MOJAVE

This is probably me trying to be way too meta but basically Mojave was actually a novel I couldn't write and it became a poem, which pissed me off because I thought it could've been a good story.

MOJAVE

It was the peyote that reminded of the kidnapping,

but the ether made me forget it so

everything was fine.

 

But the ether was mixing with the sun,

which stuck me in a spastic stupor when

I should have been writing,

or reading,

hell anything is better than this!

 

My body was being possessed by a twitching drunk

but my head was sober enough to realise how fucked it all was

and that’s not fair, drunks shouldn’t have to face hangovers,

it’s not Christian.

 

My kidnapper meanwhile was doing the driving which was very good of him.

I believed he cared little for me as he never spoke,

perhaps he is mute or too high to speak.

His face was mouldy with hairs sticking out all over

and his teeth were just �"

 

‘Oi! The f**k are you looking at’

 

I can now confirm that he is not mute but in fact Australian,

and he still maintains a quite unfriendly disposition towards me.

Perhaps he needs a name, most people do.

‘I am Vic. Would you care for some ether?’

 

He then took all the ether.

I’m not entirely sure what I expected,

but if I’m being honest I didn’t need any more.

 

Now escape had crossed my mind,

I’d already thought of seven ways to get out, naturally.

Five of these methods did involve flying in some capacity,

which was certainly the peyote talking,

or at least I hope it was.

 

So I decided to go with method seven,

flail my body until he stops the car.

 

I flailed for around 10 seconds

and made several limp wristed assaults on his person.

He promptly escalated the situation with his M9,

which was now in my mouth,

jamming the back of my throat with its barrel.

 

I don’t remember if he ever pulled the trigger though.

 

Mojave Addendum:

I hate the poem you just read.

 

It is the unfinished conversation that never became a friend,

the half baked potato that could never be dinner,

the Schubert symphony that was actually unfinished

or the love that you never confessed.

 

It’s lack of foresight and hindsight,

just a blurry tear in a lonely room.

It never left it’s seat in the present,

as it couldn’t imagine the future or past.

 

It’s in the desert for a reason, it’s an excuse.

It cooks all the details into a blur so no one needs them

and I don’t have to remember them.

It’s only a poem so I don’t have to commit to these characters,

and I can just throw up a snapshot.

 

It’s the gut reaction with no spine to hold it up,

that’s right no backbone for the stern words,

it’s all just second guesses and half promises

that spill out it’s nose and dribble from its mouth.

 

You might like this character or even love him

but he’ll never move on, he’ll never grow with you.

He’ll always be in the desert and he’ll always be dead

or always alive, like a Schrodinger’s f**k up.

 

.IT’S ME!

 

Or at least all of my little niggles,

the ones that sit fishing at the back of mind,

the ones that won’t let me write that story

because it’s too safe or too commercial.

 

It’s all of my apprehension and my useless wit,

it’s all my desire without the conviction to make it real.

It’s all my dreams that are easier to leave unfulfilled

where they can live in my sleep as beautiful pictures.

 

It’s all the lies I’ve told to the people that I love,

the lies that I needed to feel safe.

 

But it’s the reason this collection exists.

Enjoy the rest of the poems.

Author's Note

Ignore the last lines it was originally part of a bigger collection