inviting this man in went against every instinct I had. Something deep inside my mind was telling me not to trust him.
"Thank you very much friend."
He came in and I offered to take his hat and coat. He completely ignored my offer and went and sat in the armchair opposite my bed.
"Would you like a cup of coffee mister... mister... I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name"
"Richard, Richard Harry, and coffee would be lovely thank you."
I poured two cups of coffee and brought them over to the lounge area. I handed one to him. He took it. My finger touched his momentarily and I felt a peculiar coldness run through my hand and into my spine. I figured he must have been walking in the cold for a while before he came upon my house.
We both sat in silence for what seemed like forever. His hat obscured so much of his face that I couldn't see his eyes, but I was more than certain he was staring at me. I could feel his eyes on me, as though they were penetrating my mind.
I decided to break the silence.
"So, how did you come to be driving around here at this time of night in the rain?"
"I was on my way home from work."
"What do you do?"
"I help out on a local farm."
He didn't sound too enthusiastic about my line of inquiry so I didn't pursue it any further.
We sat in silence for another eternity. I started to become drowsy and I asked him if he minded me going to sleep.
"No, you go to sleep, I think the rain's going to stop soon anyway."
With that I got into my bed and fell instantly to sleep. I have no idea how I managed this, considering there was a strange man in a hat and coat sitting less than a metre away from me.
I dreamt about the cemetery that night. I usually did. It was almost all I ever saw. This time was different though, I felt a sense of dread that the cemetery had never once produced in me before, neither in dream nor reality.
The next morning, all traces of the rain had disappeared, as well as all traces of my mysterious visitor.
I figured that he must have left while I was asleep, having washed his coffee cup and put it back on top of the fridge, where I kept them.
As I ate my breakfast I remembered the gravestone I'd knocked over.
I finished eating, put on my clothes, and went to find it.
It wasn't too hard to find, there were still marks in the muddy ground where I'd slipped and the stone was lying on it's front, miraculously unbroken. It was quite a small stone, so lifting it up and putting it back where it had been was no problem at all. I decided to make a mental note of which grave it was so I could call in someone to cement it back onto the base.
The name was quite faded so I had to squint to read it:
A chill ran down my spine and suddenly I realised why my visitor had made me so uneasy. All the cemetery gates were locked, and my house wasn't visible from the main road, so for him to end up finding my house he would have had to have been in the cemetery to begin with.
And it seems he was...
I felt a chill go through my spine. Not unusual considering my line of work.
Satisfied that all the gates were locked and that no kids had snuck in, I began to walk back to my house, which stood in the centre of the cemetery.
As I walked between two rows I slipped on the wet grass and banged into a gravestone. I felt the stone give way (many of the older stones were in a state of disrepair, so that one tiny push was enough to topple them). I shone my torch on it and made sure it wasn't broken.
"I'll come back and put you right in the morning." I said under my breath.
I got back onto the path and ran to my house to get out of the rain. I got inside and took my wet things off and changed into dry clothes.
It was warm in the house. My heater had been running practically all day, for which I was thankful. I made a pot of coffee and sat down on my bed (the whole house was split into two rooms, a combined kitchen/lounge/bedroom and a bathroom) and began to read.
Shortly after there came a heavy knock on the door. I glanced at the clock: 11:55pm.
I went to the door and opened it. I was faced by a tall man in a long black jacket. He had a widebrimmed hat on his head that created a shadow which obscured half his face.
From the moment I laid eyes on the man, something about him made me uneasy.
"My car broke down and I was wondering if I could use your phone"
The man's voice had a hollow, vacant sound to it. It was as if he wasn't talking to me at all.
"I-I'm sorry man, I haven't got a phone, but you're welcome to come in until the rain lets up."
What was I doing? Inviting this man in went against every instinct I had. Something deep inside my mind was telling me not to trust him.
"Thank you very much friend."
He came in and I offered to take his hat and coat. He completely ignored my offer and went and sat in the armchair opposite my bed.
"Would you like a cup of coffee mister... mister... I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name"
"Richard, Richard Harry, and coffee would be lovely thank you."
