'Mind and Matter', by Aron Woolnough

Mind and Matter

Grey hairs betray me, hitting the warm floor.

Shall I begin to shave away the rest,

would it not be until my roots are sore

and I am balding before we know best.

Tourniquet tied around my life too tight,

perhaps my veins will pop under the stress,

bleed this poison over my skin tonight

into the cracks and heal, but I digress,

my arm attacked by a single needle,

victory tubes connecting to blister

packs full of deadly venom by treadle.

A pound self-shaving station at Lister

asks if I will handle the blade myself,

and ceasefire against my terminal health.

'No Walking Stick', by Aron Woolnough

No Walking Stick

Green bag by black and white umbrella,

held by an old looking fella in his left hand,

moving with purpose, marching proudly

back and forth, patrolling the safe platforms.

Ladies laughing up in arms observing overtly

the old man in sights on stage for the freak show.

Middle finger flicks past a barrel to trigger

a chain reaction of bright flash to a startled mass.

-

Yellow Hi Vis eating pie with thumb and finger

between lunch and dinner he’s not getting any thinner,

but he is waiting, with a return ticket to the capital;

for labour under moonlight at the construction site.

From the darkness in a high vis harness,

a mighty meaty, awfully sweaty, hot and heavy,

figure uncertainly steps forward and into a

shining bright, focused tight flash light.

-

The train is on time spitting gas one minute away,

the freak is falling to the tracks. Piss leaking

all over the rock and roll soldier, of an era immersed

with engine grime, dry blood and cooking grease.

Sharp pebble in his eye, but the guy was half blind before

the cackles cease and the ladies look down at the freak

who tries to stand with his umbrella, but breaks it.

He holds up an empty hand, but no one takes it.

-

Rich white trash see a train coming about to crash.

The massive yellow body boldly steps forward

with wet sticky fingers that slide into the palm

of the fragile freak and burns the muscles in his arm.

Two Ds, three Es, an F and a pass

he’ll never be more than working class,

with second hand jeans showing his arse,

but distinction in the master class of decency.

-

Six more months of marching, one medal down,

Saluting his five foot, seventeen stone saviour.

Looks him up and down through a bloodshot eye,

inspired by why his brothers chose to die.

Standing Stones - Poem review by Stefan

Standing Stones by Aron Woolnough - poem review

"The poem 'Standing Stones' signifies a playful short story written with an inspiration for a lady captured in a magnificent nature and surroundings. It is written in a simple yet catchy style filled with metaphors. Descriptive enough to cover the nature of the thoughts and actions as well as the location in which they happen , it is a short romance story aimed on how love can play with our minds sometime towards a person in a perfect scenery.

The mood of expression as well as the style in which this romantic poem is written is close to the traditional British poetry scene that introduced us to the traditional emphasis of imagination and experience - yet it is modernized with rich vocabulary presenting the scenery impeccably well, so the reader feels the emotions and the idea behind in a positive and easy mood.

The desire for the lady which is the main object of this romantic poem is the emotion that keeps the reader lustful - describing her in a lively mood while contemplating with the writer's feelings towards the image of the lady.

The writer's preoccupation with the object of the story - the beautiful and mystical lady focuses on an indefatigable search for the increasing desire, whilst with a focus on the literary form perfectly resembles the female beauty in 3 short verses.

Vintage enough to represent the emotions with the scenery whilst personal and engaging in describing the emotions and thoughts in the writer's head, the motions are well structured within the verses creating a continuous structure of the story - describing a thought-provoked time lapse from the beginning to the end.

With optimism in the very end and lustful feelings, the story wraps up with hope for the future of the two people engaged in a platonic yet real love. This short poem resembles how romance doesn't need much to be expressed within its three verses - filled with rich emotions and thoughts inspired by a woman's beauty".

Thank you Stefan for this review. If any other readers would like to submit their reviews (good or bad), comments, their work or any literary reflections, please e-mail them to me at aron.woolnough@gmail.com or leave a comment below. 

