Deus Ex Insomnia
A Collection Of Poetry & A Little Prose
By Mark Cantrell
Published By The Author Through Smashwords 2010
Copyright (c) 2007/2010 Mark Cantrell
Smashwords Edition, License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Mark Cantrell,
Stoke-on-Trent, Staffordshire, UK
www.mark-cantrell.blogspot.com
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"If religion has something to say about living my life, then I shall listen to advice sincerely given though I cannot promise to take heed.
"I shall not listen to instructions on how to live and think, be they from any servant of a God or the God himself. I shall not be ordered to obedience, I shall not be told to fear. I will not accept instructions on how to correctly bend my knee before any Deity.
"When the time comes, and there should be such a being, then I shall account for myself in my own way and he will account for himself to me. I shall bend neither neck nor knee but stand tall before this entity, Being to Being – as one equal to another."
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Introduction: Greetings Insomniac
About The Author: A Few Things Said
Introduction: Greetings Insomniac
THE walls are whispering; a million sibilant voices strive to be heard at once. Shadows dance on the edge of vision. It's dark, and I sit at my desk bleary-eyed and weary but incapable of sleep.
My muse has called me from slumber, or rather stopped me from finding that realm of peace. Now I sit and listen to those ghostly voices resonating within the walls.
There's no sense to the voices. Too many struggle for my attention, so all I can hear is a maddening buzz. Why listen to them anyway? I know that they are the product of too little sleep; of a mind teetering on the edge of hallucinogenic revelation.
Paper rests on my desk, a choice of pens, tobacco and steaming coffee, but no words arise through the fog drifting through the portal of perception that is torn in the fabric of consciousness. Maddened, I rise and pace.
Through the window, a city slumbers. It's quiet. Peaceful. Bereft of the rage and the soulful darkness that is Bradford.
There is only the shade of the night, hugging the streets and houses as though itself afraid of the city, except it appears to be mugging the sickly street lamps, pushing and bullying the light back into its maker. The night is sullen and afraid; perhaps it has suffered from too many sleepless nights too.
Towards the horizon, the neon beacons glow: dim fireflies dreaming of becoming stars. Don't we all.
And above it all, on this clear night, the white dots of the real cosmos shimmer in the velvet sky. A sickle moon watches indifferent.
Return to the desk. The green glow of the clock tells me it is 3.30am. Back to the paper gleaming clean in the bubble of light.
Ignite a cigarette, stare at the glowing tip, shut out the whispering voices and seek my own. There they are. On the other side of the quantum gate in my brain, I find the things that tell me what to say. They look like the works of H R Giger on a bad day, huddled there in the shade, whispering things to each other. I can feel them watching me, some peering over my shoulder to hunger after this world – and the succulent minds it ripens.
They whisper and cackle.
I scribble frenetic.
The shadows dance macabre.
Time drains through the grate of the ever-present in to the sewer of history. I only just cling to the grills of the grate, dangling over the precipice of night.
Maybe when I have finished these words, these Demons will let me find sleep – before the madness bites too deep. I can dream…
Inspire
Inspiration is the key,
To poetry
Most
Free.
Dead Dreams
Where do the dreams go
When they run out of time?
What happens to the muse
When inspiration dies?
Is there a graveyard
Out there in space,
Filled with the rotting relics
Of our minds?
Death
Death,
He comes
To all who wait,
So why so rush
To meet your
Fate?
Homonym
For three million orbits
Of the Earth around the sun,
I have been a simple hominid.
For around 40,000 years,
I have been a human being.
For a similar amount of time,
I have been free under the sun.
Then a mere 7,000 years ago,
I donned the first chains
Of civilisation's slavery.
For a mere three centuries
I was a working man.
For just two of these,
Some 73,000 days,
I strode to be a socialist.
Of this small amount of time,
I have only been me
For 38 years.
When socialism wins,
Hopefully, before my
Time runs out,
I will be a human being
Once more,
As free under the sun
As my ancient forebears.
