Pinocchio’s first date

Without strings decisions meander

into the darkness, twinkle as if a mirror

is behind each thought reflecting that

which lies behind. A key might be better,

turned by unseen hands so the coil is set

free and decisions spin to the tune

of burning rubber. The ballerina dances

in her box, in permanent night, waiting

for my call. I can picture her lips,

her small breasts and thighs more advanced

than my desire. I cannot dial the number!



I have splinters in my heart, my lips

are chewed by teeth holding back the words

I want to whisper. I can smell her ears -

their secret wax ready for my tongue,

a seal stronger than any kiss.



Her music haunts me.

The Hurdy Gurdy heart thumps.

It is a large step moving from child

to holding the ballerina’s hand.



Her eyes sparkle like light caught

along the edges of a serrated leaf.

I feel the future autumnal flutter

in the diminishing space between my legs.



We are an ocean pulled

by the memory of single cell moons

towards infinite repetition.

Gentleman Reads: Catalina by Danny Fahey

Gentleman Reads: Catalina by Danny Fahey: 2 Mellothande Until then I must walk everywhere,’ groaned Peter. ‘Until we can afford the horse, yes.’ Peter turned back to look...

Balloonist:

In the bright blue air balloon,

filled with alleyways and square niches

where the city escaped its own shadows,

in a nest of rope and wooden intent

I wrestled with the wind.

Its billowing mass obscured

the truth that flight is a fancy best left to birds -

the basket no true cave, never a rest

but a refuge that lingered until reality

ground me again.

Birds fly whenever they wish,

lift and spread, leap, find the places where the wind

does battle with its inner voices,

and travel.

I must always land and walk for weeks,

my eyes littered with the sights

of men as ants and tress as small

as toothpicks, so that conversation is difficult –

I always want to shout.

The  memory

of the sound wind makes when the earth

falls far away

separates me from those who would, perhaps,

love me if they could.

On Sundays, I spread the balloon, limp

as a freshly killed dove,

and then watch the inflation,

feel the lurch -

I am away again; my mind desperate

not to let the knowledge of the landing

back in.

Scribd

 scribd uploads

I have been putting some of my stuff up at Scribd

some that I have been charging for a read. Well it must be selling because today on my account panel appeared the Store button!!!!!!!!

This means I have sold at least $20 worth of stories!!!!

Whoop Whoop Whoop...

On the way toi millions...

no really...
millions......

einkreviews

einkreviews

 

 

7 Things You Didn’t Know About Danny Fahey

7 Things You Didn’t Know About Danny Fahey
His first (unpublished) novel was about cloning about fifteen years the first successful cloning of the sheep. In the novel the clones were twins, programmed to then breed and so on.
His first published poem was called Staccato Movers and was published in an anthology of Street Poets by Carringbush Library (circa 1985) and yes, Danny was a street poet performing in bars and cafes and street corners for many years.
His first published story The Edge won the Mirboo North Short Story competition and still remains one of Danny’s favorite pieces of writing.
Danny once appeared in film that was designed to look like a documentary. In the film he played a heroin addict in a juvenile detention centre. He did not tell his parents about the film and when his mother saw it on television she, believing it was a real story, almost fainted.
Danny once wrote for the Carlton Football Club under the Pseudonym The Ghost of Optus Oval.
Danny and his wife once operated a second-hand furniture and used goods shop until his first born decided to take up walking at 9 months and Danny and his wife discovered that a shop, while fun for the child, was not really practical. He has also painted houses, been a clown, an import performer, a teacher and spent many years working behind bars at various pubs, including The Punter’s Club where he met his wife (a  regular customer).

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Fantasy

Rating – PG

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Danny Fahey on Facebook & Twitter

Blog http://dannybfahey.blogspot.com.au/

a new story, ink still drying...

The-Co-Joined

The Farthest Journey

It is in the sound of the apparatus, like gods,

they surround him, stare into the heart of him

and murmur a decision about him,  that I feel

my disconnect from the prospect of his death.

I offer silent prayers to these unknown machines.

Every labored breath he takes, I promise another act

I will perform as penance, as payment, a stalling

of the ferry’s price, as if my thoughts are a cat of nine tails,

and I flay my future with this fear of being left fatherless.

On his finger resides a clip, as if he is dangling on a line,

or being dangled; a slim chance that he may yet return

to my shore, open his eyes, cease his ramblings

about a past before I was born and smile again at me,

his last boy - this father of mine fights a battle in a white room

and outside the world is grey but between is the deep abyss.

I have not the words of farewell, sacred or profane;

they got lost somewhere in the journey – I

cannot remember when he held me, or the feel of his lips,

only his chin, rough as sandpaper, and his watery eyes

that smiled at me whenever I found my way home.