Aron

'Through the Glass', by Aron Woolnough

Through the Glass

By Aron Woolnough

I can’t shake this smell of strawberries, haven’t eaten any, or anything. My fingers don’t smell of them, I don’t know. Sometimes it goes away when I scratch my beard. But not every time. Even if I scratch it a lot. There are no strawberries about, I’ve looked for them everywhere. Even tried swapping fags and favours for them, but no luck. Not even Dee-Dee has some, and I once saw him with a live rabbit. No joke, honest, a live rabbit. Didn’t even kill it, just liked stroking it – relaxed him, he said. I thought he was going to eat it when I first saw it, he’s French, so I wouldn’t put it past him. The ass didn’t have one single strawberry though, when I asked Doc about it, he just made notes and grumbled in his usual grumpy voice. I don’t think he understands me, even though he is really clever, and he is really clever, he’s a doctor, they have to be really clever for like 10 years before they can be a doctor and then they get to look after people, so I’m not saying he isn’t clever, just that he can’t look after me.

I’m not like most people. No one else can smell the strawberries, I’ve asked. I don’t even remember ever eating a strawberry, but when I smell it, I know it. I don’t remember anything before getting here, just like sleeping before this routine of lights on, breakfast, stare at a wall, dinner, pills and lights off. I think this is even my first visitation. Weird that I had to come so far. Can I see you again tomorrow? I think I should be able to pencil you in, between ‘stare at a wall’ and ‘dinner’, if you like. I don’t care, I don’t. I said I don’t care. I really mean it, Doc said it might be a side… affect or effect, I never know which one to say, I usually just say ‘fect’ and let Doc fill in the blank. I suppose no one can really tell the difference, or gives a crap. Can you hear that? I wish the guard would stop tapping on the glass. Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it now! I said. Sorry. I’m sorry, honest, I’m calm. They have to put us in here with the glass between us, I don’t think I’m allowed in the normal area. I’m not normal, they say. I don’t hurt anyone though, just a danger to myself Doc says, but I don’t think that’s right. He doesn’t understand me, he’s clever and all, but he doesn’t understand me.

Those two brought me here, put me in cuffs and in the back of some guard van. They drove me out of the slammer and down a very long road. There were no windows in the van, but I could hear roadworks, and then silence, I think some birds singing and a plane went over head once, but then we got here, to this big fancy building. They got me out the van, probably with strawberries in their pockets, I couldn’t check with hands cuffed behind my back, and they brought me into this giant metal thing. Just me and the two guards, all the lights went funny and there was this big moaning sound like the room was giving birth. I was fine, felt completely fine, but both the guards seemed a bit off. One of them said they’d never done this before, which is odd, isn’t it? Guards should do visitations all the time. But it made me feel better that this wasn’t just my first time, this whole set up. Like when I first had to take the pills, I was hesitant, I think, but I knew everyone else was in the same boat as me, some even their first time too. So we lined them up together, me and Dee-Dee and you know, like Oscar and probably Goaty, is that what they call him? So lined them up, like shots on a bar, one of those bars like a cowboy movie, where the bartender would slide them down and then the cowboy would take a shot. So, yeah, like that, we lined them up and downed them all together.

The guard stopped tapping on the glass, right? You can see that too. So where is the noise coming from? Never mind, doesn’t matter. You’re the silent type, I’m not a big talker either, not usually, well sometimes, when you get me started I can’t stop. Phil says I’m annoying and Jules thinks I’m annoying too, but he won’t admit it. Silly really, I don’t care. Those two call me a murderer, no, killer. They call me a killer. Go get ‘em, killer. Time for pills, killer, they say, the guards say it too every now and then. Doc said that they wouldn’t say that, doesn’t happen, but what does he know. He wasn’t there. Never is. Being annoying doesn’t bother me, but that name does. My name isn’t Killer. I haven’t even killed. Besides everyone has done wrong, here in particular. Not me though, I haven’t done anything wrong, I just am wrong. That’s why I have to swallow twice a day. I’m getting better though, used to be three times a day. I’m not really answering your question, am I? Sorry. God-dammit. Excuse me. Can’t you smell that though? Okay, focus. I’m ready.

