Asemic Writings

He is gone

He is still now
This ceaseless man
Who travelled far and wide across the world

He is quiet now
This boisterous man
Whose hearty voice brought cheer to all he knew

He is peaceful now
This troubled man
Whose heart contained a million hurtful things

He is alone now
This popular man
Who touched so many people in his life

He is missed now
This giving man
Who gave until the end without regret

He is gone.
Vale Dr. Barry.
6th of November 2006

Like

He was like, Whoa!
And I was like, Yeah!
And he was like, No way!
And I was like, Yes way!
And he was like, Wow!
And I was like, Yeah.
That was like, awesome!

When

Days wash together at the edges.
The warm pink thread of yesterday
And the cool blue thread of today
Are lost in the vague mauve of before.

I can clearly see that this is now
And I'm sure that that was then
But nowhere can I see
The golden thread of when.

Strangling

He was strangling slowly on the end of the rope. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He had wanted to go quickly, quietly, neatly. This was so boring, so stupid. But he couldn't do much about it now. He was slowly strangling to death.

He jerked and kicked uselessly. The rope bit into his skin more, adding pain to his misery. He had tried to pull himself up, and had only succeeded in tightening the noose. Now he didn't have the strength to try. He was slowly strangling to death.

From time to time he thought that if he could reach something, the wall or the beam behind him, he could kick hard enough to break his neck, but he only swung wildly, hurting his neck more, as he slowly strangled to death.

One time he managed to get one leg around the beam. He thought if he could pull himself closer, he could save himself, but he didn't have the strength. His grip slowly slipped away and then he swung and spun and cried, as he slowly strangled to death.

He was crying quietly to himself, and the lump in his throat made him cough. The strain of not being able to expel air made him shit himself. It was loose and wet and foul smelling and burned his arse. It ran down his trouser leg and dribbled on the floor beneath him, as he slowly strangled to death.

As he swung he felt his consciousness passing in waves. He wished he could just go, he wished the rope would break and he could live, he wished he hadn't gotten so sad. But he was slowly strangling to death.

His ribs ached with the effort of trying to breathe. His neck burned where the rope had cut it, and his throat burned from his efforts to gasp air. He had tried to not breathe, but eventually his stupid body made him gasp, and a tiny wisp of air had burned in his throat, as he slowly strangled to death.

Blood rushed in his ears so loudly that it scared him, his heart pounded in his aching chest. He was sure that if he could look down, he could have seen it. But the rope forced him to look up to the corner of the shed, while he slowly strangled to death.

He cursed himself for not doing it well, for kicking and swinging and struggling to breathe, for crying, for not having the courage to just die quietly as he intended, while he slowly strangled to death.

When the time came that he could no longer gasp or cough or kick or feel the pain in his neck and chest, he was annoyed that it had taken so long rather than relieved that it had come, and he finally strangled to death.

Pile of lies

There's a pile of lies in the corner
Been there as long as I know.
And it's never been much of a problem to me,
But just lately it's started to grow.

There's lies that I tell to myself all the time,
The ones that just help me get through.
And the little white lies that we all realise
are behind everything that we do.

But the ones that are starting to topple the pile
Have been added since I needed you.
And I've started to say what you wanted to hear,
And not what you needed to know.

The big ones are so big they are true in themselves
And I can't see how they can ever be moved
Without bringing that horrible hill
of deceit crashing down with my world at my feet.

So I'm building wall now of new stronger lies,
to hold back the inevitable slide.
And I wonder if I could have ever held you
on that first day if I hadn't lied.

Cursed

I'm cursed that I remember all the things I should let go.
But I struggle to retain the things I really need to know.
The day that you were born is just like any other day,
Yet the things we said the night we fought
Just will not fade away.

The process

I woke up with a poem
and it wouldn't go away
So I jotted down some broken verse
and put the pad away.

But it wouldn't stay.

So I filled the verses in a bit
and felt the rhythm sway
and changed some words
and added some
and put the pad away.