And this time,
It will be forever.
Cadence
I'm looking for the cadence,
That resides within our speech.
I'm told it holds the clue,
To poetry sans rhyme.
That's my biggest problem,
Rammed in at school,
Those damned English teachers,
Are certainly no muse.
Hidden Poem
I know I have a poem,
Somewhere deep inside,
There's only one
Slight problem,
It knows
Exactly where to hide.
Free As The Words
In prose I am,
And in prose I've been.
It allows me go,
To places I've never seen.
Here in words,
I'm free as the birds,
Taking flight in fancy.
Join me here and then you'll see,
A place where you
Can truly be.
Qwerty Nipples Has The Muse
Like a carefree lover,
I dance with my muse.
She is virtuous and free,
So long as she stays mine.
But faithless and callow,
She is when she strays.
Ever demanding,
I come when she calls.
Worked to a sweat,
And left drained of all strength.
For days she might leave me.
Lost and forlorn.
Wondering if ever,
I'll taste her fickle joys.
At the point of despair,
She comes calling at last.
Once more in her favour.
I reach out my arms,
And so lovingly caress,
Those 26 Qwerty nipples.
Flirt With The Qwerty
The muse has Qwerty nipples.
No, not dirty, Qwerty.
As in the keyboard.
She has 26, not including shift.
We fondle them joyously,
When she whispers in our ear.
Faithfully we commit her every sin,
To the written page we stain.
But what of those who use a pen?
The same metaphor cannot hold?
Or can it?
Is it not strange,
That the first three letters,
In our penis form a pen?
But what is this?
A metaphor too far?
Surely this is silliness,
For what of women,
Some use keyboards,
While some use ink.
There's surely no distinction.
But I don't care,
For here's my muse,
Her Qwerty nipples on display.
Once more I must caress them,
Now goodness here's my pen!
Dark Hides Creation
Beyond the shadow of our horizon,
Lies a dazzling array of creation.
Universes yet unborn,
Jostle with the bones of
Those that were.
In the mindscape we find them,
Like gemstones in a cave.
If only we have the guts,
To venture through the shade.
Brain Food
I sit here alone,
Staring at the screen,
Pondering some words
For something to write.
Inspiration is here,
Hiding beyond sight.
Frustrated I sigh,
And reach for another pint.
I want some words,
A tapestry of thought.
Something to do,
That stops my nerves,
Becoming so fraught,
But there is no respite,
The Word Monster
Hungers.
And I am its food,
It eats me alive.
Brain first.
Bio-Matters
Nasty little bio-matter
Spreading planet-wide.
Infestation
Filth and rot
Choking up the world.
Noxious fumes
And concrete scabs
Scar this
Cosmic gem.
Filthy little bio-matter
Striding on two legs.
Rich Man is a scumbag,
Pissing in our bed.
Our planet will be
Better off
When this global
Yob is dead.
Twilight's Shadow Twin
Dwarfed by my shadow,
What does it see?
This vacuum of me?
Does it look down,
And wear a little frown,
At the puny little man,
That stands in its light.
Yet without me,
What can it be?
I give it shape,
If not form and being.
Only in darkness,
Or light absolute,
Does it dissolve.
My twilight birthed twin,
You are nothing,
Without me.
Awaiting Inspiration
What are you doing,
Sitting there alone?
I am waiting,
Comes the reply.
Waiting for what?
I ask.
For inspiration,
Of course,
It'll be along in a
Minute,
I am sure.
The hours tick by,
And still there's no sign.
Perhaps it's like
Waiting,
For a bus and
Three will come along at once.
Why are you waiting?
I ask again.
I told you, I'm waiting...
I know, I know,
You're waiting for
Inspiration,
But isn't there something,
You can do while you
Wait?
Instead of staring into
Space?
Oh no, is the reply,
I have to wait,
Otherwise it might
Miss me.
