ashharveypoetry-blog

[ashharveypoetry-blog]

Shipwrecked. ⚓️ late night typewriter thoughts. #poem #poet #poetry #poetsofinstagram #writing #writer #writersofinstagram #poemsofinstagram #poets #poetryinmotion #writerscommunity #poetsofig #writersofig #poetrysnotdead #poetrycommunity #poetryporn #poetrylovers #poetryoftheday #poetrywriting #creativewriting #poetryisnotdead #writingofig #writingpoetry #writingaccount #writingoninstagram #typerwriter #typewriterpoem #typewriterpoetry

[ashharveypoetry-blog]

The Time of Our Lives

“Time?” “0534” A scream pierces through the room as the population count alters. A new father stands over his wife as she cradles the tiny new addition to their family. Little Vanessa Clay. The mother closes her eyes and lets her head fall back into the pillows. Her breathing is calm and her body feels numb. This moment seems so peaceful. He loosens his tie and feels a sudden rush of heat course through his body. He feels like he can’t breathe. His heart punches through his shirt and all he can hear is a long beep ringing through his head. He runs from the room and throws up in the hallway. He stands bent over with his hands on his knees and gasps for air. He slumps down to the floor as the thing in his wife’s arms starts to scream again. * The hospital smells of disinfectant and latex. She runs down the halls in frenzy, her eyes wide like saucers. She takes a sharp left and bursts into a room filled with six or seven beds. Her eyes dart around the room to search for him. Empty. Old woman. Little boy. Empty. Empty. Nope. No. A male nurse is stood behind a desk, writing on a clipboard. She walks over, almost tripping over her nervous impatience. “Is Greg Clay not in this ward?” she asks, abandoning politeness in favor of time. The nurse is perturbed by her brashness but senses the anxious urgency and dismisses her annoyance. “What relation are you?” “I’m his wife.” He puts the clipboard down, rushes out from behind the desk to take the lead out of the room. “Greg has been transferred to the emergency room for surgery.” They arrive in the room; she pushes past the nurse and barges through the door. She looks up to see Greg in the bed, attached by countless wires to machines buzzing and flashing. Wait. “What’s that noise? Why is that happening?” she demands, not daring to move any closer to the man who no longer looked like her husband. He is pale and grey and the bed engulfs his shrunken frame. A long beep rings through her ears. She runs from the room and throws up in the hallway. She stands bent over with her hands on her knees and gasps for air. A scream pierces through the room. The population count alters. “Time?”

[ashharveypoetry-blog]

It Breathes

I stood before the tunnel vivacious with anticipation. I was excited to explore deeper into the caves after weeks of preparation. I attached the equipment to my belt, pulled my helmet on and tested the light attached to the front. I took a few deep breaths. I was ready. I grinned as I peered into the gap and shouted: “ECHO!” to see how far sound would travel. Not very, as it turned out. I knew that once I was in over 6-feet, Harry would no longer hear me. We tested our phones and ensured the wire was in good condition. I felt the usual breeze, fresh on my face as I licked my lips. I gave Harry a nod and climbed into the tunnel. I laid on my stomach and slid through until all 5’11 of me was flat against the rock. The top of the tunnel was so close that as I inhaled I felt it squeeze against my back. My arms would not both fit beside my body so I had one up by my ear and the other by my side. My neck was tilted to allow my head to fit sideways. Every so often, I allowed my cheek to rest on the rock for a moment. It was sharp and came with its own pain but it was better than neck cramp. Although my headlight was working, it was not strong and I became aware of my loneliness. I was surrounded by nothing but unpredictable earth. One wrong move and I could die here. After a while, the tunnel began to open up and I began to breath easier despite exhaustion. I came to a place where I had enough room to sit upright and take in my environment. I opened up my pack of glow sticks, cracked one and threw it into the darkness ahead. As it flew through the abyss it lit up the area enough for me to see there was nothing unusual. I decided to take a moment to breathe. Once my breathing calmed down I became aware of my aural senses. I noticed a scratching sound that seemed to be getting louder. Or closer. My rational mind told me it sounded like rock sliding but it sounded more like a creature clawing at the all-encompassing walls. Either way, not good. I picked up my phone to call Harry. No beep. I unplugged it and plugged it back in again. Still, no beep. I started to panic. I realised that if the rock slid even one inch, Harry wouldn’t know I was trapped. I heard another scratch next to my ear. I jumped and smacked my head on the rock. The light on my helmet cut out and I was plunged in black. My pulse whipped against my skull. I removed my helmet and felt blood. I felt dizzy. I had to get out. Now. I began to head out at a dangerous speed. I felt the rocks slicing the skin on my arms and shoulders. My face was scraping along the ground and cutting my cheek but the pain in my neck made it impossible for me to keep my head high enough. I felt it searing through me but I didn’t care. The breeze wafted through an unusual, foul smell: rotting and damp, like decay. It filled my nostrils and turned my stomach. I started to see a light ahead and I scrambled even faster. I tumbled out of the entrance onto the hard cave floor. I fell onto my shoulder with a crack and screamed out in agony. Harry was not there. But his coat and equipment was. I got up, running on adrenaline and made my way for the rock face to begin my ascent. I ignored the safety rope and began to free climb. Just before halfway I felt my exhaustion and injuries get the better of me so I paused a moment. I noticed the rope was pulled taught but motionless. No one could be climbing up it. I wondered if it could be Harry. Had I left him behind? I strained my sore neck to look up to the exit and I saw Harry peering over down to me. I pushed myself to finish my climb to the exit. Harry was pale. His lips were no longer pink, but alabaster. His eyes were wide and bloodshot. He shook all over and stuttered to speak. My ears were ringing from loss of blood and shock but I read his lips. “I….it… bre..eath..es.” * It’s been three weeks since we escaped the prison that almost became my casket. Every night I close my eyes to sleep but I see shadows behind my eyelids. Sometimes I still smell that stagnant, rotten air like it breeds inside my nostrils. Every light in the house stays on. There is no corner left to be absorbed in darkness. When I do fall asleep because I can no longer force myself awake, the nightmares soon wake me up again. I dream I’m trapped in a huge vat and a liquid sap is being poured over me until I drown. I wake, gasping for air. I have to go back. These nightmares will not end until I come face to face with whatever lives within those rock walls. * I stand facing the tunnel. I put my hand on the edge of the opening and duck my head. I’ll report back when I’m out. If I do not return this time, know I did this to save myself. I feel the breeze like breath from the walls. I turn and give an absent Harry a nod before I slide down again, into the awaiting darkness.

