Guilt – Poetry


By J.A Weymouth


Day is like opening,

seeping a while not there

deep, thorough and momentless

it carries – stops/taken – the word is ever.


An unavoidable grasp sends

a wave to a shiver

as the memory curls

the motion blurs

a stain fixes itself

onto a translucent permanence.


It doesn’t care of the action.

& all of memory is divided and focused.


Parallel thoughts hinder it

& overwhelms.


The fist clenches as the eyes begin to stare.


That unknown triviality – frail like

but weighs against the mind and it



Calming into a comatose state of denying


Let go.

The Apocalypse and why you need to listen to your dreams.

Now you really need to listen – to your dreams that is. When you wake up in the middle of the night and turn the light on because the Zombies are chasing you, or all your teeth fell out, or you walked in front of classroom to give your very important, life-changing speech and you looked down and realised you were naked so the whole class erupted in laughter…you can’t sleep so, these fucked up dreams are trying to tell you that something seriously is going on with your life.

There is plenty of evidence to suggest that dreams can be interpreted as messages that reflect the troubles currently occurring in your life.  And you all know this, I know that, you know that, so why am I writing a blog about the obvious? Because dreams REALLY need to be listened to and so I’ve come to understand my dreams and how they impact on my life so now I’ll be blogging about them to try and get a clearer picture about myself and why it’s all affecting me at night, or in the wee hours of the morning, as I toss and turn pondering my turmoil.

And maybe you’re just dreaming about something so bizarre that it doesn’t make any sense (like a unicorn jumping out of a pine tree, galloping into a black hole, materialising into a grape and eating it, but then it’s delicious but it was a UNICORN but it… it’s a tasty fruit) then there’s probably so much going on that you CAN’T simply interpret the whole thing without trying to understand one thing at a time. Okay so, let’s not talk about that one just yet… or at all.

If you’re not listening to that little voice, the one that’s telling you all about how to deal with your problems but you’re trying very hard to ignore them and avoiding the responsibility of facing your fears as a result of you not wanting to confront them, then it is going to come back and bite you in the ass.  Your subconscious wants your attention and the best way it’s going to do that is by giving you some very weird dreams or simply – some fucked up nightmares!

The dreams I used to have when I was a kid really makes me think about what’s happening now.  When I was younger (maybe five or six?) I had some reoccurring dreams of my family falling into a volcano, dying and leaving me to fend for myself.  I would wake up crying and cry to my mother because of the emotions that the dream left me feeling affected me so powerfully that they convinced me that I was in a state of loss, loneliness and despair.  They felt so real but when I realised, while in my mother’s arms, that it was all a dream and everything was going to be alright – it was alright and I was going to be fine but then, the next night, I would have the same dream again…

These dreams impacted me so much that I would become an insomniac later in life, during my teens. I never faced my fears, my fear of loss, and soon these night terrors would evolve into something more terrifying for years that I would lie awake at night, unable to sleep.  I couldn’t face the idea of losing my family. I was so attached onto my comfort zone – just like a barnacle – that when I grew a little older and moved out, trying to detach myself from that part of my life, I couldn’t cope though and had a major breakdown.  This change in my life, in myself, manifested and my dreams became a reality. I didn’t lose my family, they were always there for me but I had changed myself so much that in one way or another, I lost something.  I had fallen into the volcano and had abandoned myself.

It was a good thing though, this breakdown I had. I learned to appreciate everything so much more. The people in my life, my family, the true friends I had, and I built a bridge and got over myself.  I learned to deal with my problems… I had to, otherwise I wouldn’t cope and maybe – I wouldn’t be here today. I became more assertive, confident and a little bit more wise.

Those events that happened still haunt me, the memories, but I feel no guilt because I did nothing bad, I just went about it the wrong way.  Instead, I learned to face the reality and maybe I could have avoided that breakdown if I really understood myself. That’s hard though, but one thing I do know, you can really begin to understand who you are by trying to interpret your dreams and listen to your subconscious.

Now, I dream about the apocalypse.  I know that’s my mind trying to tell me that things in my life at the moment are running very smoothly, that I have a good life and I’m trying to move on from my past.  These dreams I’ve been having are simply saying that I’m afraid of my world crumbling down around me because it’s all going so well… yes it’s true, I’m happy. I haven’t met the love of my life, nor am I in the ideal dream job, but I’m still young… and maybe I’ve just got to listen to that little voice that’s telling me to explore this world a bit more and accept that things will go wrong, the mistakes I will (undoubtably) make because really… that’s just a learning curve.

Well, I hope you get something from this.  If not, then sorry for rambling so much. But remember, listen to your dreams because they are trying to tell you something, by trying to help understand who you are.

