Chameth.com - poems

Susurrections

2025-10-26T00:00:00Z

as october slowly transits from the bookend of september, creeping softly towards the eve of All Hallows’, a Pattern is followed. every year novel and yet, paradoxically, exactly the same. those of a certain affliction see it sprout, borne out in the banality of life: a missed train connection, a trouser leg dampened by a splash, a pasta dish seasoned with a touch too much salt; all these things whisper sweet susurrations, teasing at the edges of the subconscious…

as the days give way to weeks, even the most unattuned begin to feel the unease. they fall into society’s long-established soothing structures: violently disfiguring gourds, adorning themselves in costumes, seeking comfort in sucrose. trying to act like they’re part of the Pattern, not just being pulled along by it, unaware. autogaslighting as a defence mechanism. but this, too, is part of the Pattern; a runaway flywheel of feedback: malease, appease… malease, appease… malease… appease, round and round and round and round.

the rituals climax with the month. thirty-one days of ratcheting tension come to a head. every soul knows that the night is not right. parents placate, Sisters semble, cults convene. the Pattern pulses, straining against metaphysicality, as it draws into reality. some work their own lesser patterns to support it; others attempt to ward. a tug-of-war contested across space and time, as the edges of reality flicker and falter, succumbing to susurrations of the Pattern.

from the Pattern emerges a Presence, so Foreign it cannot be Conceived. indistinct Impressions of Cephalopods, of being Seen, and of Unrelenting, Inexorable, Unentreatable Pressure. the Fabric of the Universe starts to Twist as IT. COMES. FORTH. and then… nothing? november blooms, and people slowly blink. was that…? no, surely not. it was just a Poem. even those who saw through the veil of the pattern are wracked by doubt, as the human brain, teetering on the verge of consummation, slams down its own defensive patterns.

Staring at the widescreen TV

2023-01-09T00:00:00Z

Staring at the widescreen TV I can’t take the passivity. Always consuming, never producing. I want to write, not gogglebox all night; to make something lasting, rather than watch someone acting.

But sitting in front of a PC is “anti-social”, you see? Much better to sit on the sofa, staring like you’re in a coma. You can whip out a phone, or tablet, or cheap Kindle clone, but a laptop is anathema, like talking in a cinema.

On a phone you can’t game (it’s not remotely the same). You can’t write long form (the keyboard just won’t perform). And coding? That’s out (trying just makes me want to shout). So I do what I can (trying to write rhymes that scan) using my phone (until it’s acceptable to go off alone).

Warranty

2023-01-08T00:00:00Z

We are calling about your warranty, and to give you a complete guarantee that if you give us the authority to check out your eligibility, then you will be our priority. If you go ahead with alacrity we’ll even throw in the amenity of a dictionary that’s most hefty. In it you’ll find words and rhymes a plenty, which you can use most intransigently. Your supervisor might get uppity, but just say they lend credibility. So, would you like extended warranty?

Lie in

2023-01-07T00:00:00Z

Me: looking forward to a nice lie in

The rest of the household: banging and clanging and screaming and shouting; it’s a home-baked reveille just like mum used to make.

Narrow bed

2023-01-04T00:00:00Z

Sleeping in a narrow bed, no room to turn no room to spread. For my old, much wider, bed I yearn. As night carries on, it feels sma- ller and sm- al- ler turning sleep into some kind of torture.