Remember, not everyone makes it to a new year, life can be short.
(Requiescat in pace)
Our Lady of the Broken Heart
Finding Portals
As the calendar closes on this final day of the year,
I don’t feel anything other than a numb indifference,
In a personal review of everything I have created,
A sustained enthusiasm for creativity was evident,
My output declined, I felt, and still do feel quite lost,
Like being encased in an airtight concrete bunker,
Lightless and inescapable, suffocating and restraining,
Surprisingly, writing gave me the most creative sustenance,
My private notebooks became illegible, their imagery manic,
Many pages were illustrated with such violent force,
Pages punctured, torn and replaced, screaming scrawled texts,
All aggressively wrapped in an explosion of coloured madness,
As though multiple Me’s were all erupting at once,
Uncontrolled, unrefined and absolutely lost in confusion,
A new year is the one opportunity to find myself,
Where my mental walls are not confines, but portals,
Allowing me to access a journey that makes me feel complete,
I need to rediscover the path to my wellness.
Seasonal Abnormality
For me, the end of the work year brings internal changes,
All creative endeavours feel virtually impossible,
The urge to do something imaginative is strained,
It takes time for the scars left by the year to fade,
Time is required for the anxieties of life to ease,
This is a dangerous time for the imaginer,
When the fires of the creative engine feel all but out,
It is important that some creativity must still happen,
But a passage of time being unproductive must also occur,
A period of zombified browsing, grazing, or dozing off,
Reconnecting with the imaginative core, laziness,
This behaviour must be indulged to allow regeneration,
A time to heal, rest, reinvent and renew interests,
Before another year begins, these are dangerous days,
Caution must be observed to avoid a terrible complication,
Where a psychological blackhole, the void, opens,
It’s vast and can completely engulf a creator, obscuring hope,
Negatively affecting the entire upcoming year.
2025
We currently live in an age,
That considers artists,
To be of no value.
Earworm
Dear Mr Earworm, nestled in my brain-meat,
Spinning those songs that I dislike,
Like some god-awful DJ stuck on repeat,
Over and over, but never the whole song,
Just parts that earworms like,
And you see, that’s what is wrong,
If you played the full tune, it wouldn’t be so bad,
But you tease with a few words,
And this drives me mad,
Next time you feel like partying with a tune that I hate,
Spare a thought for your home,
My brain-meat, that you constantly frustrate.
Silent memories
It’s a couple of weeks before Christmas,
And I sit thinking about years gone by,
Closing my eyes, I can see smiling family faces,
Those of parents, grandparents, siblings, children,
My memories feel like short silent movie clips,
The faces, now colourless and blurred with time,
They feel like they belong to someone else,
As a grandfather myself now, I contemplate the future,
Will I be smiling when my seat at the table is empty,
Silently existing in someone’s distant memory,
Imprisoned in a blurred grey thought released once a year,
Or have I really been that way all along?
Testing testing
Ok, this will be the last AI jibberish I’ll share, but it was a fun experiment.
I decided to double down and really test AI video conversion, so I applied it to a few of my idea scribbles to see if it could work me out. The result was disturbing and amusing; I have been laughing at it ever since.
The reward for disobedience
I wanted to see what AI could do with one of my non AI still images, so I cobbled together an extremely short video with a few video and sound effects, and found it quite surprising how well it connected with my Infinite Black narrative.
December
I don’t seem to be able to connect lately,
I feel like I’m unable to communicate effectively,
I’m irritating myself every time I open my mouth,
This makes me feel tired, a term I’m sick of repeating,
People exhaust me, even when seen in moderation,
I don’t have the energy for it all right now,
My words come out awkwardly, and I feel like an alien,
An outcast on an island of beige repetitive tedium,
It feels like there’s a heavy weight on me,
I have the kind of exhaustion that avoids sleep,
I wake up tired, I struggle through the day, then at night,
When I lie down, I’m wide awake for hours,
It’s also the time of year for that annual socialising dread,
Everyone looks so happy and full of excitement,
Either that or they’re about to win an Oscar for best actor,
If you’re like me, hold your head up; it doesn’t get much easier.
Don’t pretend, just let it happen, let it all flow past you,
Conserve your energy, because you’re going to need it,
Merry Christmas, the war with the mind is never over.
Xenolith
Embedded in a dead landscape,
The stone monument stands,
Piercing the stony earth, but not of it,
Ancient, smooth and pitch black,
A tall shard reaching for the stars,
It is said to vibrate on touch,
And to have driven men insane with whispers,
Its northern, sun-facing side is featureless,
However, the southern side is cast in shadow,
This cold stone face features ancient carvings,
Of an unknown, unearthly language,
Some say it pays homage to an entity,
One of unknown cosmic origin,
Who will rise from the earth when summoned,
And lay waste to the land,
Until then, it slumbers beneath the southern sands.
Dan Verkys 