Waiting for the Train

I come here everyday
planning to buy a ticket,
but can never decide
whether to get the return
or take the one trip ride.

My stomach feels like
a washing machine
spinning a heavy brick,
all these falling raindrops
have made the platform slick.

I’m balancing on a train track
slipping on the grimy plaque
watching people pass on by
it might be raining, but I’m still dry.

And so I sit on a wet bench
that looks out onto the track
while a train man paces with
his strong shoulders and back.

He whistles as he goes
and I stare at hungry pigeons
I want to know what they know,
does the train man have religion?

I’m balancing on a train track
slipping on the grimy plaque
watching people pass on by
it might be raining, but I’m still dry.

A tracksuit girl comes out of the ticket box
She drinks a can of fizzy pop
“What time is the train?”
“Six thirty seven,” the train man explains.
She throws the can into the bin,
and walks back in.

I’m balancing on a train track
slipping on the grimy plaque
watching people pass on by
it might be raining, but I’m still dry.

I don’t know where I’m going
but I know where I’ve been
this old flower ain’t growing
without a moist seed to begin.

I’m balancing on a train track
slipping on the grimy plaque
watching people pass on by
it might be raining, but I’m still dry.

I’m waiting for the train…

Hide the Evidence

I’ve got a rusty old bike
to which I’m shackled and chained
you’re the cryptic driver
and I’m the one in pain
you said you’d take me for a ride,
(that was fourteen years ago)
there’s a time when birth and death collide
I just never knew it would be this slow.
I’ve got a chain that needs some feeling,
a frame that needs some rest
when I jump to bed I rise to the ceiling
(and when I get a shower I’m fully dressed).
We’re all just riding through the mire
that gets plastered on our tyres
then you have to work for eight empty hours
to pay to scrape it off.
We spend most of our money on cases of beer
to help us feel like bigger men and pulverize the fear
When was the last time you brushed your hair
or found some clean clothes to wear?
Amongst the mess of this wasted life,
hide the evidence, disguise the knife.

the fine line between life and death

I'm a girl with a camera, so what?

Because I take pictures any time I step out the door, it's not out of the ordinary for people to stare when I've got a camera in hand. Apparently, it's completely bizarre to take a camera out onto the street. Often when I'm walking along the main road I'll be looking around me quite attentively to scout out interesting images. I can understand how that would attract attention from passing cars, especially when I'm holding a camera, but people gaze at me as if I've got eight heads! What's up with that?

Perhaps they're worried I'm going to snap a picture of them. I could, if I wanted to, but I don't. I don't go around taking pictures of people willy nilly. Besides, why on earth would I want to take a picture of a motorist with his face sour at me? And it's hardly a striking image, is it? I remember once I was outside doing photography and I'd climbed over a small 3ft wall at the entrance of an estate. I had my camera resting on the wall as I was leaning on it. The main road faces this wall, and a red car indicated to go into the estate whos wall I was standing by. The driver gave me a sickening look when he saw my camera.

Another reason for people to stare at me could be just genuine curiousity. I understand how people can be interested to know what I'm taking a picture of or why I have a camera outside. But I mean, come on, what's with the faces? Is it impossible for a young person to have a hobby? It's not like I go flaunting my camera around. I do photography discreetly and make sure I don't point the camera at anyone but myself. You may glance, yes, but don't burn a hole in my face with your stares.

simple beauty can be better

I am a starseeker

I am a starseeker
a hunter of the night,
collecting wisdom from silver dust.
Fiery silence, open skies
look down upon sleeping countrysides
and sullen cities,
waiting for a morrow not promised,
resting on dreams yet fulfilled.
Stars are really just the holes to heaven,
the gaps of bliss, keyholes to the afterlife.
The night sky is just a thin film
seperating us from all of the above:
The world of dreams,
of mythology and fantasy.
The fine line between fact and fiction
is drawn right above our heads,
and only those with their own heads
in the clouds, know such truths as this.

i want to feel the ground i walk on