I have wandered far, thought I had left him behind

and now I stand at his bedside and realize

he is about to take the farthest journey and I stand here

and try to remember every shattered aspect of us.

The Tree Singer sequel

So I have finally started the sequel to the Tree Singer -0m though sequel is not really right. The idea is that there will be four novels linked by the stranger Simon but they will not read in any order.

The Tree Singer - done.

The Forge Singer (working title) (have written about 3,000 words so far.
Its about a boy called Waylon who masters fire and becomes a blacksmith.

The Wave Singer - A girl who called the waves for fishermen (or to save whales, not sure yet).

The Wind Singer  - veryu tentative title but it would give me the four elements Earth (tree)
Fire (forge) Water (wave) and Air (wind).

a poem - this poet is a fake

this-poet-is-a-fake

this poet is a fake

in the mud i was formed,

in the dark, not Apollo's bud,

but Promethean bone - the rock

before the flesh made whole -

exploring events that occurred,

colouring them with the hurt

that was or was not

and thus shared amongst us all

and in the shadows my thoughts

congeal, draw close, fearful;

gain ascendancy through dealing

in sounds and lies

i say nothing factual -

how else to come to truth?-

the path is made with pebbles

of indiscriminate memory merged with falsehood

all prophets, all poets,

all who tell stories about their lives,

find the right way to explain themselves by mixing fact

and fiction and pronouncing them in the light

mother, these words are not from your hand,

not from the truth of our lives, rather, i find them

in the wrinkles, in the history of all the things

we never said or never heard

and i hope if father turns in his grave

it is only the better to listen

to the things

his son has to say

the son who has found

the best way to wipe away clay

is by telling stories

of how it might have been

this heart is on a train ride

to understanding,

it tells of false pain to explain

how it became human

The third Muse and the clayworker

The third Muse

The first Muse,
clear-sighted,
free from judgement,
a camera,
captures the model’s face
as Madonna.

The second Muse,
being human,
understands the model
as lover, child
and sister.

The third Muse
demands the clayworker
opens his mind to the place

he keeps hidden, the dark room
locked, blocked yet there,
down the long hallway,
waiting.

Inside this room the clayworker
takes his model
and abuses her
kicks her off a couch
acts a child, spits at her
throws punches, weeps
and presses upon her.

Sex has no boundaries
with this Muse
who creates crevices
in the scrotum and breast
of the clayworker.

Everyone admires the statue

never seeing the model’s bruises.

The third Muse
forces the mind to open that room -
allows the darkness
within to escape, occupy
pride of place
in the clayworker,
allows severing of an ear
alcoholic despair
and the eyes
to see God
in the movements of a tiger.

She must be embraced
with hard cock, never tamed
though claimed,
ridden like a beast
in the early hours
of morning when civilized brain
weakens
so clay
can speak to all of us.

She is destructive
and in her fire
the phoenix rises -
a masterpiece born
in the bloody battles
of the clayworker who
throws tantrums
like a Lenny Bruce on the floor
of a radio station,
chases the flesh like a Marquise
to maim and slay,
drinks or smokes or injects
to escape her clutches
and burns to kiss and fuck her
to death.

The clayworker

            I

Even as my fingers unlace

the dress that keeps your hot flesh
at bay my hands, browned in earth, itch

to mould damp clay.

While my lips kiss your abyss

my tongue tastes your coming screams

for in the morning I shall abandon
your sweet nest and as I wrest

with memory to produce an after-image

of your liquid sensuousness my ears,
lost in creation's delight, shall not hear

your voice cry out and my soul,

empty as night, shall devour our final embrace.

So one final time, as my fingers trace

our passing along your white spine,

remember this - do nothing,

nothing, but forget me!

Do nothing but forget me!

Like the ocean's spray,
let me envelop you, let me caress,

excite and elicit
the secret responses hidden

from common view.

I need nothing. I grip nothing.
Everything slips through my fingers.

Do nothing, nothing, but forget me,

for though my hands work miracles

the promises I whisper in my need

are as binding as daisy chains

while your hindsight reproaches

wreck havoc upon my innocence.

I seek nothing - the discipline is to listen.
The clay sings - the dream is revealed.

            II

Everything passes through me!

I am nothing.

I take everything.
I slip into ancient warmth

to discover your secrets.
I see into your pain, make it mine.
I feel your heat beat, match it, change it,
lead it down sodden paths once hidden from all.

