Bookshelf

The books on my shelf are my tattoos. The covers are comforts and windows to my mind. They are a display of my thoughts. Thoughts that run rampant in a dizzying spiral suddenly have points in space and time. My thoughts have buckets in these books. My questions have answers and the answers create more questions. 

The shelf in my mind is messy indeed. The ideas and memories and ambitions are scattered like papers shoved into random spaces. One day I retrieve a piece of paper with a verse in my curse. I don’t remember writing it, but it’s honest and true. Sometimes, it’s just a to-do. 

These walls. These walls confine. These white walls box me in. I’m trapped. I can’t breathe. I can’t get out a sentence. One single line. 

Time! 

Oh! How easy art would be if time I could not see! 

How beautiful it is to follow dreams without the sting of death within. 

How hard it is to work towards a goal so hidden, if indeed it exists at all. 

Pay the bills, flush it down, eat your lunch and it’s dinner now. The night is quiet, but not my mind. 

I pace and pace and cannot find. 

I can’t decide. 

Throw art away to survive, or kill the thought and slowly die.

***

Thanks for reading. Be sure to sign up below to read my first book!

The love I have for you…

I love to hold you with eyes closed,

To tell you what you need to know:

*

If you couldn’t use your legs, I’d lend my legs to you.

“Oh darling, I can’t feel my feet, are all your sweet words true?”

As true as I,

I’ll lift you high.

All through the love I have for you.

*

If you were blind, I’d be your eyes to see all pretty things.

“Oh darling, I can’t see at all, why must you break my wings?”

I will tell,

Your beauty well!

All through the love I have for you.

*

If your hair twisted and fell out, I’d love you even more,

“Oh darling, my head feels so bald, is hair falling to the floor?”

I’ll shave off mine,

To match with thine!

All through the love I have for you.

*

“Darling please, I’m fading fast.

With your love I could not last.”

I can not stop my heart from song,

I’m almost done, it won’t be long.

*

If your sense of touch was gone, I’d hold you even more.

“But darling, How my body’s cold! You’re killing me, I’m sure!”

Don’t worry dear,

I hold you near!

All through the love I have for you.

*

If you hadn’t hands to kiss, I’d kiss you’re little stumps!

“But, darling while you say these things, my hands are falling off!”

Blood is pouring everywhere,

Like a victim of a bear!

All through the love I have for you…

*

I’m sorry that I dropped you, I didn’t realise!

“Darling, am I in my blood and hair and hands and eyes?”

Do not yelp!

I’ll get you help!

All through the love I have for you.

*

“Darling please, I’m fading fast.

With your love I will not last!”

I can’t undo what I’ve done wrong.

I’m almost done, it won’t be long.

*

If you should pass now into death, I’ll follow quickly too!

“Oh darling please stop talking, sweet words you say aren’t true!”

Ok, my love,

Fly as a dove…

The love I have for you is through.

*

I’d love to hold you with eyes closed,

To tell you what you need to know:

I did not really love you so.

For love is something that you show.

*

– Written by Randall Evans.

Fashionable

It was a mid-morning start, which meant the traffic was a little lighter and the gangs of retirees were taking over the cafes. I pulled up next to a trendy family car – Upper middle class.

chatillon-car-graveyard-abandoned-cars-cemetery-belgium-fb

I couldn’t see the driver. All I could see was the left arm of the passenger.

The wrist was decorated with the cuffs of a women’s power suit and a gold bracelet that was probably purchased in 1993. The bony hand, barely visible through the window tint, was worn and stressed.

Why isn’t she at work? It’s past 10…

Why wasn’t this independent hand on the steering wheel?

She had probably just come from the doctors. An elbow so casually, so… tensely resting on the window could only mean bad news. Her husband, or dare I say, old friend who’s always loved her but never been able to crack through her tough exterior, had driven her for moral support.

He left his car at hers because she’d rather be dead being seen in his bomb.

What’s the point? I mean, what’s the point of that gold bracelet? It doesn’t impress me much. I wonder if she was rubbing it in her anxiety as the doctor told her the news.