The Red Scarf – Short Story (Part 3)

The Red Scarf [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 4]

By J.A Weymouth

Outside the old mansion, a car pulled in.  The radio’s I need you tonight blared from the car and echoed throughout the courtyard, interrupting its peace.  Henry sang innocently to the song’s lyrics, (“I need you tonight! Because I’m not sleeping.  There’s something about you girl, it makes me sweat…”) as he stretched out a map over the dust board, tentative of his current location.

During his stay in the nearest town, he had asked around, investigating the town’s local ghost stories.  He had heard from friends back home that the area left remembrance of the war.  Shattered buildings in ruin and homes forgotten in their despairing state, he had hoped for something he could work with.  As a photographer Henry found beauty in such derelict sadness and therefore found himself at present outside an old mansion with its garden overgrown, vines entangling the once proud structure now crippled by an unpleasant past.

Henry had been guided by a local, hoping he had followed true to the woman’s directions.  When he arrived, despite being unsure if this was the correct place, the mansion appeared to fit the description and with a shrug he stepped out of the car.  Kit in hand he made a mental checklist and walked towards the gate.

It wouldn’t budge.  Henry attempted to climb the gate only to find himself entangled by persistent vines causing him to fall in a clumsy mess.  ‘Goddammit!’ he cried as he ripped the weeds away from his ankles.  Rubbing the soreness from his backside as the frustration encouraged him to try again, Henry estimated the complicated entry.  While thinking about how he could climb over he came up with an idea and then checked his camera to see if it was damaged and then made his move.

After successfully climbing over the gate (by the third try), he pulled himself together and set foot towards the mansion but stopped in front of its doors.  The gate wasn’t the only thing that had been covered in vines and age.  Half the building had been torn away from decay or the by the effects of war.

The doors were sealed and while he checked to see if there was another entry he realised it was no good.  Window ledges were laden with broken glass but inside he could see the last remnants of a home; lost.  Bits of furniture still scattered one of its rooms.  A glimmer of light shone and reflected from the decaying room that drew his interest.

Henry pried the sealed door open with a force he didn’t know he had in him.  He succeeded with a final pull.  Half the front door came with it which took him by surprise and made him tumble backwards, though he was able to quickly catch his feet.  He made his way into the hallway.

The mansion was grand indeed and Henry couldn’t help but pull out his camera and start clicking away.  What especially had moved him was the oddly placed stairway that opened itself to the rooms above, its stance still eerily maintained since its younger days.

Henry went up stairs, careful to avoid the cracks missing floorboards and nails waiting for a nasty trip, though just as the thought passed and was about to reach the next step his foot clipped a jagged edge causing him to lose his footing and fall face first onto the landing.  Dust blew up in his face as he landed and coughed, particles floating up into the air and glittered in the sunlight.  The air flowed into the gap of a door – ajar – drawing his curiosity to the room inside.  He entered to find himself in a place he had earlier seen from outside.

The collapsed ceiling appeared in a more advanced state of decay then what Henry had seen from the courtyard; glass scattered across the floor, glistening in the sunlight as the last fragments of a window and as he looked down the wood by his feet appeared more rotten then what was left in the building.

Henry walked into the room careful to avoid the debris and the sharp, smirking edges of the broken glass.  He removed his camera from his back-pack and organised himself for some shots.  The room was long and quite narrow as he meandered around with the camera to his eye, the lens amplified his environment.   The same vines that tripped him out front had covered themselves around half the room.  Pepper green wallpaper still maintained some of its colour in the corners.  He could tell that this place had once been a grand room indeed.

He turned to take photos of the door from the way in and found something he had surprisingly missed.  A lone mirror stood proudly in dust and dirt like everything else but fully intact.

The preposterous mirror appeared out of place as well as a good portion of the room surrounding the mirror remained unscarred bar a few pieces of glass and tattered furniture.  There were no cracked floorboards or debris lying at the foot of the mirror and the paint had not peeled back from age.  Only this area of the room and the mirror remained pristine.

Henry went over to inspect the mirror.  Stroking its golden, elegant frame he pondered over its mystery and wondered how it could survive the devastation that surrounded it.  The perfect mirror merely glimmered in silent response.

The mirror became the subject of his work.

Henry tried to take the perfect shot only to end up frustrated.  As he was trying to take photos of the mirror there had been a speck of dust or a spot light which obstructed his focus of the subject.  Giving up, and with more photos then he expected Henry left the mansion to move onto his next destination unsatisfied and hoping for better luck.


The Painted Man – Poetry

The Painted Man

By J.A Weymouth


Vile, vile you all are

but you have never been understood.


Rile something over time

and your decadence will come out.


Who is to say your face is not mine?

There is a feeling that it covers and

breathes us all in.


Then the painted man,

Standing erect,

Will come.  Come over and

Tease us with his stick.


Bloodied/wet – unlike some

Conscious of a beating drum –

open to each other.


Others chose to ignore it.

And go with the painted man.