a beautiful revolution: blog

Love Poem (5)

Love Poem (3)

Love Poem (1)

Scattered Words: If I just lay here

I saw her again today - on the train to London. She sat on the seat to my right, reading one of my favourite books.

I've been reading the same book for over a month now. The Ballad of the Sad Cafe by Carson McCullers. It's a wonderful book, but every time I begin to read it, my heart just aches. Really aches.

For over an hour I watch her gently caressing the pages. Every so often she pauses, lets out a gentle sigh, then gazes vaguely out of the window as yet another station blurs past.

There's a boy, I don't know anything about him, not even his name, but every Friday I find him sitting on the same train as me. I know it's just pure coincidence; I don't believe in fate - we make our own fate, but it's just so weird. And there's just something about him. He seems as lost as me. Don't ask me why - but I'm sure, if he were to sit with me for a while, that we'd connect. It's just so weird. It must be this darn book. 

Perhaps I should speak to her? Offer her some company. But what would I say?  I have nothing to say. And anyway, I'm sure that someone like her wouldn't wish to spend a never-ending hour idly chatting to a boy like me? No. Best to say nothing. God I'm such a fool. 

I'm tempted to just walk over to him and say hi. But then what would I say? He'd probably smile politely, think I was a complete idiot and then run away.  No. Best to say nothing. It's just this silly book playing tricks on my soul. God I'm such a fool.

Eventually the train arrives at our destination: Euston Station. I collect my things together, allow her to pass in front of me, and silently watch as she fades into the crowd.

I want to look back at him. I really want to look back. I wonder if he's watching me. Maybe if I slow down a bit he'll walk beside me. No, it's just the book, the silly book. I don't suppose he even noticed me.

The girl I never really knew

The words that fluttered from your wondrous lips and danced around me that luminous London night are beginning to fade into a mythical hue. Soon you shall be gone. But before you disappear completely from view, I would just like to say how lovely it was to sit with you. The girl I never really knew.

Fake Plastic Trees

Everywhere I look, I see boys acting up. Some are big and butch and fearless. Others are peacocky and wise. But sadly they're all acting. None are ever quite as they seem. Fake Plastic Trees.

The big and the butch and the fearless show no mercy to the weaknesses they see in others. Instead they laugh and tease and prod their victims with their very brittle sticks. They never hold another persons hand and watch with pride as their friend/lover tries to shine. Instead they prey on their insecurities, feed their minds with suffocating self-doubt, and suck them completely dry. For they need their friend/lover to remain at all times, below the level of their velvet-roped eye line.

The peacocky and the wise laugh at those they consider intellectually beneath them. The political cad. The overly qualified swine. The sexually active media beast. They know the answer to every question you may nervously ask of them, for they have read the books, all the books. They've spent their entire lives memorizing lines. Yes they wish to help you, to take you under their wing. They truly wish for you to shine, to fly - but first you must sleep with them. Become their dancing bear. And only then will they take your hand and guide you up the ladder - but not too high - no not too high - and only for a while.

Everywhere I look, I see boys acting up. Some are big and butch and fearless. Others are peacocky and wise. But sadly they're all acting. None are ever quite as they seem. Fake Plastic Trees.

It wears me out