I’m not driven
Here to scriven,
But something once I took as given
Has, of late, been riven,
Seemingly, by me just live’n.
All the thoughts, my mind is sieve’n,
And the rhymes are misbehaving.
Bryson Thomas
Category: Uncategorized
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Fame is correlation
Not a causeA coincidence of luck
That opens doorsA megaphone for voices
Sounding wiseBut catering to tastes
Of passing fliesMercurial
Ethereal
Nutritious as kids’ cereal
A sparkle
On the turds
Of crushing bores.Bryson Thomas
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Stand agog at my collection,
Let thine eyes squint at the glitter,
As I adjust my prostrate form,
And languish on my litter.
Amongst these bracing stalactites,
My treasures flow in drifts,
Exposing shining memories,
As my plated belly shifts.
My thoughts pile deep around me,
Golden coins cast down this well,
Each a wish for loved-ones,
Or a story hard to tell.
These riches are my children,
I love them all the best,
Secured by stone and earth above,
Held closely to my chest.But lest ye think I’m but a worm,
Ensconced beneath your shoes,
There was a time I sought the light,
And had no wealth to lose.
In truth, I soared in years long passed,
Free of fears and full of wonder,
My scales would shatter sunlight,
And life was mine to plunder.
It was love that brought me down to earth,
A knight that pierced my heart,
Some call him saint, I named him George,
He had me from the start.
His love the greatest diamond,
Cool to touch and free of flaw,
My flames were immolation,
When I lost him to a war.
So I nestle here in darkness,
Where my dragon heart beats calmer,
Breathing sulphur vapours from the stream,
Surrounded by my armour.
Think ye not of stealing,
But a penny of this wealth,
My talons are still sharp as wit, my
Defences in good health.
For all of this is part of me,
Every shimmer, spark and gleam,
So hasten ye away from here,
And leave me to my dream.Bryson Thomas
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Roaming around it,
I know I’ll miss this place
When it’s time to leave.
This sun-stained face with
Heritage curb appeal.
These paint-swatch eyes
Scuffed by struggle,
Flecked with joy.
These arms that held
People who are now
Only pictures.
This comfortable chest
With its spare room,
Decorated with love.
This waist, a crooked
Hallway between hope
And nostalgia.
The leg scars that the kids
Measured their growth against,
When I stood tall,
And they still looked up
In wonder.
These knees that creak,
Like the side door
Reserved for friends.
These epilated shins
With marble-veined facade.
The left pinky toe,
Still crouched in surfing stance,
Like I was when I broke it
Trying to impress a pretty girl.
This place.
This sweet, sustaining ephemera.
This home,
Was only ever rented.Bryson Thomas
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This morning,
Like every morning,
I surrender stiff knees to an east-facing mat,
Closed eyes still propolised with sleep,
Bare arms goose-bump quilted
Against the night-touched air,
I still my body,
And notice my breath.Breath.
Just one word for an eternal battle with gravity,
Life forced into cells
From whence it will plot its escape.
But not today.
And not now.
Now is abiding by my stream of consciousness
Without wading in.
Neither war
Nor worry
Nor warming
Nor waste
Now is simple.
Now is breath.Bryson Thomas
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A thought of you,
Ran through my mind,
And left its woolly coat behind,
Draped on a chair,
Belonging there,
Merino, cashmere, satin-lined.It’s oversized,
To match your smile,
Methinks I’ll wear it, for a while,
Of worsted shrugs,
And winter hugs,
And perfect living, cafe style.
If purl and knit,
Could but conceive,
Your life would spring forth from the weave,
A yarn in felt,
Cinched by a belt,
A complex fashion few achieve.
But this remains,
A phantom thread,
Entwined by needles in my head,
The thread re-caked,
A thought half-baked, for
Alas, I am alone instead.Bryson Thomas
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My feet are bellows,
Forcing furnace-fired air
From my instep through my shoes,
Heating socks and venting from cracks
In the black-waxed pair.
The rouge powder dirt
Plumes about tired trees,
White-gum bark flush with rosacea
As sweat pricks at the heat-rash
Playing house above my knees.Across the rail lines
Warped and poorly drawn,
Shimmers dance and locusts crack
From leprechaun places
In the high school lawn.My sagging backpack
Leaching all my resolve,
Its sweaty shroud kneels heavy
On a once-fresh shirt, praying
Pedagogical mass.Year nine in Australia
And it’s 44 centigrade,
At least, that’s what I’ll remember
Getting to class in December,
As finer details fade.Bryson Thomas
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My mind is a multiverse of parallel thoughts.
I see the forests and every single tree,
And the leaves, grass, needles and buds,
Chlorophylled chaos pressed into newsprint,
Where all the stories lead.
A book of unnumbered pages,
Shuffled ’til they flutter with,
Pigeons in the street,
Shooed by a doorman,
Stood sentry at a revolving doorway,
A carousel of shifting rooms,
Sirens of possibility pulling at my soul.
But now the carousel acts centrifuge.
Concentrating all my focus.
On to one, brilliant slide.
Universes retract.
Galaxies collapse.
A wondrous
Singularity
.
Let
There be
Bright creation!
To split the rumination,
Nascent worlds and systems,
And comets and stars and
Oops! There’s a galaxy,
Oops! There’s some gravity,
Pulling me down to earth,
Circling the sun,
Spinning around a viscous core,
And I take back the mantel,
Of divided attention,
And once again,
Let my mind refract the world,
So I might dance among colourful thoughts.Bryson Thomas
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What are your two favorite things to wear?
Clothes, let’s start there
I’d take those things anywhere
But any wear just won’t do
I’d wear the smile I have for you.
Bryson Thomas
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Fall to the floor,
Let loose your breath,
Drop tears to drown,
That curséd guest, death.
Pull children closer,
And quell their squirms,
Settle your gripes,
On generous terms.
Snuff all the candles,
Draw all the blinds,
Table your reading,
And focus your minds.
The muse has departed,
And taken the words,
She’s gone to Nirvana,
To live with the birds.
Without a good-bye,
Neither note, nor warning,
Just passed in the night,
And left us in mourning.
She’s frozen all hearts,
And dampened all meaning,
The act of creation,
Now purposeless gleaning.
The art has no reason,
So cannot be art,
The muse, in her leaving,
Has torn it apart.
So wear the black vestments,
Sit vigil and wake,
For art without muse,
Is art without sake.Bryson Thomas
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