I poured two cups of coffee and brought them over to the lounge area. I handed one to him. He took it. My finger touched his momentarily and I felt a peculiar coldness run through my hand and into my spine. I figured he must have been walking in the cold for a while before he came upon my house.
We both sat in silence for what seemed like forever. His hat obscured so much of his face that I couldn't see his eyes, but I was more than certain he was staring at me. I could feel his eyes on me, as though they were penetrating my mind.
I decided to break the silence.
"So, how did you come to be driving around here at this time of night in the rain?"
"I was on my way home from work."
"What do you do?"
"I help out on a local farm."
He didn't sound too enthusiastic about my line of inquiry so I didn't pursue it any further.
We sat in silence for another eternity. I started to become drowsy and I asked him if he minded me going to sleep.
"No, you go to sleep, I think the rain's going to stop soon anyway."
With that I got into my bed and fell instantly to sleep. I have no idea how I managed this, considering there was a strange man in a hat and coat sitting less than a metre away from me.
I dreamt about the cemetery that night. I usually did. It was almost all I ever saw. This time was different though, I felt a sense of dread that the cemetery had never once produced in me before, neither in dream nor reality.
The next morning, all traces of the rain had disappeared, as well as all traces of my mysterious visitor.
I figured that he must have left while I was asleep, having washed his coffee cup and put it back on top of the fridge, where I kept them.
As I ate my breakfast I remembered the gravestone I'd knocked over.
I finished eating, put on my clothes, and went to find it.
It wasn't too hard to find, there were still marks in the muddy ground where I'd slipped and the stone was lying on it's front, miraculously unbroken. It was quite a small stone, so lifting it up and putting it back where it had been was no problem at all. I decided to make a mental note of which grave it was so I could call in someone to cement it back onto the base.
The name was quite faded so I had to squint to read it:
Here Lies
RICHARD HARRY
Died September 4th 1928
Requiescat in Pace
RICHARD HARRY
Died September 4th 1928
Requiescat in Pace
A chill ran down my spine and suddenly I realised why my visitor had made me so uneasy. All the cemetery gates were locked, and my house wasn't visible from the main road, so for him to end up finding my house he would have had to have been in the cemetery to begin with.
And it seems he was...
Sunday, January 8, 2012
A Tale of Writers Block
1:26pm... dear god is that the time? Fuck it all I'd better get up and actually do some writing. If I can. There's just too much to write about and not a single word that does justice to the images inside my head. I'd better have some breakfast. They always say food helps creativity. I'll chuck on some music as well, music always helps. Something that puts me in the right frame of mind to write. Grateful Dead maybe. Yeah, Grateful Dead, which album though? American Beauty I think.
Breakfast time. It's past lunchtime so I'll have noodles and call it brunch. Boil the jug. Walk away. Sit down. Try to write for a bit. Fuck this. Can't. Write. A. Goddamn. Thing.
I can see it clearly. Every detail of the situation I want to put onto paper is right in front of me. But it isn't 'write' in front of me. It's, like, impossible to put into words. I could try to find the words but I'm sure the English language could never do it justice. No human language that has ever existed or will ever exist could adequately describe the images in my head. God I wish I had a cup of tea or something right now.
Holy shit. I boiled the jug to make noodles. How long ago was that? Oh my god, I've been sitting here staring at this screen for half an hour.
I'd better boil the jug again, It'll be cold by now. I'll actually stay in the kitchen this time, so I don't forget I boiled the jug.
Noodles noodles noodles. I love Mi Goreng noodles. They're like an orgasm on my tongue. No wait... that sounds bad. I mean they're really good.
Noodles are in the microwave. Time to make the tea. Gotta make sure it's strong enough. I can't stand weak tea, it's always either too milky or too watery and I hate it.
Right, got my tea and noodles, time to try and write again.
Goddamnit, I just can't break through my writers block. I know, I'll write something else. I've got it! I'll write a short story about having writers block! Perfect.
Open a new document.
Oh fuck off Vice City, I clicked the icon next to you, I didn't click on you. Esc. Esc. Esc. EXIT GODDAMNIT! Thank you.