I turn up the music in my car. I wonder if I do it to impress the retirees with amazing heavy metal.

The status symbol is too heavy. It becomes a chain… A metal chain that pulls her along.

What hit her the most in her appointment? The realisation that she’s going to die, or the realisation that she’d wasted her life.

The car, the chain, the suit, the nail polish…

The skin, the muscles, the bones…

The heart.

Let’s strip it all away.

She’s protecting herself. The little girl she once was… She was hurt by the world. So, she put on her armor. She wasn’t enough just being a shining light, a pure spirit. She needed to project and deflect. If she fails, and she will, it’s because of the suit, the chain, the car, the lack of skills… never because of who she is.

She’s not a failure… She’s not…

Written by Randall Evans

This is The Vile Mint

 

Fashionable

 

He Makes Us Laugh !

3219115638_04f3711b1e_b

The clown’s mask drips down his cheeks, but he has no face paint on. Sitting under a lamp in the corner of a lonely street his mind wanders. The waters rise from his heart to his head, making it impossible to get up and walk home.

This man, this, ‘clown’, spends his time exchanging laughter for pain. People want him around. They lean on him, laugh with him and seek him for comfort.

Everyday he cuts off small pieces from his body and gives it to whoever’s in need. Everyday he becomes more and more… empty. He gives what he wants to receive, yet he doesn’t know how to receive what he gives.

He can’t stay above the surface of the water, because the flood is within himself.

Is there ever balance in life? Is the emotional landscape like the rolling waves? Does the happiness that crashes on the shore eventually have to flush out through the rip tide into the sea?

The man, the clown, the ocean, stands up in the lonely street. He doesn’t stand straight like a hero on a mission. He doesn’t stand defeated like a man who’s lost it all. He stands in his pain with his eyes closed.

He applies his mental face paint.

Another man walks past. Concerned he asks, “Are you alright?”

The clown looks him in the eye.

“No. I’m not alright. I have a left hand as well.”

This is The Vile Mint

Written By Randall Evans

Only Your Happiness

I wish for you the happiness,
That I will never have,
For me, my love, I’m left alone.
Cold and in the black.

The shadows cover everything,
That you once saw as me.
The shadows cover everything,
And I can barely see.

One day we’ll meet by accident,
You’ll call me an old friend.
I’ll laugh and smile and play pretend,
My life is on the mend!

Yet, I sit alone… In the still blue night,
Convincing myself… it will be all right…

Written by Randall Evans

Depth

Empty tunnels echo pain.
Beating heart and throbbing veins.
Scattered thoughts and shattered soul,
Hatred fills the empty hole.

Where to turn in this turmoil?
Mind in tempest, face in soil.
I gave too much and feel too weak,
And uttered words I never speak.

Without the mind to stay alone,
Or the want for friends I know.
I wish for comfort from above,
But hatred lives where once was love.

When we give to much we’re left in pain,
Yet, I know deep down, I’d give again…

– By Randall Evans.

Written for the Daily Prompt: Depth

The Sail

_MG_4971_1

When! When can we see the stars for what they are?

Constellations causing mutilations of a map in mind and heart.
They change our bearings, and our minds, like whispers in the dark.
Disillusioned, discontent; Spinning in a jar.

It’s getting hot, but he never stops.
It’s getting hot, but he’ll hit the spot.
The stars a map and the map is death.
They were never the same when his innocence left.

He’s been there before, the place on the map.
It draws him still closer…
The spring inside is poison and the waterfall is black.

Law of nature,
And of time.
There is nothing,
In this life.

Vision in the season of depletion,
Incompletion.
Repletion of all but the reason.

For strife in man.
Is here to stay;
Separate…
Emancipate…

Revealed by desire,
By a simple smile.
No barrier between self and liar.

To wish upon a falling star.
To wish upon a falling star.

– By Randall Evans.

The Train

“Be careful, it’s quite slippery.”

“I will. You taking photos?”

“Yeah, you?”

“Nah, i’m hoping to see a ghost.”

