The End of the World

I used to write. A lot. I always loved my creative writing classes. I'd usually have my assignments finished before the class was over. I wrote short stories, plays, lyrics, poems. Sometimes I'd just write gibberish, just because I could.

My high school teachers and college professors always loved my writing, or so they said. My dad always figured I'd grow up to be an English professor. (I have yet to grow up, so that is still an option)

I eventually turned my writing in two directions: music and journalism. I've been writing songs since I was 12. If I was really good at it, you'd probably be familiar with more of my work! My journalistic writing...there's another story. I started out writing for underground mags and papers like Bull Dada and NOW. When I was 15, I was published in Rolling Stone (under a pen name). I think  I made a whopping $155 for that one! (Big money to a kid in the early 80s)

I eventually took a break from journalism to focus more on music. I think we all know how that turned out! Not too bad. No major, global successes but I've enjoyed a fair bit of small-time notoriety. The critics love me. For those unfamiliar, that's usually the kiss of death for sales.

I returned to freelance writing about 10 years ago. For a few years, I was writing a regular column for an Australian magazine called Big Beat of the 50s (published by the Australian Rock & Roll Appreciation Society). I've written all sorts of writing assignments since then...including a rousing bit of copy for a trade school. It takes some level of skill to make a dry, technical course sound exciting. It was a challenge though...and actually a fun one.

I've never really stopped writing. I write for my own pleasure. Most of the time, I'll just scribble down a line or three in an old note book and forget about it. Sometimes, I find them and give them a read. On occasions, I can still knock out a good one.

Today, while nursing a mild hangover, I had the seeds of a poem growing in my head. As the day progressed, it grew and grew until I had to finally write it down. It's a dark, morose and mildly macabre little tale...akin to the dark, brooding stuff I often wrote in high school.

So, without further adieu, I tip my hat to Messrs. Matheson, Price, Heston, Waits, and Smith, and present you, dear reader, with my latest bit O weirdness:

"Alone At The End of the World"

All alone at the end of the world
with nowhere left to go
There's nothing left for me to eat
but this old dead pile of crows.
Walking down the street
I passed an old Dodge up on blocks
the work remains unfinished
so I guess I'll have to walk.
The grapes have all gone sour
and just wasted on the vine
the bottles remain empty
like a cheap whore's Valentine.
No more ruminations
from the self-centered Rumi Nation.
There's no one left to listen to
each person's agitations.
Nothing left to do
and nowhere left to go.
Nothing left to drink
but this bottle of Old Crow.
At the downtown intersection
of 4th and Market Streets
I lay down in the middle of the road
knocked out from the heat.

I finally stopped my screaming
a couple days ago.
There's no one left to hear it
that's how the story goes.
I broke out all the windows
of every store in town.
I had no other reason
except I liked the sound.
Ashes ashes all fall down
no one left to fill the urns.
I set fire to my father's house
just to watch it burn.
No memories left in this old world
except those that are my own.
The world has ended quietly
and I'm left here all alone.

Gosh, I hope you weren't expecting something GOOD! Like I said, these days I write for my own pleasure. If you enjoyed this, THANKS! If you didn't, thanks anyway for taking the time to read it.
OK...I'll shut up now. Sorta kinda....