Lost in action

For the last few years it would seem I had completely forgotten all about this page.

Real life, as it usually does came in and changed everything all around.

My depression worsened. I ended up on anti-depressants for a year (something I had avoided for a very, very long time), going up two waist sizes as a result (though vigorously denied as a side-effect by my GP).
My mum became ill, leading to a diagnosis of dementia. I spent time off work travelling to London to give my sisters time off caring for her in her home. She is now in a care home. My dad was informed of serious health problems as well. My family and myself wondered just how much could be piled on us in such a short space of time.

It's been a tough, emotionally fraught, stressful couple of years.

But I did keep writing. And miraculously stayed away from the anti-depressants, perhaps at the time anyone else would say I needed them most.

Poetry started to become more of a rarity after churning out multiple pieces on a daily basis. I began a novel.

Nearing 400 handwritten, double sided A5 pages later I stopped, unhappy with the farce it was becoming and realising that I was never going to transcribe that many pages into Microsoft Word. I took the story idea back ten years, bought a second-hand laptop on eBay and began again. The blue Tesco ring bound notepads have of course been kept for further usage...

I joined the Glasgow Writers Group online years, many years ago, but nervously went along to my first meeting not so long ago. I plan on going regularly, but shifts have sometimes got in the way, and work-induced migraine/headaches have impeded me as well. But alas, 'there is always next time'.

Whilst working on the novel, with a tentative title of "Edge Of A Lens", I completed my first reasonably long short story. I had never completed anything beyond poems, and vignette-like fiction that was not more than a few lines long. I never thought I could complete a story so it was a huge boost. I passed it on to one soul, Stevie McEwan, my long-time musical cohort and friend, who gave me his opinion and I was buoyed further by the fact that he had enjoyed it. I will hopefully submit it to the writers group for critique, but that is a very scary thought as there are some people who seem to really know what they are talking about. I'm a rookie in this, I've only read two whole books of fiction in my adult life! I have so much to learn...

I once heard a saying that everyone has one novel in them. It would seem that this novel is going to take a lifetime to pour forth from me. One day, one day.

Until then I will do my best to post my vignettes here, digging out any worthwhile past moments and some newly penned (or should that be typed now that I've going the laptop crowd?) scribblings...

Shane

Season Of The Fruit Fly

SEASON OF THE FRUIT FLY

Tiny fly, circles waiting
My movement awakes wings
Sucked in to sweet ferment
The allure of sugar turned to alcohol

Circles and sits, hiding
In a dark corner I forgot
Sobering with daily fast
Not a drop to quench it's drying lips

Small body, small eyes
Fluttering weightless wings
Swarm to a stop, in an instant to settle
And eyes beady gaze onwards

Last of summer sun
Sustains the fruit flies
Crawling over everything
Lifespan of two wasted weeks
To end in hand clasp
Gripless and feeble
Curls to sleep
In eternal wanton needs

(written on the 5th October 2009)

(c) Shane Simmons 2009

Poem Dedicated To Tonsilitis

POEM DEDICATED TO TONSILITIS

Pain, pain, pain
Wake in the morning with pain
Throat seized like rusty bike chains
Reach for lozenges, any will do

Bruce Springsteen is on the tele
Glastonbury highlights so they say
I despise Bruce Springsteen
His music is as painful as tonsillitis

Throat spray, nurofen
Every type of lozenge
One after another
But nothing is helping, damn!

Tonsils oh tonsils
I'm guessing you have a purpose
But at this very moment
I wish the doctors had ripped you out
So I could get some ice cream
I really could do with some ice cream...

Silence Is Not Golden

SILENCE IS NOT GOLDEN

Deathly silence like we had been moved to purgatory
I squirmed and waited for a sign of life
But the silence still sang a song in my ear
And over there they stood frowned
While I drowned for the fourth time over
I gasped for air and nothing happened
I sank to my knees in despair
The world seemed to stop and it turned
While I sat like a stopped clock
Battery dead, fuse severed clean
And the ground came nearer to my eyes
As it spun around the great span
It covered me and swallowed me
Lost in fake plastic wood sheets
I last saw my feet straight ahead of me
Worn black shoes begged the last care of my eyes

(written on the 7th July 2009)

(c) Shane Simmons 2009

Eatern European Prostitute In Frilly Matalan Knickers

EASTERN EUROPEAN PROSTITUTE IN FRILLY MATALAN KNICKERS

Her knickers dissolved
Like soft brown sugar
In hot tea
And fell sideways
With a graceful thump
On an untreated concrete floor
Her beauty was not seen
Unseen under layers of
Applied coloured grease
A kiss unallowed
Skims the surface
Imperfectly smoothed
Her eyes looked dull
At home, mother and father
Disowned her
She thought of somewhere else
She could be home
Around a fire
Loving mother's arms hug
And father looks sleepy
In his comfortable chair
Instead here
No heating
Fifteen minutes
Wasted, to get wasted
To forget the waste
And she looks to the floor
And notices the label
Of a cheap department store
Still adorns her panties
Seductively, cheap
She reminds herself to cut it off
When she gets back to the flat
Red polka dots
Black polka dots
Pink and white lace
Three for five pounds
White frilly cotton
Polyester woven
Red for those nights
She knows she's dying slowly
Inside and her face
Crumples in
And she mumbles
Under her tired breath
"Thank you."

