My upcoming story, THE ISLAND, is nearing completion and you should be able to read it soon.
I’m really excited about this story. It’s the first entirely new thing that I’ve written in some time and ushers in what I consider to be a new phase of personal development, both as an artist and a human being.
Stay tuned as I continue dredging up bits and pieces of salvage (and maybe the occasional treasure) to share.
Thank you for being here!
A single spark
From striking blades
On some battlefield
Distant;
In both space and time
In space, no one can hear you
Lean
Beef patties pressed on a
Machine
Based learning algorithms and
Schemes
And this bass when it drops well you know it’s
Obscene
And you recognise his
Face
‘Cause you’ve seen it in
Dreams
And you’re starting to
Think
This might be exactly what you
Need
To replace what remains of
Who
You used to be
I don’t write rhymes
I write wrongs
These aren’t just poems
These are songs
These ain’t just songs
These are psalms
Someone better psalm the alarm
And the crowd gonna raise up they arms
As they worship the latest Messiah
These words branding your soul like a fire
These words branding your soul as a fighter
Already your burdens begin to feel lighter
Now his words are all that you require
Within reach now is all you desire
Everyone else now just seems like a liar
Everyone else is a psychic vampire
Back. Back again. We always find ourselves back. Back where it began. The carpet. The rug. The walls, the hanging lights. The sound of cars outside, sluicing through the rain.
And your thoughts, always your thoughts, always the same thoughts. Old, new, all versions of you. All still existing. That small version of you. The teenager. All that bravado and energy. All that grief and anxiety. All of it wraps itself around you like wire, like twine, like ropes from which you cannot escape.
For these are the very strands of your consciousness; the very fibre of your self.
Your pain becomes a part of you. Imprinted onto your psyche, a burning brand upon your brain.
To deny this is to deny yourself dignity of your strength.
Like a pillar of ancient stone chipped away at by swords and vandals and the wind and time and vandals; cracked now and overgrown by a field of wild grass. Forgotten perhaps except for the old farmer who grazes his sheep nearby and then, perhaps, even forgotten by him.
Alone beneath the grand sky. Alone and broken and overgrown and forgotten. But still there.
You are still there.
Michael Scott Hand 