Viaticum 3 – Wooden hands


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Knotted fingers work their skill

Sculpting nature’s giants,

As passion flows through hands

Designed to make things new.

Hematic flow from skin to grain

Rekindles life anew,

This touch like cryptesthesia

Animation from the dead.

And now you try to steal this love

To touch another’s flesh,

To breathe life within a kiss

And raise an amaranthine army.

These hands show dried and lifeless

Now splintered from mis-use,

Cut from weeping saplings

And drowned in blood of men.


© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019





Static Dreams Volume 1 – Release Date

Raw Earth Ink

Helllooo all you lovely people. I know. I’ve been quieter than normal around here but that’s only because I’ve been working on this:

Ohhh yes, my friend, you see that correctly. Right here in my hands, well, not currently because I type with both hands *ahem* but recently I held it and caressed it just a little because inside these pages comes a great collection of works I am very proud of.

The anthology (in its first volume) contains nine short stories from a group of really awesome writers. I am so humbled to work with these guys. Truly.

Sooo, I’ve set the release date for the 25th of October… yes, you too can gently caress, or hold in your shaky grip, depending on how darkly twisted you really are, Raw Earth Ink’s first anthology. The second one will be out later this year, for those of you counting.


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Viaticum 2 – Mother Ambition


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Look at me now

Eyes blinded by pride

Stand tall amongst

Your allies

And shield yourself

From truth.

Your creation stands

Before the desperate fall

And voices cry

To feel the words

You could never


Does the image

Make the man so

Understated I stand

Arms asunder

Face so torn

From pleading.

And did I disappoint

From child to man

I fell

Drowned in expectation

Desire to do

Your will.

 Yet still they cry

Fuelled by your love

Your folly

The time I lost

I cannot set

Them free.

And look at me now

Eyes blinded by tears

Wept solely

For me

The failures of men

Your pride.


© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019




Viaticum 1 – Mary


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The sacrifice is on the table,

The gift I would lay down,

To dive into your ocean

Be swallowed by your swell.

But deep within your soul,

I feel rejection rise,

Taste the words from your mouth

Of unholy unworthiness.

Am I too pure, too perfect,

If only you knew,

How earth-held pleasures

Rise up within me.

I catch the tear as it slips,

Feel your touch at my feet,

But what words can I find

To unlock the truths?

What words can I find,

To show you the man,

Without the walls of your world

Coming crashing down?



© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019


Something Better


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She hoped for something better,

She hoped for something more,

More than just a letter,

And petals on the floor.


Killed hours behind the window,

Lost days before they came,

Gave away her heart’s glow,

For moments all the same.


She thought he’d set her free,

And dream the dreams she did,

She pours a cup of tea,

But never lifts the lid.


She waits upon the sofa,

And lays awake at night,

For sleep to take her far,

So far away from sight.


But real love lives in moments,

The ones you give away,

And no-one knows the lengths she goes

To make it through the day.

Real love lives in other’s hearts,

Behind the melting eye,

And no-one knows the lengths she goes,

To lock away each sigh.


She hoped for something better,

She hoped for something more,

More than just a letter,

And petals on the floor.


© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019


A Burned Tree


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The tree is burned out now; a charred and hollow shell which somehow still stands against the wind and rain, but a reminder that once it had been ours. The scars we left upon it are mostly gone now either scratched or scorched away, but, if I look closely and for long enough, I can still make them out, the initials carved so long ago. I can still picture those days, dredge them from the furthest recesses of memory, remember them as if they had been only yesterday. Days when the Sun hung like a medal, golden and resplendent in the sky; days we felt would never end when the Sun would refuse to set. We ran then as if each day were an adventure, a gift waiting to be unwrapped, pulsing with promise and dreams.

Dark days came, days when gunmetal clouds did their best to shadow and usurp our futures, but somehow we always found the Sun within us, and the strength to see them off. We had each other and that gave us strength enough to hold things together. Together we took on everything that the world had to throw at us, and always emerged with a smile on our faces. Sometimes battered, sometimes bruised, we always knew that we would rise again, unbroken and with music in our hearts.

We had met in childhood and even in those early days we could sense the vines wrapping themselves  around our ankles, tying us together with an invisible yet unbreakable bond. It was the kind of friendship only read about in books or seen in films or on television – a superhero and his sidekick, or partners in crime or detection – the kind of friendship that was both attracting to an outsider yet had the scent of the unbelievable always hanging over it; a kind of ‘too good to be true’ aura, but to us it meant the world.

