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.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Muted Moon
Embedded in the muted Moon
curved claws spurned the crumbs,
my bones
my shadow
my longing for another
demanded the sacrifice 
of a soul: my soul
my own goal
and the voice
turned silent.

New Moon, never noon
no crumbs left
to follow; I caved
I … gave 
no crumbs
no crumbs
no way to find 

me. Me and my voice
sacrificed. 
Spurned.
Silenced. 
Scorned like corn 
kissed by Fusarium Verticillioides
on the night of a muted Moon

rising, and a voice silenced
on a rattling heap of bones
behind the shadow of a soul
– longing.

Poetry Drafts / / By

Eve

I saw the three faces of Eve
and bleaker days came and went,
through lingering smoke
a blue china cup, and memories
like an old TV set
the white and the black
dreams came and went.

I saw the three faces of Eve
hoping, dreaming, wishing selfishly
for replacement faces
for other places
to leave more traces
for you to find; a bleaker face
watched her turn
into one.

I saw the three faces of Eve
wishing
for more
than one.

Poetry Drafts / / By

Beans on Toast

I’m baked beans
looking for toast,
an old lover’s tape
silenced; remember
those tapping sounds
across your heaving chest.

I am cold baked beans,
a stream of dreams
beyond the fears
of finding the player
broken;
I’m broken,
a mere token
of withering skin
and soundless whispers
wishing you home
where the fingers
once did the talking.

I’m baked beans
{looking for toast}
in a tin – shelved
and forgotten.

Poetry Drafts / / By

Dulcius ex Asperis.

Maybe Death comes knocking
when Time has left you behind,
when all hope is gathered
in a pile
awaiting E10 climate-saving petrol
to infuse
and succumb to the Eternal Fire,
if ever a light or spark be found…

or

maybe Death comes
looking for the low hanging fruit
left as Time withered and waned,
unknowingly pilfering the last truth
known to man: a fruit – any fruit
tastes sweeter when picked;
Death knows only bitter ends
to birth, life, and our ultimate
sacrifice: like fruit, our decay
is not remembered, no struggle
or sweet moment recorded
for prosperity, we leave nothing,
heading towards nothing,
no sweet dreams after the struggle:
Death’s an empty bowl of soup,
life without ladle, spoon, or hope.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
A Nut
Sorry but my head don’t rhyme
exposing oddities like 
my words that aren’t poems
rhyme either not does,
and 
as evident 
the characters lined up 
fail to say anything using 
established literary techniques; so
in a nutshell (not a metaphor) there
is a nut.

Prose Drafts / / By

A

“So what’s her verdict this time?” A said. “Any fanciful new insights into your stagnating life? Anything worth repeating I mean.”
I was barely through the frontdoor and here she was again, poking and prodding; she should know better, after all she’s the one forcing me to go.
“Well … yes.” I said. “ … she had one insight … relating to my dreams…”
“So? Spill it.” A said.
“Something … about expiry dates …” I said. Better to be vague; ragged and baggy eyes, she could do with a few more hours of sleep.
“That’s it? Is that what I’m paying for?” A said. “Should we switch to another one? A male perhaps?”
“Definetely not.” I said. “You know me and men, doesn’t really work now does it.”
“No, sorry, I forgot.” A said. “I’ll grind another bash of black beans for a brew, then we’ll sit for a chat.”
Oh great, another sitting down, digging deeper into the life of …

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Age is just Time on steroids, 
a Meter unable to count 
the lawful circumference
of fifteen point nine one
five five times 
a pie too desired 
to consider. 

Age is just a Meter stretching,
just Time gone awry.

Prose Drafts / / By

K

Her movements always turned subtler just before delivering one of her thoughtful insights, but the twitch of her head, the carefully suppressed cough meant I was never caught off guard.
“The problem, as I see it,“ K said “is that your dreams have no expiration date.“

Poetry Drafts, Prose Drafts / / By 
The Nobel Prize in Poor Judgement
If there was a Nobel prize in poor judgement I would win, hands down I would and claim it with my record as evince, signed and sealed by the magistrates of fate. 

I have no defense, no means to fake my failing flaws, hereditary in nature yet I did not see this coming, did not anticipate rust where no iron could be present; where love came knocking like a vacuum cleaner salesman on a Friday just after lunch. 

Yet I refuse to give up, refuse to give in to the promised land, the green grass and swelling seas beneath the permanently present sky in all hues of blue. 

If there was a Nobel prize in poor judgement, I would win. I would thank them for their judgement, being a being of poor judgement, what else could I do.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Lies Intertwined
I intertwined the lies
the spoken and the heard 
with lies soon unearthed,

I formed a plait
wore a short skirt 
and painted lips,

I danced your night away
saw the last coil straighten
and a man slowly reverting,

I let it loose
let it fly
and left my sign,

I unpacked and embraced
your final muffled words
behind the plastic mask,

I dyed it blue
my innocence
in a kiss,

I danced alone that night
along the river of dreams
atop your shallow barrow,

I stopped
and turned
to remember,

to greet a stranger’s smile 
with a twirl and a bow
is a lie worth pursuing.
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