But it wouldn't stay.

So I padded out the middle
with some slightly dodgy rhyme
and I tidied up the metre
and I put the pad away.

But it wouldn't stay.

So I opened up the narrative
and let it have its way
and rearranged the verses
in an unfamiliar way
and put it down and walked around
and pondered while it lay
and tried another stanza
and put the pad away.

But it wouldn't stay.

I picked it up this morning
and read it while I lay
and analysed the structure
in a highly abstract way
and thought about the meaning
in the cool clear light of day
and realised it wasn't
what I really meant to say.

And put the pad away.

Birthday ride

Every year we went for a birthday ride. It had begun with a ride to celebrate her surviving a health scare, and had become a regular event with additional rides for fun. She had bought her own bike last year, and this year we were 'doing the Putty' together.

The Putty is almost legendary among Sydney riders. It has everything; tight twisting climbs, long straights, wide mountain views and close shaded corners.

She was riding well; smooth and confident, feeling the road and flowing with it.

This was a magnificent day for a ride and we were enjoying the road at our own pace. A few riders had flicked past us when the road opened out, just as we had passed some sight-seers before the tight bends. To each his own.

The Old Road used to be much the same, but had been spoilt by too many boy racers.  The police moved in and shut the Old Road down. 60k limit, radar everywhere. It was a sad loss and a great lesson. Use it, don't abuse it.

A few boy racers now ride the Putty. Too good for the track, their ego so big that common sense and courtesy are squeezed out when they pull their helmet on.

There is great pleasure in riding a bike hard. It's a self paced concert where the bike and the rider urge each other to give more, take more, enjoy more.

Up ahead I saw the flash of a bike through the trees, straight-lining through the esses.

That's a fantastic feeling; bike, rider and road playing in harmony, kissing the apex of each bend, soaring over the crown to the next bend...

Riding fast is not dangerous if you understand that the road is part of the ride too. You don't conquer it, you work with it. Like a pillion who sometimes shifts their weight in the middle of a corner. You have to be prepared to back off, have space to adjust your line and recover.

The flash through the trees ahead had emerged from the esses going way too fast for the last bend.

The front was squirming and sliding, the rear barely staying in line. He'd be on our side of the road as he straightened up.

I was braking hard. I could be stopped before he reached us, and he would recover and pass us on his side of the road. I was ok, I knew.

She had 20 metres less road and was clearly concerned. She was sitting rigidly, watching the other rider finally get his bike upright; right in front of her.

She was braced for an impact. She didn't even lift her hands when his bike hit hers side on and leapt into the air.

The force made her bike jump suddenly left, then spin around to the right. She was thrown off and rolled and bounced across the road, sliding to a halt in the dirt a few metres from the collision.

I could tell she was dead as I approached her. Her face was blue and swollen behind the visor. Her eyes wide open and staring. The front wheel had broken her neck as the other bike fell sideways onto the road.

The other rider had been thrown high on impact and was probably some way down the bank behind us. I had to find him.

I looked for where he had slid through the bushes, but there was no trace. I paced back and forth along the edge of the road, and finally saw the glint of his visor in a clearing on the edge of a small cliff.

I ran and slid down the bank and struggled through the bush, sensing how he had flown overhead, broken his fall on the bushes, then landed heavily on his back. He was probably winded, maybe unconscious.

I checked for a pulse: he was alive. His visor was splashed with blood, and he seemed to be choking on his tongue. He wasn't breathing well.

Despite the risk, I had to get his helmet off. I worked quickly, trying not to twist or pull on his neck.

Time was short. If I didn't act soon he would slip away. Looking around, I found a large branch nearby, and beat the stupid f*cker to death.

The first blow fractured his cheek, and his eyes opened. I'm sure that, in that instant, he knew what was happening and why. I just kept swinging until his face caved in.

You can find me guilty if you like, but the c*nt was going to die anyway, even if he had lived to pay the stupid fine.