It was something that we never really talked about, this sense of love that had grown between us. It had become an unwritten chapter in our story, but, at the same time, the one that contained the glue that held us together, the one that defined who we were. It was never a physical love – what existed between us transcended that – ours was more like an altruistic and nurturing bond, a co-dependent relationship made up of two individuals who, independently, were strong, but together a unified force on a different plane. At least for me, reflecting now on the burned out tree in front of me, that is exactly how it was, and there is nothing in our history that would make me question it.

Nothing, of course, stays the same. Despite our wishes and our best intentions, change is inevitable. At the precise moment when everything both in and around one’s life seems settled and to have found its place change emerges from its resting place like a slowly waking dragon. It stretches itself out, flexes its wings and inhales deeply preparing itself to burn away the carpet which has grown beneath our feet. I am not, of course, decrying change – without it none of us would ever move forward, and the challenges thrown down make us, and have made us, who we are, but there are times when, just for once, the dragon might be better served by taking a slightly longer nap.

Like everybody else we grew up and then grew older. Time moved inexorably onwards without care or regard for the past, never once looking back on itself. People, places and events came into our lives; some stayed some left to be quickly forgotten. A few left their mark. There were things that touched us both whilst others brushed against one rather than the other, yet, despite everything, one thing remained a constant: our friendship. It felt as if nothing would ever really change between us, even when we fell both in and out of relationships. Time and the weather wore away at everything around us – faces and places could not withstand the force of nature and progress, but, for me, what we were was always the one thing that I could always hold on to.

And then, on a night when I had struggled to find rest, the storm hit. It was as if I had not even fallen asleep when the dark rumbled echoed through the house and shook me awake. I felt as if I had been grasped by the shoulders and was being shaken roughly, as if being warned of some terrible fate which was heading my way. Outside I could hear the rain lashing against my roof and windows. A fretful wind was pounding the fences, trees and bushes that surrounded my house as if it were trying to destroy the barriers I had erected to keep the outside world at bay. I found myself standing by my bedroom window gazing out over the roofs and towards the fields beyond them. Without warning the sky was ripped apart as a fork of lightning exploded through the darkness, lighting the shadowed landscape below it as if it were day. 

I knew then that everything had changed.


© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019


Sooted Kisses


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Digging so deep

Deep beneath the soil

The rocks that strain up to meet me

Like the souls of the sleepless dead

Their voices echoing in the chambers

Of a restless head

Abandoned too late not to leave scars

Backlit by dreams that missed

The Mayday call

That sank like rain on charred and thirsty earth

Still weeping in the splintered light

Which fell fractured through the cracks

Pick axe cut and soaked

In miner’s bloody tales

Those buried in loss and hollow-eyed

Blinded by the notion of all they’d lost

And all they’d never find

Their nasal words

Choked in sooted kisses promised from above

That slip like venomous snakes

Into their lungs

To silence the echoes in the hearts

That strike a soundless beat

That roars with anger

In my ears.


© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019


Never Quite This Warm


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Wanted to feel seasons

Count colours in the sky,

The winters of the past

Were never quite this warm.

Wanted you to hold me

Feel snow upon our lips,

Beneath an icy moon

Kept warm against the cold.

Wanted to taste the night

Fresh kisses on my tongue,

Clean sun against our backs

As hand in hand we were.

Long days without an end

Wasted time never lost,

Each moment perfect, new

Eyes coloured in the sky.

Curled safe within the sheets

With arms and legs entwined,

You never looked so good

As naked in the dark.

And walking through our dreams

With feet that never ran,

The soundtrack of our days

Played sweetly in our heads.

Wanted to feel seasons

Count colours in the sky,

The winters of the past

Were never quite this warm.


© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019




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Doorways in the evening

Take me down

Corridors of the past

A wave of etchings in the aquamarine

Pulsing like an umbilical cord cut

Still living now in the open

Air swirling through the coats

Which hang from shoulders although

The cold has passed

And naked hands new formed

With the evening

Feel their passage from doorway to doorway

Tentative steps on roads that fold out

Like a child’s first-drawn map

The ground still soft familiar beneath my feet

Calling out for you to set the fires

To burn away the lines and faces which blur

As doorways give way to doorways

And roads bend to the will of the day

With the sweet song of the blackbird

Still ringing in the air like a charm

And the waves lap gently against my feet

Unclothed now breech-born and new

Like the thoughts that blow in through windows

Which grow and fade with the mist

The morning dew that comes

And burns in the sun

Which closes doorways with

Silent hands.


© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019