[ashharveypoetry-blog]

[[EXTRACT FROM SHORT STORY: FRAGMENTS]] #poem #poet #poetry #poetsofinstagram #writing #writer #writersofinstagram #poemsofinstagram #poets #poetryinmotion #writerscommunity #shortstory #fiction #apocalyptic #apocalypse #poetsofig #writersofig #poetrysnotdead #poetrycommunity #poetryporn #poetrylovers #poetryoftheday #poetrywriting #creativewriting #poetryisnotdead #writingofig #writingpoetry #writingaccount #writingoninstagram

[ashharveypoetry-blog]

Haven't posted in a while. Been busy with my dissertation planning! I will be posting drafts and bits and pieces of what I write for the project :) in the mean time, here's some early morning thoughts. #poem #poet #poetry #poetsofinstagram #writing #writer #writersofinstagram #poemsofinstagram #poets #poetryinmotion #writerscommunity #poetsofig #writersofig #poetrysnotdead #poetrycommunity #poetryporn #poetrylovers #poetryoftheday #poetrywriting #creativewriting #poetryisnotdead #writingofig #writingpoetry #writingaccount #writingoninstagram

[ashharveypoetry-blog]

#poem #poet #poetry #poetsofinstagram #writing #writer #writersofinstagram #poemsofinstagram #poets #poetryinmotion #writerscommunity #poetsofig #writersofig #poetrysnotdead #poetrycommunity #poetryporn #poetrylovers #poetryoftheday #poetrywriting #creativewriting #poetryisnotdead #writingofig #writingpoetry #writingaccount #writingoninstagram

[ashharveypoetry-blog]

Because love is a beautiful mess. #poem #poet #poetry #poetsofinstagram #writing #writer #writersofinstagram #poemsofinstagram #poets #poetryinmotion #writerscommunity #poetsofig #writersofig #poetrysnotdead #poetrycommunity #poetryporn #poetrylovers #poetryoftheday #poetrywriting #creativewriting #poetryisnotdead #writingofig #writingpoetry #writingaccount #writingoninstagram

[ashharveypoetry-blog]

This is the original page from which I created one of my Freud poems featured on this Instagram :) #poem #poet #poetry #poetsofinstagram #writing #writer #writersofinstagram #poemsofinstagram #poets #poetryinmotion #writerscommunity #poetsofig #writersofig #poetrysnotdead #poetrycommunity #poetryporn #poetrylovers #poetryoftheday #poetrywriting #creativewriting #poetryisnotdead #writingofig #writingpoetry #writingaccount #writingoninstagram #blackoutpoetry

[ashharveypoetry-blog]

[[dead stylish]]

[ashharveypoetry-blog]

Bottle.