Back when I was sleeping, before the routine. I’m supposed to ‘construct’ my memories, I think. Like remembering dreams, but more important. So I don’t know if any of this is true, because I don’t even remember it, I’ve just constructed it with Doc and whats-her-face. There was a struggle, broken glass everywhere. I remember looking through the glass and seeing my reflection mask the person I was talking to. Like I was talking to myself. It must’ve been darker on their side of the glass, that’s how it works. I was right then. I mean, not ‘wrong’, I didn’t need anything but food and water. I think Doc said this sleep was a ‘trauma’ really, some bad thing happened. Or, the trauma woke me up, but during, or just before; I was there to find out information, to solve a puzzle or a problem. There was definitely lifeless walls and sterile floors – like this place. I worked a lot. Up every morning and home late at night, I was always getting my hands dirty. I remember this was a big opportunity and that it was too clean. I could go see someone who I could ask one question to. It was a really big deal. Like I needed to be in this fancy suit, like yours, and we had to rig up this big machine to bring them to me, like they were quarantined or something. Doc thinks it could’ve been a private plane, but it was bigger than that and I don’t remember it moving much. So, I was on this mission, right, to investigate, like to stop something bad from happening, but a fight broke out and the glass shattered and everything went badly. Horribly. Traumatic.

I didn’t cause the fight, my reflection did. The man through the glass started it, he was very angry at the question I asked, as he answered, he got angrier and angrier. I don’t know why. He smashed it, used the shards. That’s why I got the scars on my back and my hands. I think in the struggle, someone got hurt, that is why I’ve got cuffs on and we’ve gotta talk through fragile glass.  But, that is all a metaphor see, said whats-her-face, like the glass represents something like my mother and the over-sized machine is like a stand in for, I don’t know. She is the worst, twisting my words and making me look like a right idiot. Who is she to tell me what I mean? I know what I mean, god-dammit. She doesn’t know. She can’t even smell the strawberries. Even when its really strong. Can you please stop tapping? It must be you, put your hands on top of the table, please. Stop tapping your foot. Stop it, I said. You want to know something I never told that bitch, whats-her-face. In this re-constructed dream. It was only a reflection for a little while, but then I saw.

Where are you going? We’re not done. I’ve got ages ‘til dinner. Stay, please stay. Erm, I’ll tell you more, it gets better. Don’t go, don’t. You can even tap, I don’t mind. Thank you. I’m sorry my life is boring, but it is what it is. Wanna hear an interesting story? I’ll tell you one, no two, if we’ve got the time. Did you hear the one about the Lady from round the corner and her two dogs? They can jump really high, she is training them up to jump in here and steal, everyone has their hobbies. I have hobbies, other than searching for strawberries and constructing dreams. I read a lot, like all these books, about time and space. One where this man right, like a scientist, smarter than Doc, saw a star vanish in the sky. Vanish, gone, but he didn’t take a picture, or film it. Or at least, he tried to, but couldn’t. So he had to use like a worm hole to get really far away, like backwards in time, to see it happen again and managed to film it. Isn’t that amazing, if you run away really, really far and really, really quickly, you can rewind time. I wish I could go backwards in time, to see if I’m right. Maybe I could even do it so I don’t wake up. I like it here, but I miss the peace and excitement from my dream. I’d like to go back to that life. I’m not annoying you, am I? Its just that, as good as routine is for me, it’s a bit repetitive for my liking. I wish I could break through this glass and swap places with you.

