David Thorne

@darthorne.bsky.social

52 Followers 63 Following

I'm a neurodivergent X-ennial. I crave validation and avoid interaction. It’s complicated. I write things, play pretend with friends, and dispense information no one asked for.

The Stand Against the world we take our stand Battered, bruised, we hold the line. The guardians of a dying land. Our kin may fall to avaricious hands Who corrupt the just, who redefine. Against the world we take our stand. We neither break nor yield to their command. We thwart attempts to undermine. The guardians of a dying land. They tell us we don't understand. They exhaust, confuse, malign. Against the world we take our stand. Then step by step we grow, expand. With strength in numbers we combine. The guardians of a dying land. To force the tyrants to disband, Our solitary goals entwine. Against the world we take our stand. The guardians of a dying land.
Saturday is Curry night Overall I'm Regretting the Challenge where Heat was a factor. It Ended badly for my Derriere
Gimme Five Five more minutes and I'll go to bed It's eleven o'clock, but the show just got interesting Five more minutes and I'll go to bed It's midnight but I need to finish off this boss Five more minutes and I'll go to bed It's one a.m. but I didn't get a chance to read my emails all day Five more minutes and I'll go to bed It's two in the morning but my feed is blowing up Five more minutes and I'll go to bed It's three o'clock and there's breaking news overseas Five more minutes and I'll go to bed It's four in the morning, I shouldn't have had coffee so late Five more minutes I'll have to get ready for work.
Awakening The morning cuts into the room like a knife, a blade of golden light slicing our bodies with gentle warmth. Where did the night go? How can one person be so all-consuming that time becomes meaningless in her arms? I was born to be a cynic, trained to mistrust. Love was a trap for the weak-minded, the foolish. But in those lost hours, I saw the light. We rise, begin our day with smiles and gentle touch. I want to tell you that I would give you every minute, every second I have left, if it meant I could spend every morning like this one. But I don’t. You might think me a fool for telling you. You might not feel the same as I do, and my heart would not survive the loss of you. So I keep it to myself.
The World Between My soul is not night-black, but it has long since left behind the light of day. Darkness clings to it, a looming threat, an inevitability? It walks in shades of twilight, clouding my world in a fire-like glow. The light too bright to walk toward, the grey shadows a warning of things to come. I stand between both, a soul bathed in the setting sun.
Pick Your Battles I will not stoop to your level, not out of some misguided sense of altruism. It is because if I let go, if I met you on your battleground, I would not stop until all around you lay dying. So I do not fight. I do not let go. I do not give in to rage. Because I know I would lose myself to it. You are not worth the price. You are not worth my soul. But do not mistake this restraint for cowardice.
Tempest I am caught in the tempest of my mind. The static on the screen blesses me with bursts of clarity: a clear picture of a beautiful world. There is no control in the miasma. I am free-falling through infinity, with no ground to break my fall, no direction but the whim of chaos. There is magic out there in the unknown, but as I struggle forward, it moves further away. I am Tantalus, bitter water anchoring me, while the fruit of knowledge hangs just out of reach. The gods laugh from their dens, watch me build my tower of Babel, then send it crashing to the desert floor. Do they do it to test me, or simply to delight in my pain? I will never win, never find the tree on which I might make my sacrifice. The tempest is too strong, the static unfocused. But I will find enlightenment, or die trying.
Flicker in the Static I flick through the channels of my mind, legs crossed and patient, like in my youth. There is no control for this aging boobtube. Just the analog crunch of a c-plus button. Timing is everything. Too fast, I breeze past the good stuff. Too slow, I get stuck on reruns of the A-Team. And in between the infinite void of static.
Symphony of the Waking Man We begin with a brutal ascension: fortissimo bells blaring, sforzando, overstated. Too persistent to ignore. He awakens, pianissimo, gaining weight, not speed. Rhythm broken, stumbling into consciousness, shuffling to ablutions. The pulse rises, splashes of cold water shock to a crescendo. Shower raining in filigree, droplets dancing over the skin. Then, tempo established, motives aligned, hot coffee, building confidence, the stage is set. All instruments ready for the day’s performance.
