Hunter James Poems

No more emotion beasts.

No sir.
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The air wouldn’t shiver
if there were no wind.
And life would feel purer,
if there were no sin.
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My Mind is weak
It chose lust,
in a river full of beauty.
Your words they sting me
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And ill spend many a days with a cold heart
Beating a burning desire.
These memories of scents and shades.
burn on and on
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Jordan crept down the hallway, the creeks in the mahogany floorboards seemed abnormally loud and the fridge droned its superficial hum. He reached the door and slid in the small gold key silently turning as not to wake his parents who no doubt needed their rest. The door opened with hesitation
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Its 2 am, cigarette loosely hangs from your bottom lip and hands are dug in jacket pocket. The stars aren't out, they're never out in the city, of course. You’re the only one awake, everyone else is asleep, peacefully dreaming. Its Tuesday, of course. You come to the agreement that life is crazy, just like last night, and the night before. Though its different tonight, of course.
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'Can't you feel the night? '
Expressionless, Sam crushes her cigarette with her thumb and middle finger before dropping it to her toes.
' The words in the breeze and the clink of glass? Why do you look so
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My hands are numb like before,
when the moon met the paddocks.
Its hard concentrating, on the discarded love that blows along my street.
These faded distorted memories of mine,
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They told me the only way to go was up, as they crowded and smiled. ' he has a real gift' one would sing. ' And just 13' followed the choir. My fingers were callused and achy though my self esteem was high and my cheeks were red and it made me feel warm. They said, I was on a sure path to success. They said it so many times I almost believed them. In fact I was sure of it. It was the only truth I knew. They marched into my fragile beliefs and told me the most perfect lie anyone had told me.
Them and their sharp department store odours and leather handbags. The beer breathe and wrinkled skin and endless ' trust me I know what I'm talking about I've lived 66 years and never seen no one like you'
They told me the only way to go was up.
They were wrong. Going up is unheard of in my business, being 13 you really don't know to much about going down, you don't really believe in such a thing. Somewhere , they forgot to mention life. They forgot to mention death. They forgot a lot, or maybe they just didn’t know. Maybe we live in two different worlds them and I. Talent is talent to them, and to me. It just hangs on my shoulders, it says ' Nothing worse than wasted potential.' and I say ' shut up' and drink a beer secretly wishing I had the will to follow it through.
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My teas long cold, I'm now a quarter way through my second half essay amongst dabs of Facebook and doodles In my school book. Too long, too short, Kerouac's too pretentious, Gandhi's too typical. Far too much information, Chekhov once said ' One must not put a loaded rifle on the stage if no one is thinking of firing it.' Far too many guns on my stage, does this count for essays?
Again with the Chekhov guidelines, reoccurring in drunken advice and religious debates more than a hundred years after the mans death. I fear the day humanity stops reassessing the blemishes with the old ' Chekhov once said' reminder. And it hits me, Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, perfect.
Anton Chekhov was a Russian Dramatist, physician and Author widely considered to be one of the greatest short story writers in history. He was an innovator of the modern short story and developed techniques still popular today, carefully blending stream of consciousness with traditional story structure, inspiring generations from James Joyce to Steven King.
Chekhov practiced as a physician throughout most of his career and considered it his principle profession saying ' Medicine is my lawful wife, and literature is my mistress.' Though he made small money from it, and even treated the poor for free.
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