1000 Followers! Thank You!

Thank you so much. Thanks to the small fraction of followers who like posts, the even smaller amount that comment on them and the one mystery person who shares them. In particular, I’d like to thank my top commenters of late. You make the writing experience enjoyable and fill it with pockets of hope.
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An octopus was once asked, “Which one of your suckers is your favourite?”

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“Indeed, I don’t prefer one to another as they all perform the same function. Yet, each tentacle can have a different purpose. On occasion that purpose is merely to appear elegant, or crude or artistic. In a situation where I wish to eat a particular snack deep within a tight crevice, I’d favor the sucker upon my longest reach.”

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“What?”

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“… What?”

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It’s hard to pick favourites, but at the moment two of my favourite little suckers are Gateway and The Love I Have For You.

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When I post to wordpress, what you read is the first draft. I fill blank space on a page and just throw it out there. My ‘favourite’ story I’ve posted is Silence.

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It’s funny, the most popular posts on this page are the only non-creative ones: Instagram and Self Sabotage and, of course, Tinder and the Death of Romance. I actually really enjoyed writing these, but they are rants, nothing more.

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It actually saddens me that people would rather read dribble than something creative and less on the nose. Something that may make you think just a little bit harder.

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Anyway…

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What’s next?

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Well, I’m aiming to have The Vile Mint published as a little chap book in the near future. It has works that have never been online as well as reworked poems from this site. I’m also hoping to die a tragic death so my family can capitalise on selling a dead poet’s signed book. I guess if you want a signed copy, just comment below and I’ll reply to you when it’s ready.

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Also, I don’t think I’m a good strategist when it comes to building a large audience for my blog. I’m always open to suggestions. If you could help in any way I’d love to hear from you.

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Thanks again! Here’s to another 1000!

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Randall Evans.

It’s The End of the Day, Shoes Off!

It’s the end of the day, shoes off!
But, in the bed you lie,
When an itch, starts itching, on your foot.
Something hurts and can’t be good
On your feet all day you stood,
But the itch was feeling shy.

It’s the end of the day, shoes off!
It starts to hurt a bit.
Friction through your sock so tight,
See that this is man’s delight.
That when his pain is brought to light,
He hasn’t got the wit.

It’s the end of the day, shoes off!
A little bit of blood.
The foot stings a little more,
It’s a pain now standing on the floor.
More than what it was before,
Stinging welling like a flood.

It’s the end of the day, shoes off!
Why’d the pain start then?
Buried in a confined space.
A pain that start’s late in the race,
Waits ‘till dusk to show it’s face,
But on the base of men.

It’s the end of the day, shoes off!
I want to shout at you!
Don’t scratch me when it’s late.
See to me when I don’t ache
Hidden pain controls your fate,
Fix me well before I’m due.

Written By Randall Evans

This was a new rhythm for me inspired by “Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave?” By Thomas Hardy 1913

The Broken Are The Kind

The broken are the kind
Who feel the pain in life
They try to pull your strife
Inside they feel the knife

The broken are the wise
Who wear a smart disguise
They make your spirit rise
Inside they shrink in size

The broken are the warm
Who feel the constant storm
They hold you ‘til the dawn
Inside their self is worn

The broken are the bright
Who make the crisis light
They joke to end the night
Inside their head’s in flight.

The broken are the kind
Who make you feel at ease
But if you swam their sea
You’d call the broken “Me”.

Written by Randall Evans

Strings

The fiddle gently pulls him under,
The cozy sounds of distant thunder.
He is but a fool.
Seduced
by notes from in the sea,
As tears to widow’s misery.
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Depths of sorrow beyond the tree,
A place where sun and sky can’t see.
Empty in himself.
The centre of the broken clock,
Where time is lost, but never stops.

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He hears the devil play each note,
The strings of death that pull and choke.
He eagerly descends.
Seduction pure, true, unfair,
In prison now with
body bare.
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Evil thoughts and evil deeds,

He throws his coins at Devil’s feet.
Darkened is his heart.
He’ll play until the final dawn,
The final day when comfort’s gone.

Written by Randall Evans (while listening to Edvard Grieg).

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Shadows and Shame

The excitements builds rapidly in the invisible space between my lungs and my throat. It’s so powerful that my fingers start to tremble and I’m forced to close my eyes tight. Please, please let this feeling pass!

I have friends who struggle with real addictions. I watch them relapse into substances and thank God I’m not addicted to those. I alway try and give advise and act lovingly towards them, but who am I kidding? How am I any better? I’m worse.

There’s a shadow in my past that follows me. I didn’t know it was there until this moment. It’s impossible to see a shadow in the darkness, but when the light starts to seep into your life, there it is. Following you… Reminding you.

The moment passes. I can breath again…

I go to the local Woolworths for some sort of escape into normalcy. Movement is healthy. Doing something normal is healthy.

The lights of the supermarket seem unnaturally white, but it’s good to see other people shopping. I imagine that this is all they have to do, that their lives are so simple, that they have nothing going on under the surface.

If only I was just there to shop.

No, I was there to escape my shadow.

I fill my basket with one packet of M&Ms, a block of dairy milk chocolate, cookies (reduced to $2), meat pies on special and a 2L bottle of milk. I feel like a woman who’s just gone through a break-up. Actually, I don’t know how they feel, but certainly in movies this is what they do.

I get home and put on the TV. Family Guy isn’t my favourite, but tonight it’s hilarious. I dip my cookies in a warm cup of tea. I’m ok. I’ve beaten it.

I’m ready for bed, but the feeling comes again.

Just do it. Get it over with.

It’s 11:11 and my shadow leads me out the door.

I walk past the stairway. A flush comes over me and I keep walking. Head down, hoodie over my face. It’s a cold night… I look normal.

“Please God, let me bump into someone.”

I walk past a pub that taking the chairs inside. Nobody recognises me as I keep walking into the night. But, there is nothing ahead. I turn around and go back, passing by the Pub again.

“Someone call me. Text me. Something. Save me!”

My heart beats faster and faster as the decision comes closer and closer. My shadow has me by the hand and won’t let me go.

My whole body is shivering.

I pass the stairs again. This time I take a quick glance upward. The pink walls remind me of the smell. The smell of essential oils and fabric softener.

The smell of excitement and shame.

I stand on the edge of the street. It’s freezing. I could just go home.

No.

Let’s get it over with.

I’m not at a bad point in my life. I thought the darkness was a phase, a black hole in my past that I’d overcome. But no, I was wrong. I’m haunted. I’m drawn into darkness. My shadow will lead me. My sin leads me… And I follow.

Lord, forgive me.

I walk up the stairs.

Written by Randall Evans

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Thanks for reading The Vile Mint. If I was able to spark your imagination, make you think or open your mind to new perspectives, please leave me a comment. I love hearing from readers and building relationships. God Bless.

Disjointed Desire

magical-surreal-illustrations-gor-morski-4-art-illustrations-circles-surrealism-illustrations.jpg

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

Vision in the season of depletion,
Incompletion’s my only foundation
Repletion of all but a reason.

Strife in man.
It’s here to stay;
I separate…
Emancipate…

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

How to discipline this mind?
To stop the cycle that I hide,
Solve the puzzle in my soul.
Hold my hand… Make me whole.

This is The Vile Mint
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