The Scents of the Meadow I am an intruder, built for the city, for cosy cafés where the only flowers are captured in paint, felt rather than seen. I want to belong, live in that world where meadowsweet blooms between my feet and the bluebells ring for me, where I weep… figuratively. But alas. I am an intruder. I am not for that gentle land, not without an arsenal forged by cold science. The price I pay for beauty is eyes so raw they cannot see. And so I must lament, must witness from afar, frolic in the clover-floored, living hills of my dreams. A prisoner of urban fields, my own body my jailer.
I am a man of reason. There is no such thing as spectres, spooks, ghouls, or ghosts. I am rational, reasonable even, so that sound must have a logical explanation. It’s probably the house, remembering itself the way that they do. Just old timbers settling. Maybe it’s the cat. We don’t have a cat. Or maybe we have rats; that’s worse than ghosts. One of the kids? Everyone else is out. That’s why it’s quiet, too… It's not the time for cliché. I am a smart, strong, capable, mature man. I can just go look. And I will. Just as soon as the family are home.
Clueless I try to write Something witty Something charming Something with depth. But where do I begin I don’t have a whiff Not a sausage I am clueless. Inspiration strikes When I least expect; Mid dishwasher loading Mid jog, mid sex. Intrusive thoughts Plaguing me Stealing sleep In exchange for words. But when I want them They shy away Leaving behind An empty mind.
Reassess I will be the best writer the world has ever seen Reassess I will win the Nobel prize for literature Reassess My books will be on every shelf Reassess I'll have a cult following of dedicated fans Reassess Some people might like my books Reassess I might get a book published Reassess I might win a short story contest Reassess I hope someone Will read this...
Balderdash: An unhinged ramble from an odd fellow Bolderdash: See balderdash with a bit more unearned confidence. Boulderdash: The process of fleeing a landslide. Beholderdash: The process of fleeing an extra-dimensional eye monster. Bald-er-dash: The sudden realisation that your wig fell off and the subsequent escape. Balder-dash: When a Norse god realises he needs to poop.
It is all too easy To find a home They litter the world Like spider webs Waiting for a catch Luring the needy With false welcome Then with love As collateral Demands recompense Join us in our snare They tell them Or be devoured And we turn to cruelty Because it is cheaper Than loneliness
The Idea of You My heart beats only for your ability to fulfil my needs. You are the sun to my sky and the moon to my night, the partner to my ideal self. From the moment our eyes met, my soul recognised yours as one who would make people jealous. I loved you yesterday, I love you today, and I will love you forever, provided I can change a few things. You complete me, or at least the list of things I need to feel valued. You are my destiny, my fate, my one true love. And now that finding you is done, I can do the important stuff. My heart is yours, now and always unless you disappoint me. I would cross oceans, climb mountains, and defy time itself for you, but don’t ask me to do too much. All this to say: I love the idea of you.
Father Bear lived In the dappled plaster Above my pillows Two cubs either side He looked down at me From his shadowed frieze The picture of fatherly perfection A stone idol, a stone ideal He would be there When I opened my eyes When wee cries in wee hours called He would tell me, you got this.
The Sacrifice As the dark, unwoken morning chills my lungs with icy touch, sheltered again from freezing rain, I lament the loss of festivities. We have prayed to the sun; it will return in its own time. But just like myself, it seems uneager to rouse. Would that I could return to bed, snuggle into the warm embrace of soft, familiar sheets. But the season demands its sacrifice.
Sally is the girl he left a'wailin' Poor ol' Sally girl He took her heart then went a'sailin' Poor ol' Sally girl And in the spring she was left cradlin' Poor ol' Sally girl Now her Pa, he's gone avengin' Poor ol' Sally girl To find the man that left her ailin' Poor ol' Sally girl I think, my lads, he might go wantin' Poor ol' Sally girl E'er man I know, is worth a'questionin' Poor ol' Sally girl Sally was a brew we'd all been tastin' Ol' Sally had a penny from us all
Auld Acquaintance Don your clobber, darlin’, It’s New Year’s Eve again. We’ll head on to the Dog and Gun And see it in with friends. I’ll get suited and booted, I’ve still got the moves. I may be no spring chicken, But I still know how to groove. I’ll get you all dolled up, my love, We’ll have you looking fine, And share a kiss at midnight For the sake of auld lang syne. Please get dressed, my darlin’, Please show me that you can. Please stay with me for one more year. Please don’t forget your man.