But what is this inspiration,
You seek?
I don't seek, I only wait.
It's magic, it's arcane,
It's the heart of the soul,
That bubbles forth
Words and ideas.
Is that it?
Is it not more?
What of imagination,
And hard work?
Why wait, shouldn't you instead
Search?
Don't be daft,
It hides from those who seek.
It only rewards those who wait.
I am the conduit, the vessel,
Its clothes.
It moves me,
Controls me,
When its mood takes.
I can and will only wait.
Well, I left him there,
Staring vacant into
Space.
I went on my way,
I turned round a corner,
And there it was,
My inspiration,
Waiting for me like
An old mate.
We went for a walk,
Had a good talk,
Sunk a few beers,
Before going our own ways.
I went home, head buzzing with ideas,
And there was that bloke,
Still waiting.
Raging Soul
My soul is raging
Like the end of time.
My thoughts are gurgling
Like primordial slime.
My emotions heave
Far from sublime.
Apart from all that
Everything's fine.
Poet Gone
I had a poem
On the tip of my tongue.
I liked the flavour,
And mulled it over,
Like a gulp of fine wine.
I paused for thought
And lit a fag,
Savouring the rhythm
Of my rhyme.
I took up my pen
And got ready to write.
Only then did I find
My poem had gone,
Vanished
Into the night.
Rabid Ape
Where have all our cousins gone?
Apes and not-quite-apes
Who shared our Earthly home.
As we staggered upright,
Did we hunt them dusk 'til dawn?
Our cousins,
Were they persecuted,
Driven to twilight doom?
Are we all that remain
Of the hominid line,
Because our hands are drenched in blood?
Or did they die a natural death,
And bequeath their memory unto us?
Are we evolutionary matricides,
Planetary ethnic cleansers,
Rabid killing apes that
Slaughtered all in sight.
Are we now so utterly alone
Because we got too good
At the survival game?
And what of cousins far away,
Life like us,
Intelligent and aware
But warmed by stars not the sun?
Do they know us and what we did?
Do they watch from afar
In fear that we might stray
Into the depths of their domain?
Do they tell their children
Tales of blood and woe,
About the humans that
Vanquished planet Earth?
To recalcitrant young offspring,
Do they give a stern look
And say:
"Be good, or the humans will eat you!"
Is that to be our legacy?
A few shattered bones
And an invocation in an alien tongue
For youngsters to behave.
Such is evolution:
From ape- to man-ape,
Then finally man proper.
But left in isolation
We kill ourselves,
And so become just a bedtime
Bogeyman
For children far away.
Diversity
Why do we hate each other
For the colour of our skin?
Why do we loathe one another
For the region of our birth?
Why despise our neighbour,
For the gender that turns him on?
Why judge a person's worth
By the size of their chest
And the bits between their legs?
Why are we repelled
By those of another faith?
Why are we so afraid
Of those who are different?
We are all human beings
And only want to live,
Free from fear and violence.
Yes, we are all so different,
Yet our needs are much the same:
To live,
To breathe,
To eat,
To love.
Why then begrudge such things
Because our neighbour is not like us?
We are so diverse,
And beautiful,
When we live together in peace.
So banal in our living death
When we castigate those we deem
A threat
Because they do not look like us.
So who is setting us apart?
Who made these barriers
To our peace of mutual mind?
This wonderful endless diversity
Between and within ourselves
Is what makes us human beings.
Not merely gay or straight,
Not just black or white,
But human overall.
These boxes they construct
Are but coffins for our souls.
We're all human and wonderful
So let's be diverse.
Reds Under Their Beds
Sleep tight, Mr Bourgeois,
In that bed that looks so fine.
Did you enjoy your feast,
How was the wine?
A good vintage, don't you think?
It was fermented from our blood,
Seasoned with our sweat,
And bottled by our toil.
Did you lap it up, Mr Bourgeois?
The essence of our life,
The stuff of our dreams.