In an angry mood
at an angry point
of an angry way
through an angry town.
The days are long
and the nights, short.
Short as a midget mouse.
My breath stretches from here to the bathroom.
I can feel it; I can see it.
One long line of powder, dust and foul emotion.
The sound of a grooming animal. Pasty.
Agitation, damnation, mutilation.
Parts falling into pieces. Breaking into places.
Becoming one? Conjoined?
WHO knows. THIS blows.
Strike one, strike two, I’m well past out.
How many chances? Not many more, that’s for sure.
Resisting the explosive urges.
Succumbing to others.
Tumbling down the rolling hills into some kind of valley.
Is there an exit?
All sorts of motivation,
at times of elation,
when sitting in the comforts
of dwelling occupation.
Flickering of brainwaves
spark a storm of radiation
when the poisoning of powder
prompts a phoney meditation.
The powers of persuasion
rush like currents in the ocean
and I’m carried through the notions
from a clue to landing stations.
It all takes place nocturnally,
‘tween home time until slumber.
But pouring like a thoroughfare
– no call for mediation.
Like overdrive but suddenly
surprising even me;
it knocks me off my feet
and takes me out for three.
Then four then five then twelve;
snowball rocket brilliance.
A powerhouse of notions;
a register of vision.
Conjuring emotion.
Rounded but with angles,
a sort outside the crowd.
If done would make me it
and then the cheers are heard aloud.
Stretching through a cloud.
Humble perfect aptitude,
so fitting with the psyche
of the splayed united elements
that I entitle likely.
But later sets in stalling,
in the form of concrete.
Crawling smells appalling;
the texture of dead meat.
In the moments of enlightenment
we all know it’s right and proper.
Branding me with foresight
and the balls to keep like copper.
Stand strong and press on.
Where oh where did the power go?
Why oh why will his face not show?
In the absence of rails on the stairs of day and time;
in the sunlight of actuality,
my dreams amount to none.
I’ve discovered a love for a forbidden fruit,
a safe outer haven like gloves or a boot.
A hug from a giant or kiss from a fish,
I want this for real more than only a wish.
Deserving is mine, but unworthy receives.
The root of the seedling in which I believe.
I’ve nurtured an atom and watched it become
more than ‘being’ itself on a tightly strung drum.
Two energies syncing, patterns entwined,
faster than blinking and brighter than time.
I realise the weight of this moment of mine
is too heavy for bearing but lighter combined
with the beauty of knowing the last bottom line.
A love unrequited or lost in translation.
One end misdirected, a grave complication.
Together could be formed a soul-derived mateship
combining the best of two parts into greatness.
From this side there would be complete adoration
and fairness and honour – a perfect foundation.
Elation.
But sadness sweeps through as I realise the truth
is nothing of this but the work of a sleuth.
An evil outsider who lurks in the puddles,
performs as an expert but merely a muggle.
From the sidelines a spectator weeps with regret,
dipping their toes but avoiding the wet.
So bright were her days,
littered with shimmer,
a life ranking praise,
exists far from simple.
A woman of principles,
goodness and character.
Faltering never,
in leading vernacular.
Signature symbols;
ritual moves.
Intentional style,
and a strength you can prove.
Pressing opinions
and valid discussion,
a fine ray of pristine,
a complex reduction.
A world charged with the arts,
creation and being.
A realm rich with spirit;
the future foreseeing.
An intimate recipe
of the warmest ingredients,
concoctions of hope
and a positive influence.
Brewing a being
so surely resilient,
touching souls here and back
– connections of an instant.
An impacting dent
on a still-growing audience,
filled to the brim
with questions and confidence.
She’ll be here eternal
through our thinking, breathing thought.
This life as a journal,
her essence has been caught.
Lack of posts
due to lack of inspiration
due to lack of activity
due to lack of motivation
due to lack of positivity
due to lack of resolution
due to lack of sanity.
It was a bumpy ride, but I had to do it my way.
I was advised otherwise.
Sometimes, it is important to stick with what you feel.
I needed the truth to be left last.
Final impact, concluding impression.
Solace.
There was a moment (or five) when the suggested was sure to fail.
When hoping for something was quickly turning into a soon-to-be memory.
Almost gone without reprieve.
Fallen; slipped millimetres from fingertips too far.
Then came the extra reach.
I found it. Stretched.
It was the last chance.
Always take that last chance.
Don’t pass it up, I thought.
I was right.
It wasn’t easy. The true test of composure.
Internal strings faltering, but I held them taut.
Tears, tissues, explanations.
A chilling breeze.
Sentiments.