Me and My Shadow It shimmers in the light, my shadow. It tempts me further in, into the warm embrace of chaos, the raw, primal reflection of myself. I breathe deep, like I was taught, thank it for being there when I call, and tell it I am not in need of it today. It backs away, bitter, but patient. It knows I will call for it again soon.
Winter Stars I lay with you, fire crackling, brushing us with gentle warmth. Our breath intertwines as it glitters toward heaven, and for a moment there is only us and winter stars.
Absence Attribution I am cursed by knowledge. You see the spirit, it leaves the body like a fading glimmer of something tangible. I see the loss of presence attribution, the mechanisms of evolution. But in that moment I envy you your ignorance.
The Mending Tin I don’t know where it came from, the mending tin. It once held biscuits – fudge, maybe? A landscape of some forgotten corner of English history, or maybe one that didn’t exist. Now? Now it is the mending tin. A scuff, a rip, a lost button, it can fix just about anything. We pry it open, rust on rust, a little bit of some elsewhen idyll fading away. Inside? A treasure trove of generational contributions. Some – my mother’s, perhaps, or long-lost aunts, close enough to now that I can recognise their use. Others? Tiny devices of torture, perhaps. I make my own additions: the spare button from a coat, a set of small screwdrivers from a cracker, perfect for mending glasses. I don’t know where it came from, the mending tin, but I wonder where it will go.
Waiting She had read so many stories, knew what love could be. She hoped to find a crashing wave to take her out to sea. He met her on that patient bay and offered her his hand. But in his heart he always knew she still waits upon the sand.
Ah! Humbug! I am a hairy lentil man but at this time of year, And as all men of good will should, I keep my loved ones near. But into every festive treat, they slip a swine or steer, or something from a chuck or a cow Please tell me how? You’d have thought they’d be avoiding it by now. I know it’s just a choice I made, I’ve no right to be mad. But reading through ingredients it really makes me sad. How can you not cook carrot sticks without killing somethings dad, or potatoes without killing a duck? I mean what the fuck? This dinner really has me out of luck. You rootle through the cupboards for something I can eat. Cos all your bloody puddings are made with cloven feet. You roll your eyes behind my back like my brains incomplete. All I want is something not cooked in goose fat. You chuffing twat. Is there really so much villainy in that? My blood sugar is really low, I’m sorry that I snapped. It’s just that you’re so ignorant you make me feel quite trapped. I don’t expect you to drop meat and all that other crap, I just don’t think that I should be left out That’s why I shout. It would be less work for you to leave it out. I sit on the front door step, my dinner in my hand. A slightly hairy humbug, with a little bit of sand. My good will is completely gone, I hope you understand. All I wanted was comfort and joy, comfort and joy. All I wanted was comfort and joy.Ah! Humbug! I am a hairy lentil man but at this time of year, And as all men of good will should, I keep my loved ones near. But into every festive treat, they slip a swine or steer, or something from a chuck or a cow Please tell me how? You’d have thought they’d be avoiding it by now. I know it’s just a choice I made, I’ve no right to be mad. But reading through ingredients it really makes me sad. How can you not cook carrot sticks without killing somethings dad, or potatoes without killing a duck? I mean what the fuck? This dinner really has me out of luck. You rootle through th…
The King raised a goblet To all in his land For good health and happiness He lofted his hand. But Gremlins, you see Are a race, scropholitic And upon the King’s word They all felt terrific. Their warts were smoothed out Their skin a nice hue Their bodies less crooked And their hair grew back too. So thanks to that gesture In a land far away Are some damn hunky Gremlins That you might meet some day.
The Icons I am the pinnacle of greatness The master of all things I am strength incarnate No mere mortal can stand against me I am a genius Nothing is beyond my comprehension I am the arbiter of law My word is that of a God I am a father And one day before I know it I will be human.