I prefer constructed memories to actual memories, don’t you? They’re like a puzzle, I like solving puzzles. There are little gaps and leaps of logic, but it always seems to make sense to me, at least, no matter what crazy theory I have to come up with about a worm’s hole or whatever I can think of, just to tell that bitch whats-her-face to shut up. Shut up, I’ll tell her. Stop being stupid, stop twisting my words. My theories don’t make her shut up though, they only make her talk more about my subconscious and stuff I don’t know about. The only thing that makes her shut up and go away is when I get angry, so I get angry. Ouch. Oh, I’m sorry, it was me tapping the glass this whole time, I didn’t even notice. My finger is bleeding, I must’ve cracked the glass or something. Glass can be very sharp, use it like knives, or you can get it really thin, as thin as a hair pin, and use it to pick the locks on handcuffs. As useful as it is, it is fragile, like a mother giving birth. I could use my chair to break through this barrier between us, cos I’m rougher than you, seen a few more bar fights in my time. The pills are supposed to make me calm, so I don’t care, but I’m angry. I didn’t take them today. I can smell you through that crack, a sweet aroma from you, a strong perfume that surrounds you. Not yours though, surely. A lady’s then. Yes, yes, a blonde lady, with reddish lips and that perfume. A new piece of the puzzle: Strawberries.

'Standing Stones', by Aron Woolnough

Standing Stones

She whistles through thistles whilst under the bleeding sun,
and when I called her name, my fingertips went numb.
From the chalk plateau, her damning hail moans,
dragging a salty tempest over the alkaline grassland.

Amid standing stones, a birthstone-blue star
looks at me suspiciously, as I came to hold the hand

of a captor haunting me; she dances on top a barrow,
I fall down to my knees and sit solus in solace.

Last light leaves the monolith, the ground begins to chill,
her hushing susurrations will keep us hand in hand
and we will dance forever under the swollen sky,
until the stars are dying and the wind has said goodbye.

'Hushed Lyrics', by Aron Woolnough

'Hey, wait up - it was
nice to meet you', he said.
'I've been waiting so long
just to feel this again'.
He was a lonely soldier
out for a battle.
He was a lonely soldier
when the music died.

Oh, she danced in silence in the silver spotlight.
He met her moving and they moved all night.
She didn't seem to notice, didn't seem to mind;
and at first he was loving, at first he was kind.

She was speechless when she watched him leave,
but he left in a rush because he couldn't believe
in daydream dancing to his own heart beat.

He looked into the mirror with a wistful smile,
he closed his eyes and heard her breath. 

But he didn't hear reason, when he feared of her treason.

'Hey, wait up - it was
nice to meet you', he signed.
'I've been waiting so long
just to feel this again'.
He was a lonely soldier
without a battle.
He was a lonely soldier
when the music died.

'Every night I dream and then I wake', by Aron Woolnough

Every night I dream and then I wake.

I dreamt of spring last night.

The wet blue day had only just begun.

A busy buzzing bee dropped into our garden

when the blossom flew across the Sun.

The blossom landed in your tucked-back hair

and the bee landed on my pale freckled arm.

It nestled between us and tickled me with it’s stinger.

You watched the sun rise and I watched you.

We never stopped smiling, but the bee buzzed off –

and then I wake with the cold bitter air by my side

and see I slept on solid dirt during the dusk. The low winter Sun drops.

I dreamt of summer last night.

The shinning white day had only just begun.

We drove to the Zoo and we gasped,

a lioness dozed under the high Sun.

She was fierce, could cut a man in half.

The ground was marked by thick claws.

The beast soundly slept as we studied it,

but we found no meaning for a lioness

and we left it for the honey bees –

and then I wake to trace the hard naked hills

and see them shaping the bloody horizon. The low winter Sun drops.

I dreamt of autumn last night.

The cool brown day had only just begun.

Dead leaves had dried to a crisp and we crunched

them under our footsteps, following the Sun

through the tree tops towards no where.

Weaving through the trunks without a path,

but everywhere we reached, there you were,

standing by my side. You kicked through the leaves

and I laughed until you left –

and then I wake as a siholuette standing against a bright white moon. The day had only just begun.

I dream of winter tonight.

The cold black day has only just begun.  

Shivered plants fade away and leave a hunger.

I am freezing without the low hanged Sun.

Lost in the darkness, searching for a light.

Hoping to find you for the rest of my life,

but only finding fright and sleepless nights.

I walk about a void under directionless stars,

the white moon slips into darkness –

and then I wake, the sun has risen and the day is hot, but my skin is still so pale.