Helensburgh--station--train--haunted--nature--cool--photography--locations--sydney--nsw
Old Helensburgh Railway Station – Original Vile Mint Photo

The man’s camera flash echoed through the tunnel.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I’ve been here before, but didn’t see anything. How long have you been in here?”

“I only just arrived.”

The abandoned train line was still and quiet.  It was beautiful in the day and ominous at night. People often came to take photos or go on guided ghost tours.

“Why do you want to see a ghost?”

“Because I’ve never seen one before.”

The flash echoes down the tunnel.

“What will you do when you find one?

“Probably run away.”

“Ah, so you are just thrill seeking.”

“Maybe…”

The flash echoes.

The woman slips on some mud and grabs the strangers shoulder to prevent herself falling down.

“I’m sorry, it’s so slippery.”

“It’s okay. How far down are you going to go?”

The darkness was thickening around them as they walked.

“As far as I have to to see a ghost.”

The man stopped in his tracks.

“Well, you had better stop walking.”

Helensburgh--station--train--haunted
Old Helensburgh Railway Station – Original Vile Mint Photo

The tunnel was silent but for a few drips of water. The mancontinued:

“This tunnel used to have trains passing through every hour full of different people. People in the rat race on the way to work, old men on their way to see their granddaughters and young children on their way to school.”

Darkness.

“For a time they were all together in the same carriage passing through the same tunnel. On late mornings they would have to run to make their train and on late evenings they would rest their heads agains the glass window and stare out into the darkness of this tunnel.”

The man turns his camera off.

“We are the only ghosts in this tunnel.”

– By Randall Evans.

Joshologue #2

There are too many elephants in my room.

I’m talking to myself again. The fact that we have two ears and one mouth means that what we say about ourselves is amplified exponentially until it explodes in our minds. The feedback of actualization.

Part of the reason I talk to myself is to hear my own voice. I know that must sound strange, but that’s how our voices sound when we hear them; Strange. Haven’t you ever heard your voice on a recording and asked, ‘Is that what I sound like?’

I bet you can’t even remember the last time you heard your own voice when no one else could.

After listening to myself I realized that my voice doesn’t belong to me.

The voices are coming from the elephants.

The speak on my behalf as I rush to cover them with hay. The more I hide them, the bigger they become.

When I try to hide things about myself I become like a drunk man trying to present himself sober to enter a bar. What I’m hiding becomes obvious.

But then the people watching ask the most important question of all:

“Why does he want to be in the bar so desperately?”

– By Randall Evans.

The Little Man And I

Drip… Drip… Drip…

“What is it now?” A shadow passed across the face of a tiny man. He lifted his head to see a demon perched by the window.

“A lying tongue, my good man.” The demon smiled it’s sharp, stained teeth. It smiled because of the little man’s face. He pulled the face of one who was suppressing an unannounced internal pain. Oh, how beautiful it was.

_MG_1418

The little man picked up his sharp little quill and started to write onto the soft, warm surface.

“Work’s been busy?” Asked the man, trying his best to hide any emotion from his voice.

The demon opened his wings to reveal another mouth protruding from his stomach.

It spoke.

“Don’t you want to know what he said?”

The man was only half way through carving ‘lying’ when the bleeding started.

“Or are you running out of space? I know another little man who ran out of space only yesterday.”

“Oh?” The little man’s poker face took up valuable vocabulary space. He finished off his second word, pulled a little handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his bloody hand.

The demon closed his wings and spoke from his sharp teeth.

“Work is easy. I hardly have to do anything. It’s almost like delegating without delegating. They are all under his employ now.

The words reflected on the little man’s eyes as he shut the doors of reaction.

“Oh?”

The demon smiled.

“At least it keeps you in a job. I’ll se ya.”

And with that, the demon departed. The little man breathed a sigh of relief. He sat down, wiped his hands free from blood stared at the bleeding heart in front of him. A giant heart, stained and scared with evil.

It was afternoon now and the light from the window was passing along the floor as the day came closer to an end. The light never reached the heart.

The man sat alone in the dark and began to cry.

– By Randall Evans.