2 notes

Epiphany;

Insurmountable euphemisms and creaking bones on bones and tongues in check. Forget the pasts and disregard what comes next, we have just this moment to have our epiphanies together and that’s it. We drift, again, for a while at least, until the next moment. It’s all a series of moments. An afternoon in hometowns just after sunset when everything is quiet. Some young love, and a smile from across the front steps. A shared cigarette, maybe. A moment, is all. Do we not just want to find eyes just a bit deeper than our own? More calloused hands, to pick us up and drag us to someplace new, away from our beds and the troubles in our heads. Are we not just looking for a broken heart that’s pieces fit together with our own? 

(c) Mitchell Beanland, 2012.

2 notes

Mind Eraser;

6 o’clock black tongues leak like oil rigs
into a sea of subservient gaping mouths.
I watched them line their pockets
with the dead and bury them in tv static.

If they can derail the syllabus,
before our fathers sobered up.
I bet they could start a war
before we’d ever know we were fucked.

(c) Mitchell Beanland, 2012. 

1 note

Untitled; 

I lust after the winding tongue of open roads. The heavy pattering of windowsill raindrops in achey mid summer recluse. Old books that were filled humbly with a cooped up travellers reprieve. I wish for early morning spark and a sobering balcony sprawl, looking down upon bustling hats stepping in late february puddles with tired eyed neglect. Ceiling fans whirring in winter, caressing sweat glistened backs writhing under thin sheets and cigarette smoke entwined in euphoria at sunset. Peacoat cafe rendezvous before impending storms. The buzzing neons of friday night whiskey fuelled forgetfulness. Back alley blues clubs to scratch a growing itch. Newspaper rustling and the heavy eyelids of late night express trains homebound. A lamplit room burning dull but vivid against a backdrop of 16th storey city slumber. Big city, white noise lullaby. 


(c) Mitchell Beanland, 2012. 

2 notes

Slow dance with death; 

When my time comes, I ask one thing;
please don’t leave flowers on my grave.
They’ll just be wasted on the wind,
and squandered in the dirt.

(c) Mitchell Beanland, 2012. 

7 notes

An excerpt from ‘Halfway’;

"…His obsession with death started with the passing of his son, eleven years back. It was a bleak time, that he buried in the bottoms of hard liquor bottles and in the fleeting solace of strangers arms. Some months after his son died he found himself at his lowest low, lying face down on a dirty mattress in some peeling old motel room off a stretch of highway north of Georgia. ‘Strangefruit’ was crackling through an old dusty radio in the corner, barely audible over the eerie static of the television that he had turned on so he didn’t have to face the deafening silence. His pants still sat bunched around his ankles from an underwhelming fling with a woman he’d met earlier that day. Minutes or hours had past since then. He took something she brought, he didn’t remember what. His wallet was empty and something was stirring in his chest. He couldn’t go on like this. "I got both feet in the fuckin’ grave," he pleaded, to the cracks in the ceiling and the night sky beyond. A drug addict dragging his slippered feet along the landing because he’d heard a few voices outside and thought he could talk them out of a dollar for "food". It was past 2:30 am. He wasn’t even the only one in the motel but he felt more alone than he ever had before. The static bent and swarmed over his face as he sat up and put a cigarette to his lips. He lit a match and without lighting the cigarette he fell back on the bed transfixed on the flame, as it flickered. Tall and bright at first, dancing around vividly; a tinge of blue at the tip. Orange. Yellow. It climbed up the match stick toward his fingers burning smaller and smaller until it died, leaving the stick charred and black. A trail of smoke rose from it and slithered toward the cracked ceiling dutifully. The smell of it stung at his nostrils. He laid there for a moment, a keen thought forming in his head. Although the flame is dead, the smoke remains. He thought of his son and a profound whiskey-soaked epiphany occurred; What if life doesn’t end with death?…”


(c) Mitchell Beanland, 2012. 

2 notes

Damn the damned; 

It was said a man died once, 
for the shortcomings of a privileged few.
The rest were doomed perpetually:
to move about then to die in vain.

(c) Mitchell Beanland, 2012.

4 notes

Dirge;

Found false hope alive in stagnant christian towns;
smiling down through gritted teeth from church noticeboards.
Cry wolf with rose red tears and rewrite the prophecies.
I always knew there was nothing for me
on parchment page or in tired-eyed doctrine,
but here I sit with dirt in both hands
envious of the blind and the wishful;
painting coffins and eulogies like open sky.
However fickle and false that hope may be,
I want it more than anything else.

(c) Mitchell Beanland, 2012.

6 notes

An excerpt from ‘Wanderings’;

…We arrived in Toowoomba somewhere in early afternoon. Just as the sun was starting to lose it’s bite. We rolled on past tanned houses. Most had the curtains drawn. No one was stirring. No kids riding bikes or throwing rocks at signs. No old man with a walking frame taking an afternoon stroll. My arm was hanging out the car window as I watched the small town unfold. I love new places, something about coming into some place new gets my heart racing. I took in all the sights of that sun-drenched town. Everything seemed in forfeit to the blistering stare of the sun. Even the grass was a pale straw yellow. I imagined before leaving town I’d see an old swan fashioned out of a bald tyre or some welded wrought iron thing sitting rusted in the middle of a dry, dead garden. It was a modest town scattered immodestly with churches and christian schools. “Jesus is coming” was plastered on one church notice board, “Jesus is here” on another. Big blocks of land with tiny houses sitting in their middle greeted us as we turned down streets named after trees; Mahogany and Silky-Oak. We pulled into my families new house. It’s a long story how they came to be there, and probably one best left for another time, but there they were, making the best of a bad situation in a big house with varnished floorboards and more walls than pictures to hang on them. We lounged around and drank fresh apple juice and watched the sun set while they peeled potatoes over the sink for dinner. Some sunset it was too; bathed the house in an apocalyptic red glow. I sat in my Mother’s old rocking chair while my old dog sat at my feet. Another thing that I cared about that had been taken away from me prematurely. My dog. A gumboot rested near his head from an earlier escapade. I thought then, that you never really know how much you miss loved ones until you’re amongst them, watching them do such things as peel potatoes and chase each other through freshly mown grass in the backyard. I might’ve sighed but I was too sad and sorry to see that they’d been whisked away from their home two states over, where they’d made lives for themselves. Friends. Careers. Familiarity. And then they were uprooted and brought to a small town most known for it’s mediocrity and record flash floods. They seemed settled enough, though. The girls had even decorated their rooms with posters and pictures in frames. But the house had a different smell. The girls Father arrived home from work. I felt the tension my Mother had mentioned in those distraught phone calls seep out of the woodwork. He brought food as an unconscious attempt at a peace offering and painted on a shallow smile. He acted as if he hadn’t been taking out all his pent up anger out on the family. He told me about how great it was to be living there and how close he was to work and everything he wanted from life. A dream come true, he said. A dream at the mercy of four others dreams, I thought. I knew then, that as sure as money can buy plane tickets, it could buy my family happiness too.



(c) Mitchell Beanland, 2011.

2 notes

Late night delirium;

I heard a picture is worth a thousand words.
Maybe I should write longer poems.

(c) Mitchell Beanland, 2011.