Right, open new document.
Start to type: '1:26pm... dear god is that the time? Fuck it all I'd better get up and actually do some writing...'
Breakfast time. It's past lunchtime so I'll have noodles and call it brunch. Boil the jug. Walk away. Sit down. Try to write for a bit. Fuck this. Can't. Write. A. Goddamn. Thing.
I can see it clearly. Every detail of the situation I want to put onto paper is right in front of me. But it isn't 'write' in front of me. It's, like, impossible to put into words. I could try to find the words but I'm sure the English language could never do it justice. No human language that has ever existed or will ever exist could adequately describe the images in my head. God I wish I had a cup of tea or something right now.
Holy shit. I boiled the jug to make noodles. How long ago was that? Oh my god, I've been sitting here staring at this screen for half an hour.
I'd better boil the jug again, It'll be cold by now. I'll actually stay in the kitchen this time, so I don't forget I boiled the jug.
Noodles noodles noodles. I love Mi Goreng noodles. They're like an orgasm on my tongue. No wait... that sounds bad. I mean they're really good.
Noodles are in the microwave. Time to make the tea. Gotta make sure it's strong enough. I can't stand weak tea, it's always either too milky or too watery and I hate it.
Right, got my tea and noodles, time to try and write again.
Goddamnit, I just can't break through my writers block. I know, I'll write something else. I've got it! I'll write a short story about having writers block! Perfect.
Open a new document.
Oh fuck off Vice City, I clicked the icon next to you, I didn't click on you. Esc. Esc. Esc. EXIT GODDAMNIT! Thank you.
Right, open new document.
Start to type: '1:26pm... dear god is that the time? Fuck it all I'd better get up and actually do some writing...'
Blue City Blues
Blue city
Blue city
Tell me all the things you see
Blue city
Blue city
You’re gonna be the death of me
The world don’t need another poet
But nonetheless here I am
A poet? Ha
If I can even call myself that
I’m just another angry man
Unimpressed by the state of the world
Trying to get a revolution
By writing a bunch of meaningless words
Blue city
Blue city
Whisper all the things you know
Blue city
Blue city
Bathed in an unnatural neon glow
I’ve lived a while now
And I’m beginning to understand
That life is just a game of cards
In which we are all dealt losing hands
The only way to win is lie
Convince them that you’re something more
Otherwise they’ll see your face
And in it shut the door
Blue city
Blue city
Show me who I really am
Blue city
Blue city
Show me if you can
Blue city
Tell me all the things you see
Blue city
Blue city
You’re gonna be the death of me
The world don’t need another poet
But nonetheless here I am
A poet? Ha
If I can even call myself that
I’m just another angry man
Unimpressed by the state of the world
Trying to get a revolution
By writing a bunch of meaningless words
Blue city
Blue city
Whisper all the things you know
Blue city
Blue city
Bathed in an unnatural neon glow
I’ve lived a while now
And I’m beginning to understand
That life is just a game of cards
In which we are all dealt losing hands
The only way to win is lie
Convince them that you’re something more
Otherwise they’ll see your face
And in it shut the door
Blue city
Blue city
Show me who I really am
Blue city
Blue city
Show me if you can
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Welcome to Dire Wolf Literature
My name is Paddy Madill and I am an aspiring writer/poet. I was born and raised, and still live, in the city of Dunedin, in New Zealand.
I created this blog in order to post some of my short stories and poems, and sometimes just my random thoughts, so that I could get my writing to a wider audience without having to go through publishers.
I'm currently working on a novel although. My hope for the novel is to actually find a publisher rather than post it on the blog, although I haven't closed my mind to that option just yet.
I will try and post something at least once a day, be it poem, story or just a good old fashioned rant.
-Paddy Madill
I created this blog in order to post some of my short stories and poems, and sometimes just my random thoughts, so that I could get my writing to a wider audience without having to go through publishers.
I'm currently working on a novel although. My hope for the novel is to actually find a publisher rather than post it on the blog, although I haven't closed my mind to that option just yet.
I will try and post something at least once a day, be it poem, story or just a good old fashioned rant.
-Paddy Madill
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