You hold me in arms That have already waved goodbye And for a moment I feel the spark of something Like the residual heat In a pile of ashes.
The Gospel of J.P. Goblin Construction It is, I think, you will agree, a fact well known to you and me, our bridges suffer wear and tear, and thus, small recompense is fair. To this end, we demand a toll, and so sequester there a troll. They are, you see, inclined to squat, for theirs is not a happy lot. The world sees naught but giant eyes, and noses of excessive size; in crowded places, sad to say, they’re treated in an ugly way. So, 'neath our trestles they may go, with just a little quid pro quo. For well we know a creature's worth is not a fluke of luck or birth; No mortal born begins with sin. Thus is the tenet of J.P. Goblin.
The Light Hangs Low It swung back and forth like a pendulum, its cord too long. The electrician wanted to leave as quickly as he could. You had bought a job lot of coloured bulbs, a different colour for each room. It was clearly a bad idea, but I was seven, I didn’t know how to tell you yet. When you realised, you pulled them down. We lit candles for a week until the council sent someone. You were in crisis by then. I didn’t know. I didn’t have the words. I just knew the fun, spontaneous mum came at a cost. I had my bag packed when the police woke me at 3 a.m. You were wrapped in blankets as they loaded you into the ambulance, the neighbours watching on. You smelt like whisky and blood. I could wait in the station until they found somewhere for me.
Heart of Stone Moss grows on my heart of stone. It was barren, hostile, unmoving, but you found a way to cultivate life somewhere I never thought anyone could. You never asked the stone to break, never asked it to be more than it was. You simply saw it as a foundation on which you built a better world.
The Reveal We had waited three months. Too much could go wrong. We didn’t know if it was real. Then we saw him, for the first time. We could hold him in our hand, show him to the world, say his name aloud. The response was mixed. Trepidation. Concern. There were more questions than celebrations. Except your auntie. Nothing but joy there. We left that day and agreed that was the right response. Fuck everyone else.
Dave Logic They call it “Dave Logic,” my tendency to think outside the box. I was always told that was an asset, but it turns out they want you to think in the slightly bigger box, with all the bubble wrap. “Your problem is, you always think you’re right.” Which begs the question: do they think they’re wrong, but do it anyway? And I’m the crazy one? Being right all the time is easy. All you have to do is change your point of view when you find out you’re wrong. That way, wrongness is only past tense. Besides – and this is the important bit – I introduce myself as David every time. And if you can’t get my name right, why should I listen to you?
Unwanted In a draw full of junk I find the silver pendant you brought me On the day I fell in love with you. I realise in that moment It is old and tarnished And I don’t want it anymore.
An Unknown Man Saint-Rémy sun warms the cold and lonely room; it found him painting before it crested the rotting sill. He walked among the flowers. The people bustle past. They do not know him. He will live unseen, unknown. Rake-thin, food is cheap, but he needs paint and canvas more. Absinthe dulled the hunger pain, but colour was his addiction. He knew, deep in his weakening bones, that the world would know him. But the humble man never saw his name in lights.
My Queen She is a queen somewhere, out there in the infinite, ever-expanding multiverse of probability. But even a queen would pale compared to what I see: the bejumpered, bespectacled beauty of my dreams.
Default Mode If you struggle to understand why humans do the things they do, know it is proven that nearly fifty percent would electrocute themselves rather than do nothing for fifteen minutes. We fill the world with pain to drown out the silence.
Night Shift Smoke rolls in soft swirls, Silver-lined with bitter frost. Silence fills the air. Streets are thick with darkness. Snow offers a kiss to the patient. Standing there, I am master of this world. Samadhi on smoko. Serenity.
It’s the thought that counts It’s the thought that counts When your girlfriend-of-a-month’s mum Buys you another Lynx box set. When you have known me for thirty years, It might be fair to assume The box set belies no thought at all.
The Boring Man I never chased the high, the thrill, the joyride, whatever form it took. People all around me went on their adventures or swallowed them whole. They call me boring. They call me a coward. They do not see the fire. Chaos, ever clawing at its bonds, I have tamed a beast. One false step and my world will fall.