There is no safety, no logical progression,

no calm expression, there is only this,

this tempestuous unearthing,
this explosion of fragments and hidden meanings,
this collision of myths and insights

as muscles and tendons
lose conscious direction, strip back the layers
to reveal visions –

the melting pot is stirred to action.

                        III

Each tired movement struggles against

the growing current
as thick reeds catch hold, threaten

to drag me under - only the clay brings relief!

Only the clay’s touch succours me!

Thoughts unbound fly in the face of protection -
a hard, wet slap to force clay into shape.
Thoughts fill my hands, fingers stab the clay,
become sharp knives to slice the morals

off stiff upper lips and hypocritical redemptions.

I am not redeemable!
I float, lost and passionately angry, in the space
between acts inconceivable. I caress,

I force, I manipulate and the clay breathes,

exists in shimmering propinquity to that which is!

Sometimes my ecstasy dominates, a storm,

a raging wind rending roots and leaves impenetrable

as I struggle to find an escape from the fire

that burns deep inside my chest - then beware! Beware!

For though my flesh may seek your embrace
my thoughts lie elsewhere and my hands,

as they dip into your lavic heat,

already ache for the clay's cool touch.

I need nothing.

I grip nothing.

I take everything.

While my words seduce

my eyes appraise;
I take what lies hidden

and follow the inspiration.

                                    IV

Sometimes I long for you.

Sometimes I even love you
but darkly, secretly, sometimes

I wish badly for you
and my fingers wriggle like snakes

spitting venom in The Gorgon's hair,

seeking a return to the clay’s lair.

I wish you begone!

Begone from this time and place!

I wish more, less, difference!

But only sometimes...

Sometimes I gentle flesh,

I caress and softly seek the recesses of delight.

Sometimes I erupt
to rend a vision physically unto existence.

Come my sweetling,

my sparrow,

my sacrifice,
come seek my arms, my loins,

my embrace.

Discover that though the flesh

may sate
and separate,

the passion that compels us
can invest us with a truth

so vast everyone is touched.

A farewell to your arms

It was a sunny autumn day -

the sunlight soft

as baby’s first blonde hair

brushed against the right cheek.

An autumnal day of slanted light,

like that last promise we’d meet

that will never be met -

life intrudes and roosts,

curled toes and ruffled feathers, like pigeons

in the shadows of the truly intended words.

In the distance I heard the calls of men,

the umpires' whistles

and the distant thwump

of a leather ball being kicked.

My hand felt then, the skin

that shivered beneath the flannelette shirt

and I wondered what distant events

might kick this leather again.

another excerpt

Catalina by Danny Fahey

1

Arboroth crossing over to Terras Firdel

It was early dusk in Arboroth and Ruth struggled to keep her feet in the encroaching darkness. She slipped and slid across a barren field. Large, hard drops of rain fell, adding to her journey’s difficulty. Everything was wet: the ground, the trees and Ruth. She was dressed in a woollen brown robe. A cowl covered her head and shielded her face. Both her hands were needed to cope with the basket’s weight. She could not prevent the basket from banging painfully against her right thigh with every step.

Ruth saw the beginnings of the forest ahead and knew she was not far from the cottage. Her foot slipped in the mud and she fell. The movement jolted the small baby cradled in the basket. The baby howled. Ruth felt her heart pounding in her chest and expected someone, drawn by the noise, to leap out of the darkness.

‘Hush now, Catalina,’ said Ruth in a scared voice. The baby settled lower in the basket. Her cries diminished. Ah, she is such a clever child already. Do not worry little one, you’ll soon be safe from harm. To no one in particular, she uttered sharply, ‘Damn wizards and their faraway abodes!’

Ruth climbed back to her feet and searched for a sign of pursuit. When she was certain she was alone, she set forth again, heading toward a little cottage that lay nestled in the fringe of a dark, silent forest.

She pushed herself across the treacherous ground, her bare feet sinking in the clinging mud. She had been running for three days straight and knew she had little strength remaining.

‘We will be able to rest when we reach the cottage,’ she said to the baby. She could hand her over and sleep. Sleep for a week at least. ‘The wizard will take you to your new home, where you’ll be safe.’

Ruth blundered towards the forest. She was close enough to the huge trees to hear their leaves whispering. Strange sounds startled her. An owl hooted and an animal scrambled under a bush. Sometimes she paused and listened carefully for the footsteps she was certain were behind her. She could see the light glowing in the window of the cottage ahead. At least someone was home.

The rain began to fall harder so that she could hardly see anything of the world in front of her. Finally, just as Ruth felt she might collapse, exhausted, she found herself standing before the cottage door. She placed the basket gently beside her feet and reached out to rap lightly on the door.

