Moving Through Walls by Paul Point

Ronald Turner stubbed out a smoke in a plant pot caked in stale

ash. Choked, the cactus that lived there was haggard and greyed

bare by the stash of dog ends and toxic cinders, knowing only a

life of dim light and locked windows.


He was the kind of guy who hadn’t earned his environment – he

inherited it. In the same way an inmate inherits a ball and chain

it clung to him like a picture frame. Call him the product of it –

a victim of impositions – he would call you a fool and drill

down into your decisions that he sees as highlighting his

abandoned ambitions, not as the tools that make bricks, in the

walls of cathedrals.


No plans today; he got up anyway.


He wasn’t without skill recalling odd facts and information at

will, though often strained by tradition, dull and mundane.

Addiction lit another cigarette with a match, since his lighter

was broken and out of gas. That metaphor echoing his feeling

of disdain which amused him – at first – and then meandered

through melancholy even worse, at the start of a stormy



No desire today; he kept smoking anyway.


Amongst others he would often be the butt of all jokes, drawing

the short straw and be labelled both: the blackest of sheep and

the friendliest ghost. He mirrored moons and planets he read in

a few books, the ones he envied for the peace he assumed they

knew – Looks, were exchanged with an old mirror; cracked,

examining dents, cloaked scars facing the fact he’d never wash

them away, flannelling water and scented soap bars.


No one to impress today; he freshened up anyway.


For him life lived on a passing cloud, hopes of grasping he

coped without, tending to touch that empty feeling, the

whispers of thrills that filled traces of breathing. He knew the

world as a place he had no place in and nestled himself in that

negative space within. No one learnt the landscapes better than

he, not even the astronomy he studied solidly when solitude

grappled his mind and strangled his body.




Below is a short film based on this spoken word story:

Paris, 60 full stops. by Paul Point

How, to reach the ears of hearts of men with words when all they dream of is the sound of manic, violent rage?

How, to reach the eyes of hearts of men with words when all they dream of is red and black bitter endings?

How, to reach the skin of hearts of men with words when all they dream of is the power of a bullet in place of a full stop-

Hearts going out to those in Paris tonight, let our strength be their strength tonight.

Temper by Paul Point

Temper seethed through

the Blacksmiths teeth


gritting their edge

to growl, to breathe.

Dark, in thought, raised

a sword from below


water drops glisten

caught a white hot glow.


Blade emerged from steel

for a matching shield,

it was his way to vent

feelings that were pent


and bent shards of metals

like wind might petals.


Blotting his brow across

a beaded wet gloss,

working and working

for hour after hour –


His temper forged forms

of protection and power.

This Cannot Be Everything by Paul Point

This cannot be everything

by the spoken and unsaid;

Just as blue cannot be measured

by the standards of red;

Just as blooms cannot be outdone

by the bouquet that is dead;

Just as books cannot be flouted

by the eyes that have not read;

Just as bricks cannot be driven

by the hands behind a head;

Just as bones cannot be nourished

by the mouths ignored, unfed:


People cannot be used

they’re here to be loved instead.