(Written on the 8th of July 2009)

(c) Shane Simmons 2009

Heinz Sacrificed

HEINZ SACRIFICED

One baked bean sits
Shakes, rattles and rolls
Rolls on its side
Wonders where to go

Jostling amongst
But on his own
Like an athlete racing
Through still standing stones

And alone he droned
And hummed and twitched
Like someone with tourette’s
Whose skin did itch

A prisoner in its own skin cell
Trapped in with no way out
Screaming loudly but just not heard
A whisper becomes a shout

And suddenly shaking viciously
The death throes racing near
You’ll hear a BANG and almighty crash
Beside your very ear

May he rest in peace dear baked bean
You just couldn’t abide your time
You’ve found your end and made your mark
With the other microwave wall grime

(Written on the 7th July 2009)

(c) Shane Simmons 2009

Crispy Bacon Pig Skin

CRISPY BACON PIG SKIN

All in all a holiday would help
Money in pocket, fake tan plentiful
Beer, vodka, sunfactor zero, vegetable oil
Fried skin like pigs, crispy bacon

Skin cancer, not a fear
Death feared, nulled, numbed
Saltwater, pool, sunburn
Holiday romance makes way for holiday lust

Oh look, no beauty
Oh look, they are one of us
We eat nothing different
We try nothing different
We do what we do
Every week, every day, just somewhere else

All in all a holiday means nothing
Last minute, do it again
Teletext/obsolete
Go on the net, get away again
(Precious moments become commonplace)

(Written on the 13th June 2009)

(c) Shane Simmons 2009

Staved From Silence

STAVED FROM SILENCE

Saline, pumped full of vitamins
Strength for the weakened, fallen
Drip, drop, drab surroundings
Make you count up inevitables

So silence take me
So silence take me
So words break me
So silence take me

Healing, when death is near
Pills, shocks, you choose?
Perhaps not, forced upon you
Can you really count upon inevitables?

So silence grant me
Some peace I beg thee
My mouth is drying
So silence take me

We hand in hand in hand
Around the sides to protect
God, where are you now
We shall move into place

The dark, the saline
The deep depths of now nothing
If you want to stay
Why make them do too?

(Written on the 29th June 2009)

(c) Shane Simmons 2009

The Usurper

THE USURPER

Into his arms they fell
Like plagues slowly fell
And failed to see under their feet
The ground, it fell

Swept up, in a whirl of dust
Tornado torrents, torrential flows
And rivers guided paths through
Landscapes which sharply changed

And at the edge they stood
Watching the world drive away
In a car the size of a Buick
Now left, alone...

Onto his palms they fell
Solemnly, one by one, fell
And though they see all clear
Still, they fell

(Written on the 4th July 2009)

(c) Shane Simmons 2009

I Might Take A Break

I MIGHT TAKE A BREAK

I might take a break
Get away get away
Clear this mind of the rubbish
It accumulates all the time

I might do something else
Find a way, find a day
I'll feel fine I'm sure
Walking on the sun parched ground

My feet are in the air
I could be walking on the clouds
Taking a piece of sun
And burning out my heart

Because it only hurts
It only plays around
Dragging to a beat
Too slow to leap

(Written on the 26th of August 2007)

(c) Shane Simmons 2007

Death On The 44A

DEATH ON THE 44A

Frail bones and wrinkled skin
At a snails pace crawled in
Hair coifed to reflect still sanity
Hold out hand to balance drivers’ minor tyranny

The slowed rush to be seated
In floral skirt, eighties pleated
The need to talk to dolly sheep clone
Overcome with joy when shared gossip is known

Shopping trolley
A prop merely to stand
Bread, milk, butter (NOT margarine)
Two slices of baked ham

Pop off for a wander
Once more at snails pace
Cup of tea in worn out cafeteria
With greasy cups and chipped patterned plates

Rusted joints and bruises from falls
Back to the bus they do slowly crawl
In time for rush hour, to make you feel guilty
For being sat on pensioners seats
Where death really should be…

(Written on the 17th, 18th and 26th of June 2009)

(c) Shane Simmons 2009