Author name: Hayden Veil

In an earlier incarnation, Hayden Veil enjoyed a successful career in software engineering, writing late-night poetry in pursuit of sanity. On 2 February 2020, the world of Hayden Veil changed: Ghosts became real and with its soul laid bare there was no turning back from the perpetual path of poetry.

I could never be a simple man
nor a straight and simple woman,
doing simple things
thinking about simpler ways
forwards.

You said I should be a simple man.
I heard those words faintly
through the haze of intoxication
you said to be unlike them.

They who came before, lingering
in your memory for time immemorial,

I said maybe.

But Heredity.

But Environment.

I could never be a simple man
nor a straight and simple woman,
I am still an alien on four legs
trying to walk upright
and understand.

Iโ€™m not cursed, itโ€™s all bad luck.
Fuses blown and nails breaking,
foggy eyes scratching down truths
of curses ; ; ; ; ; such is the luck
of the innocent, nails against concrete
walls unpainted and striped cats
pawing;
I wish my job was blown.

Destiny never opened a door,
kept them all shut without keyhole;
I dance with blunt skates across
blue ice turning black;
Destiny never worked
in my favour.

Pitching to the Batter

I will ask them if they enjoy baseball
and the swing of the bat;
I will tell them we went clubbing
seals for fun in our youth,
I will ask them if they enjoy baseball
if they realise their likeness to cubs;
I will ask them kindly, before I swing
the bat.

The Cunning Language

Lips on lips of softest sweetness
all day of every day the red painted face,
dainty strawberry curves,
speak to me in untravelled tongues;
desire on fire for pale lips to touch
and a tongue to speak of flicking
the switch; but I donโ€™t speak
the cunning language.

Insinuation

Despair dangles from an orange branch
above yellow swimming clouds,
insulation, isolation, insinuation
of a separation
as life undress the living;

Despair dangles from an orange branch,
Swiss cheese melting,
cold feet, naked chest,
the striptease of life
without crowds cheering;

Despair dangles from an orange branch,
ratchet straps embracing rafters,
a loose noose cravat
supports a pendulum swinging;

Despair dangles from an orange branch
above yellow swimming clouds,
insulation, isolation, insinuation
of a separation
between the lived and the living.

I smell like old people,
and broken chords

There is no shame in age,
but dissonance โ€ฆ

Hobbling, out for a stroll
the leaves shudder in disagreement

I smell like old people
in the autumn as the sun sets

we are left unwashed
โ€“ out of tune

I smell like old people and death,
distorted truths intermingled

I see no shame in age, belt my tunes
in prepubescent harmonies

The ghosts of days to come
I see in the mirrors

We are merely in waiting
for the others to move along.

Remember lockdowns, yes?
I remember years prior
being locked in
locked down
without anyone caring;

Remember the key inserted
turned and liberation, yes?
I still await that day
when the sky turns blue
and there is again food for thought;

Remember lockdown.
Remember pain.
Remember freedom
and those still searching.
Yes?

Doldrums in a Hotel World,
caught in a net too fine to rip,
legless stockings and whiskers
roam the northern town;
neon lights before carpeted dreams,
crumpled foil and spoon for breakfast,
lunch
supper,
super-safe matches always on hand
to light up the world
outside the Hotel.

Doldrums, in a world of spoons
on dark domesticated streets,
curtains drawn and blinds folded
too private a world for forks,
storks come and go
as the grass grow
in attics covered by melted snow,
on dark domesticated streets.

Doldrums with sticky fingers,
a taste of alloy on dreaming lips,
pride long lost and skies hanging low
no height ,no high, high enough
to cross the empty streets
span the clouds
far beyond the Hotelโ€™s reach
of a neon-lit northern town.

Doldrums in the world of others,
dull drums play the marching songs
of street cleaners sweeping
cleansing, purging the poor
the shaking the breaking
from every space ever claimed
โ€ขโ€ขโ€ข โ€” โ€” โ€” โ€ขโ€ขโ€ข
in the Hotel World in the northern town
of your choosing.

Doldrums in a Hotel World,
legless ripped tights
whiskers in neon lights
carpeted dreams on crumbling soil
the spoon a foil
for bare breakfasts,
late lunches
& suppers on foot;
matches light an unhidden world
witnessed,
wretched the polished shoes passing
the poor the shaking the breaking
caught in a net too fine to rip.

Is this the final world,
brown fields without access,
beige empty walls
and a tempestuous jerrycan

Are these my final words,
as the battery flats
the sun sets or never rises
beyond my pale blue screen

Am I to be the last of my kind,
nameless name changer,
a runner from fading fairies
and hopes lost

Is there another way
not backwards
through the fading flowers of hope
towards the fields of Elysium

Is this our final world
where castles crumble,
crumble being served
without custard
cold, cold, earthlings โ€” beware

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