Heartfyre Oh, what a coarse and wicked thing the fire of love can be: a gnat that crawls beneath the skin and nests where none can see. It feeds on touch and kindly words, it smoulders deep within, till you catch your own reflection with a loathsome, smitten grin. What vile and irksome hogwash this love, this hope, this joy. I won't fall into that again. That con, that ruse, that ploy.
Birthday Money On broken shoes I walked the few blocks To the local Chinese takeaway. I had been to one once, With a foster family. They asked me what I wanted. I don’t think I’d ever been asked before. I struggled to find any words. I can’t remember what I ordered. Only the sweet, salty, richness, And the warmth As we sat around the table, Them offering up their plates. Urging me to try everything. I ate like I didn’t know Where my next meal would come from While they chewed thoughtfully And smiled at my joy. It was close to perfect. So I found myself, A grubby little kid, Paying for a memory With notes folded in a birthday card. Running home, The slap of an untethered sole Echoing with each step. We ate in silence, Fast and greedy, The TV a picture Of a perfect world Out of reach. I want to tell that boy: You cannot fix broken people, Food cannot fill the void, Money cannot buy love.
The Glacial Grindstone Life is going a mile a minute. Just last week I had a doctor’s appointment. My first draft is due in six months, And on Monday I have to go shopping. It’s about time I took a break, Found the space to relax, Somewhere cosy to put my feet up And watch the world go by.
Heaven Scent What do you get the woman who gave you everything, a life, a home, a family? The cosmos could not make recompense. What do you get the woman who taught you to love, who showed you a life worth living? No bauble could suffice. What do you get the woman who showed you a better world? Not a man among us knows, but a scented candle is a start.
Pre-Curser This is going to be shit I won’t have any fun I should have stayed at home tonight. I didn’t want to come. I bloody hate these people. Elizabeth’s a bore. Peter should be on a list. And Martin’s just a chore. I won’t be fucking social. I’d rather be in bed. I can’t be arsed with stuff. It does me in the head. - That was really something. An awesome night, you know. We should see those friends more often. I’m glad I made you go.
Yule Hunt As Krampus went a’wassailing Around the qaqqaq, cold. He came upon jólakötturinn A wonder to behold. He tiptoed softly through the den To dodge the yule cat’s ire For he had not received a gift Of stockings or attire. But then a child in his sack Let out a mournful cry And Krampus stood before the beast As it opened up an eye. Up qaqqaq and down qinngua The festive feline chased Until at once a hut appeared The perfect hiding place. Krampus, soon, would know his fault I think you will agree, For he wandered into Grýla’s den And he’s just in time for tea.
No Re-dos My children asked the other day What do I regret? I sat them both upon my knee And told them, “Nothing yet.” I could have done things differently If I were me back then. But all my missteps led to you, So I’d do them all again.
The Spit of Me They all say it. One look is all it takes. Poor sod. I hoped he’d take after her. She’s the beauty; I’m… not. I want to help him, Stop him from making my mistakes. But he’s as stubborn as me too. She says I’m not broken, But she only sees the wrapping. She doesn’t hear the broken glass within. I need to see, well, him, But I can’t. I just see the spit of me. Me, the spit of my dad. Poor sod.
nofuctivity /ˌnəʊfʌkˈtɪvɪti / noun The state or quality of being compelled by external forces to perform a task for which the individual has no enthusiasm or intrinsic motivation. Often expressed as minimal effort sustained just above the threshold of reprimand. May be measured, colloquially as output per unit of shits given. “The supervisor’s managerial style increased nofuctivity by sixty percent across all sectors.” See also: cursory output, perfunctory, dysfunctional
Gifts She keeps them in the wardrobe, the gifts she meant for you. Golden, pristine wrapping, baby blue ribbons. I sometimes see her looking; she sees you opening them in a Christmas long ago, a Christmas that never was. It was a cold year, that year, the coldest I remember. There was no dinner, no songs sung, only tears cried. I have forgotten what’s in them, those gifts left that saw no tree. I ask her from time to time; she always remembers.