The door flung open and a maddened figure, his face as red as his long flowing robe and his eyes ablaze with fear, screamed, ‘Flee! The witch is upon us; flee now and save the babe or the world is doomed!’

‘What? How? Where?’ gasped Ruth.

‘There is a crossover point not more than fifty feet over there!’ screamed the wizard, spittle flying from his mouth. His long, bony finger pointed to a spot left of the doorway. ‘Hurry now; the witch must not find you here. I will fight her while you make your escape, but you must be quick for the witch will soon vanquish me. The babe must be safe in Terras Firdel before that happens. The witch will not be able to catch you once you pass through. Now hurry!’

With the last of her remaining strength, Ruth ran south in search of the promised crossover point. After several frantic moments she found what she was looking for.

Ruth saw what looked like a large picture hanging in midair. She knew little about the crossovers. Only that they were supported by an ancient magic that no one really understood and that they could be difficult to find if the view of the destination blended with the crossover’s surrounds. Luckily for Ruth, this crossover point showed a quiet countryside—a land very different from Arboroth. It was the realm they would be transported to.

Before his defeat, Hubert had told Ruth that the baby would be safe once they crossed over. He had also told Ruth that the Realm was called Terras Firdel.

‘Be aware,’ Hubert had said to Ruth before he had left to face the witch, ‘that in Terras Firdel, no one really believes in magic anymore.’

‘But the baby…’

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Fantasy

Rating – PG

More details about the author & the book

 Connect with Danny Fahey on Facebook & Twitter

Blog http://dannybfahey.blogspot.com.au/

excerpt

Catalina

Scrivener

Anyone else use this?

I have just begun using it - it is fantastic! If you write novels, plays, poetry or justr work on lots of things that need to be collated etc. Try this.


Scrivener

The Farthest Journey

It is in the sound of the apparatus, like gods,
they surround him, stare into his heart
and murmur a decision about him, that I feel
my disconnect from the prospect of his death.
I offer silent prayers to these unknown machines.
Every labored breath he takes, I promise another act
I will perform as penance, as payment, a stalling
of the ferry’s price, not the fee of crossing
but the lurch and then the wave farewell,
as if my thoughts are a cat of nine tails, and I flay
my future with this fear of being left fatherless.

On his finger resides a clip, as if he is dangling on a line,
or being dangled; a slim chance that he may yet return
to my shore, open his eyes, cease his ramblings
about a past before I was born and smile again at me,
his last boy - this father of mine fights a battle in a white room
and outside the world is grey but between is the deep green
of the river, will he emerge or sink? Gone forever,
like the large trout glimpsed and then slips free of the hook -
Oh father keep hold of this hook called life
there is still so much I have yet to talk to you about.

I have not the words of farewell, sacred or profane;
they got lost somewhere in the journey away from home – I
cannot remember when he held me, or the feel of his lips,
only your chin, rough as sandpaper, and your watery eyes
that smiled at me whenever I found my way home.

I have wandered far, thought I had left him behind
and now I stand at his bedside and realize
he is about to take the farthest journey and I stand here
and try to remember every shattered aspect of us.

blog tour

7 Things You Didn’t Know About Danny Fahey

7 Things You Didn’t Know About Danny Fahey
His first (unpublished) novel was about cloning about fifteen years the first successful cloning of the sheep. In the novel the clones were twins, programmed to then breed and so on.
His first published poem was called Staccato Movers and was published in an anthology of Street Poets by Carringbush Library (circa 1985) and yes, Danny was a street poet performing in bars and cafes and street corners for many years.
His first published story The Edge won the Mirboo North Short Story competition and still remains one of Danny’s favorite pieces of writing.
Danny once appeared in film that was designed to look like a documentary. In the film he played a heroin addict in a juvenile detention centre. He did not tell his parents about the film and when his mother saw it on television she, believing it was a real story, almost fainted.
Danny once wrote for the Carlton Football Club under the Pseudonym The Ghost of Optus Oval.
Danny and his wife once operated a second-hand furniture and used goods shop until his first born decided to take up walking at 9 months and Danny and his wife discovered that a shop, while fun for the child, was not really practical. He has also painted houses, been a clown, an import performer, a teacher and spent many years working behind bars at various pubs, including The Punter’s Club where he met his wife (a  regular customer).

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Fantasy

Rating – PG

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Danny Fahey on Facebook & Twitter

Blog http://dannybfahey.blogspot.com.au/

Life Altering Reads: Author Interview – Danny Fahey

Life Altering Reads: Author Interview – Danny Fahey: How has your upbringing influenced your writing? Lots of reading as a child. Lots of stories told around the large family table. Lots of sha...