Tucker Walsh Alabama It’s 1989 and the winter sky hangs heavy over my head. I reach up to touch it. It feels cold and it scratches my skin. Something smells thick in the air, like charcoal and gasoline. I sense everything. My trailer gleams a mellow hue against the black weather backdrop. I go sit inside, clutching a bottle of whiskey to my heaving chest. I stretch out to turn the television on with my big toe. The white static burns my drunken eyes and I kick the side of the box to get a picture. The News drones on in its usual dreary way. I scratch my beard and swig from the bottle, wincing at the taste. Is the Newswoman shaking or is that my vision? I lean forward and try to focus to see the picture on the tiny screen. The ground below me rumbles like a volcano. I fall off my chair and grasp my head with my hands. The TV falls on its side and dies with a zap. Harry and Marina Jackson London I climb over the wreckage with you in my arms. The sun is bright in my eyes and I squint to take in my surroundings. You cry out to me and squeal with rage. I know you need your bottle but what the hell am I meant to do? I can’t even see a single building still standing. No homes, no shops, no office blocks. Only a burnt out green trailer remains, on it's side. I take another step and crunch my foot into shattered glass. You cry harder at the noise and I wince at your tears. “Shh-shh-shh-shhhh, Daddy’s here. Please don’t cry.” You’re so tiny. Just over a year old. August 17th 1988. You saved us that summer. I sing to you with soft concern as I tread with care over the shards of other people’s memories. Wikus Van De Borre and Aneke Botha Johannesburg I always go back to the room where we first began our journey together. We were perfect traveling companions. It is no longer a room but a memory. Where we are now matters not but where we’ve been will take over me until I burn out into dust. The trailer that you parked outside my sister’s is gone. It’s 1991 and I still remember the trailer. It was green and you loved me. The winter grew colder and turned our miserable existence upside down. The darkness came and I sniffed the scent of fear in your bones. We shut out the light in our eyes and walked on. Our hands collided one afternoon and I put the chair in the corner where the radio once stood. I missed the music so I sat there and hummed a tune to the rhythm of your stare. Hey, do you remember? Inside the glass bottle I left you the ring. You refused to wear it because you said it looked better in the bottle than on your bony finger. And I didn’t even mind.

[ashharveypoetry-blog]

[[Pay Attention]]

[ashharveypoetry-blog]

Be Your Own Hero

It itches through my veins. I scratch my skin through my grey shirt. It’s so hot. The air is stale and smells like mildew. I miss the hit. Euphoria. Pure lethargy. Total numbness. Sometimes it felt as if my body might forget to breathe but I always came back to earth. Sometimes I wish I didn’t return. I could float in that space forever. My mouth is so dry but I can’t drink anything or I’ll puke. I feel sick and I’m pissed off. I’m scared. These decaying walls are closing in around me and my mattress is stained with my dirty sweat and vomit. Expelling my sins through my pores and my mouth. The “super-flu” stage they always talk about. I shake violently as I scream out in anger. I am alone. Who the fuck am I doing this for anyway? No one cares if I use of not. Or die or not. Or lie about it or not. I smashed every mirror in this damp, piece of shit flat. My reflection sickens me. My skin is scabbed from anxious picking and my eyes are sunken and swollen. My pupils: tiny black holes surrounded by dark puffy skin, just like the marks on my legs. Alarm goes off. 11:11. Shoes. No shoelaces.

[ashharveypoetry-blog]

Sixteen Fifty-Four

I wake up. A small white room surrounds my tiny body. I don’t know how I got here or where I am. I am naked but warm and although I am confused, I am overwhelmingly at ease. Four walls. One wall feels like a calm sea, one wall feels like the electricity of a storm, one wall feels like an unknown creature lurking in the ether and the last wall, the wall behind me, feels like a pulse. This box is alive. My prison is breathing. I lie down on my back. My hands above my head touch the wall behind and my toes brush the wall at the other end. I stare up at the ceiling. It is art and music. It tastes like fine wine and smells like winter rain. The floor is a crackling fire that soothes and embraces me as I sink into it. I hear whispers as I close my eyes. “Time?” “Sixteen fifty-four.”

[ashharveypoetry-blog]

Collaboration with artist:  @connor_hearld (instagram) 

[ashharveypoetry-blog]

Because love is a beautiful mess

[ashharveypoetry-blog]

Psychedelic Mission

[ashharveypoetry-blog]

Clean.