M. Bolton

New Zealand

Night Versus Day

You Know those dark shadows
that appear on a bright summer's day?
- no?

You Know those tempestuous noises you're not
quite sure you heard, or whether it was just
another floorboard settling in a distant room?
Well, the shadows are the same.
Hollow creatures that remind us of
the need to nurture mystique.

Burnt by the glory of the sun,
we revel in the relief of another
dawning day, and as we put
"the uncertainties of what lurks in the shadows"
to bed, we in turn put off facing our fears.
Yet we still see those shadows.
Whether cast by a tumultuous tree.
Imprinted by quivering heat waves on guilded ground.
Their snake like finger,
curling in the corner of our eyes...

We are in love with the night.
Imprisoned by our natural need for light,
being tortured by this temptress;
scorned part-time emptress!

She is in love with us too, you know.
Her unfaithful subjects whom
play her against day,
amusing ourselves through
our own spirtitual game.

Lot 4, Row 39, Plot 41

Sitting on a plush, publicised chair
on my way home, and finding myself
restless again.
Gripping the arms of my solidified seat
I ruminate back to my dream-like days
and recollections.
How strangely similar they are
one aloof, flighty, whimsical.
The other consistant, reliable.
So how is it that one always
remains separate?
How is it, we clutch those moments best forgotton
and dismiss more carefree thoughts, for whims?
- surely no-one else knows the difference.

Life is a facade,
keeping us at bay from our crowning imagination
and making us pay our debt in sufferage.
After all, that is the measure of a person
- isn't it?
Surely the on who dies with the most toys wins!
What of the the grand prize.
What are we playing for?
Lot 4, Row 39, Plot 41.

Jack Slumber

Remembering a time when happiness cried
was harder than drawing a breath it seemed,
for that man,
that constant man.
at the cafe window.
Drew smoke rings into the air;
pencil sketches of his cloudy cogitation
drifted gracefully out into the open
for anyone to inhale.

He wondered what was waiting for him
at the end of the night; at twilight
when it appered all the world was asleep,
ignoring his plea for company.
So it was at this cafe's window
(seemed the light that emanated from it's garish
belly would carry his cries out further into the night)
he sat...

We have all been there before.
The last one to go to sleep,
the last to sway toward silence,
kicking and screaming inside
for some noise, some bitter-sweet
bellow of bliss!

Then the world began to wake up,
the silence began to fade.
Urgency crept up with the bill,
and decampment brought
that man to paying it as he
hurriedly eluded the waking world.

To his bed he dashed
missing the muteness of the night,
and the longing for the loudness of lonliness.
To his crypt he raced
to sleep in the peace of the heated day
so that he may
again be awakened
by the silence.

Ode to the Written Word

Ever got that bitter hunger
That sour anticipation,
When you decide you're
Going to put pen to paper?

Ever got that insatiable thirst
That unquenchable appetite,
When you realise you're
Going to put pen to paper?


Ever got that bitter hunger
That sour anticipation,
When you decide you're
Going to put your pen, to her paper?

Ever got that insatiable thirst
That unquenchable appetite,
When you realise you are
Already at the corner of her pages,
Stroking her leaves
Like a well known close friend?

Ever got that anxious foreplay
That taunting tease,
When you decide you are
Going to enter her chapters,
Penetrate her paragraphs &
Learn all of her secrets?

Ever got that stagnant emptiness
That infinite layer of silence,
When you realise you are
Going to expose her Prose
& Feel the disappointment
Of expecting more?

Ever got the feeling the fantasy,
Was worth more, held onto?