The last scene in a film by Gabriel Curran

The last person leaves my side.
I guess I’m alone now to face the dirty truth and its smug list of flaws, foibles and failures.
Time took its time in coming for me but now I’m here with just a candles solidarity glare,
a flickering reminder, a vague recollection of hope, fading slowly into the cold shuddering shadows of night.
Nothing ever lasts forever my friend, repeating like a mantra in the gutters of my slumber hole.
I am now an apprentice of loneliness, but it’s not loneliness that I’m really afraid of, no I’m afraid of my reflection becoming this room and this room becoming me.
I’m afraid of becoming this hideously mundane wallpaper, stained with jet black discontent. All dirty and dowdy, frayed and beaten up. Old, insipid and kitsch with no spirit left in its withered creases.
The smouldering carcass of my past is rotting beneath these floorboards, and all I can do is watch this flirtatious flame dance my time away.
Just deep and shallow inertia, flickering TV screens, drunken distant voices, and the occasional thud of a living being walking across the ceiling.
My only fleeting conversation is with the scurrying little rodents as they embark on their perilous missions to the cupboard and back.
Even the ghosts have lost their spirits and fled for a new haunt, even Satan himself has better things to do than pay me a fucking visit.
The abyss has become my most reliable and trusted companion, this realm of vapid dystopia has a new tenant to nurture blind.
Nestling into the stark darkness, and forming comfort bonds with the fallen, hollow and soulless.
These walls have me forever blind, forever inside away from my dreams. Forever, forever, forever.

Luna by Gabriel Curran

The city screams in ultra violet delirium, reverberating colour, waking solitude from its cold and shallow slumber.
Chaos becomes the sweetest companion, as clusters of crazed activity become the magnetism for the lonely and unholy.
Broken strides, falling steps, soaring heights, scaling ambition, jaywalking the wavering tightrope across the digital skyline.
Seeing elation unfold in the gutters of reflection as melody bounces off the concrete chambers.
Bass riding the cities everlasting distance, as a thousand yearning voices ricochet of every burning star.
Distracted by the luster and the mad apparitions of frantic hedonism, under the spell everlasting desire, and the promise of something more.
Salacious and insatiable, hypnotized by the harlot queens, gregarious fiends, potential dream sharers, and moon child bearers.
Reinventing the wheel then riding it naked to heaven, surfing on a bull through Babylon whilst holding a hornets nest, basking in glories which are yet to come.
Spending forever amongst blurry faces, distorted gestures and ostentatious bards.
Sipping on tonic freedom, toasting dead hero’s, downing kindred spirits, tranquilized by warm memories and waves of lucid sound.
Romanticizing fanatics, tripping on neon glow and pheromone scented street corners.
Fantasy addicts searching for a carnal fix, a bodily high, some fresh flesh to buy.
The moon relentlessly luring, coxing and charming the spirit from its withered self consciousness.
The darkness persistently teasing, concealing, hiding the succulent breasts of the night.
We are brought by the moon and taken by the sun, but the circus of suffering has been postponed until the morning that will never come.
This is the time for the rampant and restless ghosts of never ending debauchery, as they parade along the twilight horizon,
beckoning the lunatics who want their lunar fix.
Their unrelenting boisterous hysteria purging the weak and weary,
this unforgiving dream set has no place for morose souls who can only watch from the wings with child like envy.
Because in this world, hero’s are made from bottles of ritualistic poison, and truths are found in forgotten dreams and faded out scenes.
Because in this world, these famished libertines, these wandering nomadic hipsters,
live electric, turn I fears to ideas and make colossal canvases from the jet black sky.
Because in this world, the sun threatens with light that will cast long shadows of our former selves.
Because in this world, the moon is your trusting friend, your benevolent guide until the end.
Because in this realm, a fools charm might just save you, and a jesters card might just play you.
On and on it goes beneath the auspicious, shimmering white hole in the sky.
Bustling street mania running through the veins of every fleeting soul, every lost roaming spirit.
Duality and causality, rampantly fornicating in the minds of the free and easy.
Death and life, dancing beautifully, gracefully in time to the rhythm of chance and opportunity.

 

 

Peace and good luck for 2017

Gabriel

Shauna Adams – A tribute to Leonard Cohen

Guest contributor Shauna Adams writes a beautiful piece about the legendary poet, songwriter and artist Leonard Cohen  (September 21, 1934 – November 7, 2016)

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I have never revered celebrities. l pay no homage to them or even attention. I do however revere Writers, Artists, Philosophers and Thinkers, that have changed the way people think and feel about life through their art. In my opinion they have given something precious to whoever wants to partake.

They share their vision, insights, images and thoughts and in doing so bring comfort, inspiration, vision, and truth, to so many of us hopelessly thrashing in the dark and drowning in confusion, whilst trying so hard to make sense of life.
Leonard Cohen was one of these people. One of these visionaries able to make sense of the tragedy of life. Bring beauty into confusion and create pictures of an imaginary world where words are able to free you from the restraints of the world.
So many inane cliches abound around his work of “music to commit suicide to and music to die to”…for me his words and music were to live by..to thrive by…to make sense of the life we all spend our lives trying so hard to survive.

I feel so privileged that his music and his alchemy of words was to so inspire me in my own music and writing. I feel so privileged to have lived through the unfolding of his words throughout my life, and up until the end of his own. Honoured that he taught me so much through his art, and shared it so willingly amongst us, to either hate or love it. He taught me to see life and language as sacrosanct. Powerful and playful with the ability to create images so intense and so beautiful that the pictures would shine through the words like a film. A film in which I walked and lived, with a soundtrack that followed..his words..leading and guiding me through a maze of uncertainty with a light that shone so bright l no longer felt alone. Living with a Master reading to you as you grew into who you are. A gift given to a billion strangers with the choice to receive or reject.
I received his teachings, with open and grateful arms, his beautiful words, his fierce images, his intense wisdom, and carried them with me.
I fear now for the those beautiful words and those wonderful visions. Where will they come from. Where will those heavenly words be found now. The Master has died and his words have ended. They will no longer come fresh and new with ever renewing energy and life. There are so few to take his place, so few left and ready to inspire. I search frantically but they are not to be found. Now is an alien world of anger and hate, devoid of dreams and despairing of inspiration. We are troubled, we are undone, we are lost in the crowd, we are bereft of such enormous inspiration. It can no longer be seen or heard, no longer penetrate where “the light gets in” He left us. He said he was ready…said he was done…I mourn not only the loss of a great man and visionary but an art….where will l find the words now. We are left in the dark and now the light cannot get in…

Shauna Adams

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