The ebbing ocean.
Discussions, trust and honesty.
A bus stop and a stroll.
Final words and well wishes.
A hug, a kiss, a voice recording.
Then peace.
The hard yards were worth it, I reckon.
Holding the guns.
Onward journeys; here, there, always.
Like a jumbo pie.
Amen.
A Monty Python great…
Much to his Mum and Dad’s dismay
Horace ate himself one day.
He didn’t stop to say his grace,
He just sat down and ate his face.
“We can’t have this his Dad declared,
“If that lad’s ate, he should be shared.”
But even as he spoke they saw
Horace eating more and more:
First his legs and then his thighs,
His arms, his nose, his hair, his eyes…
“Stop him someone!” Mother cried
“Those eyeballs would be better fried!”
But all too late, for they were gone,
And he had started on his dong…
“Oh! foolish child!” the father mourns
“You could have deep-fried that with prawns,
Some parsley and some tartar sauce…”
But H. was on his second course:
His liver and his lights and lung,
His ears, his neck, his chin, his tongue;
“To think I raised him from the cot
And now he’s going to scoff the lot!”
His Mother cried: “What shall we do?
What’s left won’t even make a stew…”
And as she wept, her son was seen
To eat his head, his heart, his spleen.
And there he lay: a boy no more,
Just a stomach, on the floor…
None the less, since it was his
They ate it – that’s what haggis is.
~ Monty Python
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A black hole is where I’ve landed.
Broken hearted; open handed.
The thing existed
known to all
and swipe, she takes it.
Me made small.
Skills are lacking,
double ended.
Hearts are crushing,
diss extended.
Faith is dwindling in the people that surround
lowest of low to be done, said and denied.
Solo awkwardness while she preys
on the one good specimen I’ve doted for days.
Weeks.
Months.
Years.
Brings me to tears.
But is it that? Or something else?
Of much, discerning becomes absurd.
Fuck the humans that fill my space.
Where are the kind folk with which to replace?
Fuck the nonsense and politics.
Fuck the youth and selfish clicks.
Stuff the heads that pull me down,
not even realising what they could have found.
I say that now; rely, then frown.
Frowns all round.
I have this feeling like
some of my guts
have been wrenched out
and placed on the floor
to my right.
Sort of empty
sort of sick
sort of hurting
sort of far away
but sort of still there.
The guts came out
and nothing went in
to fill the nebula.
This sensation.
This feeling.
Gutted.
Why can’t my night-time dreams become day-time realities?
I dreamed a dream
hier soir,
which made my recent thoughts
seem real.
It was a nice life,
with a nice boy,
in a nice world.
If the boy only knew –
in reality.
If he knew, would he scoff?
Shake his head and laugh it off?
It was a nice place,
a nice time,
with a nice boy.
Claiming new realities,
structure and habits.
Holding new hands,
kissing new lips.
I woke up sad to lose what I had finally found.
This is an old poem. I’m a little stuck for creative juices at the moment. Maybe posting some old writings will spark something…
It’s building.
The tension,
it’s growing
and piling
and winning
and taking
me over
to spilling.
And there is no telling
when it’ll be filling.
For nearly an hour
I’m trying to win
this whole thing.
With the me
and the quarter to three,
fuck! It’s late
and I’m wasting
these moments
of sweet mellow sleep
for the recycled trees
that I’m writing on.
Maybe they’ll see
that it’s me,
yes indeed,
it’s important to do
all these deeds
that are placed upon me,
but eventually,
I will plead with the queen
of the bees
just to leave
me with me
and the peace
that I need.
I never expected this.
Turmoil. Bitterness. Hatred.
The flowers withered; the oil ran dry.
Wow.
I never expected this.
Jealousy. Harassment. Churlishness.
I was the only one; no-one cared more than me.
I never expected this.
A grenade without a pin.
Goodbye possibilities.
So long sensibilities.
Farewell anonymities.
I never expected this.
No-one would.
Could.
One step too far.
No more niceties.
That was the end.
Up, down, forward thinker.
How the wonder becomes fate.
Unknowing becomes clearer.
Shooting for the stars
loving every minute.
Reaching.
Succeeding.
Closest to the tape
she’s ever been.
Two becomes three home runs.
A hole in one.
Bombshell hits.
Shrapnel terrorises.
One, then two
dropping like flies.
Solo flight.
Lone remainder.
High hopes become accepted preparation
for the worst.
Then it comes.
More mature than possibility.
Cheer and congratulations.
Spite two ways in,
thoughts of a sliding nature.
Gravity only pulls one way, after all.
The realisation of nothing.
