Category Archives: Writing

A collection of everything

From the gutter, sky!

My soul intoxicated by the vestiges of emptiness,
I let my breath, my fear, evolve into the detriment –
that well-defined entanglement of love
And desperate, all-embracing, drunkeness.
I felt the pang of guilt, my memory,
the thirst for lust, my psychology,
and my harboured sense of what was once a duty, now a chore.
For I had once assumed authority,
the one who’d travelled far and wide,
But now I felt myself inadequate:
The memory fades but not the pride.
And so in empty quarters of my soul
I chose to redefine myself as whole
And in attempt I felt my sanity,
though ironically yet not my vanity
Till finally I lost not Just my mind…
But Everything


A reflection…a desperation

drunk eyes try and try

a conversation short

but much too long

twas not the coin this time

nor the dice…

did the latter clarify?

Where too much choice erodes

I saw the one way and felt good,

or not, but made my decision.

Now in his way

there is another choice, a reason

I will not make excuses

but I think I’ve known what’s best!


The homecoming

The snow upon the skin
The blood upon the lips
The hope upon the breast
Leaves the whole unblemished.
The fire in the fall
The twirling, swirling, be it all
The dream erecting in the flow
The eloquence comes calling.
Till slur and birch, the guilt residing,
Sends home again all utter vagrants.

Selling out or taken in

Sometimes I write terribly he said
You never do I assure you
But of course I do as everybody does
No actually nobody does
Well what do you call this then? Will I read it for you?
Don’t bother I’ve read it, and while I don’t like it I believe others could.
You’re mad!
Says you with your generalizations
Well you claim to know everybody’s mind
Indeed I do not
Then why do you proclaim your writing shit
I said I write terribly but anyway, because I know it’s so.
You know you don’t like it is what you mean.
Yeah… And…
But who are you to judge?
Surely I’m the best judge
Hah! And why is that?
Because it’s me who’s written it.
True, but is it you who buys it, reads it, criticises it and comes back for more?
No, but…
No, and therefore… Shut up!

I find being

I find myself wholly aligned to the madness of my soul
To the ritualistic incantations of my being.
The sacrificial plunder which, set up, seeps forth from beneath the veil
Rendering action, in an impulse – inconsequential.
The dreams, my dreams, a furtive, sporadic necessity
Build blood to pulse against the
Boundaries of my reason.
My eyes strain hard against the membrane
The mind unscalable,
The truth unattainable.
I wander with the vestiges of my inner desires
Crippled by the need to relieve the rage.
The savagery, the decadence
Of my human condition,
Fails me and in that final thrust I

Cannot see anything, anymore.

The furrowed brow alights

The brow furrowed – it’s hard to hide the turmoil, the head, the neck, strained.
The eyes set in motion.
Sitting to wonder, and wondering of a fallibility (perhaps mine).
The fealty I require is digging in the dirt.
Beyond the crest of my imagination,
Flung short of reason, the desire builds,
The relative truth, the drawn necessity,
The thinly veiled delights begin to terrify.
The mortal being shudders in a wreck-lessness :
There is a tortured line between fear and thrill.
The fencing off only renders further eruptions
And devastation has its way of becoming arrogant.
In the beguiling aftermath of foiled temptation
Or the loss of control by any other hand.
There is a fragrant air of anticipation
The end of one, the beginning of the next.
What punishments the mind contrived are lost
The education in the guilt wears at the seams
The man set free from burdens of illogical debasement
Accepts within himself his very being.


You have to go home
But the dog did not answer.
A wagging tail, a wriggling body, his youth his joy.
And this just when the writer was in doubt,
If this is Csaba utca why is the bus stop Maros?
And yet his worries were not heavily inclined.
He had a pen and paper, beer and table, and the girl.
An ink blot at a full stop and a pause did figure that this was his flow, but his contrived.

What DO they think

What DO they think of us 

Our parenting books 

Our observational comedy 

Our moaning about fatigue 

Expecting sympathy 

Perhaps even pity. 

What do they think 

Raised hard and poor 

No TV, no distractions. 

Electronic nannies!?! 

No nannies, no babysitters at all 

Except the eldest 

Who kept the youngest along 

And the other in line. 

What do they think of us 

With our worries and our fears 

Those who witnessed glass smashed, 

Fingers broken and much more. 

What will we think when we’re like them? 


© TheHairyTeacher 2017

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