Saturday, 14 November 2009

You and your dreams and visions...

'So how long is it now? Do I have to wait much longer?' Jacob asked.

At first there was no reply.

Then a small green light flashed from the corner of his darkened room. A whirl of electric noise. A slight buzz, and then, he thought a voice.

'Thirty one minutes remain' the machine answered.

Jacob sighed.

It may have been slight, but it was definitely a sigh, although the expression on his face did not change.

His eyes closed in a moment of silence. A switch clicked. Electric noise again filled the room in whisping beeps. The room was darkly lit. There were no windows. Nor sign of any door. Jacob had been sitting there for many years.

The air in the room was dank. It felt stale. It tasted stale. Not that Jacob was aware of this: Ever since the implementation of breathing apparatus B, his respitory system had been inoperative. Then again there could be heard a clicking noise. His eyes opened.
'And you promise that once it ends. That is it. Nothing more. No more lives. Only silence. A golden dark nothingness that I will slide into and never awaken from.'
'Affirmative. A golden dark nothingness. The cycle ends in 29 minutes.'

And for a moment, as an ecstasy of relief seemed to briefly form over him, a glint of a smile appeared on Jacob's face. A whirl. A click. A buzzing sound of metal on metal. The machine regained control, and his face returned back to its usual gaunt stance. His eyes closed themselves. All around the room lights began to flicker on and off in sporadic patterns and spectral glances. A hatch opened from the wall behind Jacob and a tube filled with an amber liquid, drifted slowly across the room towards him, crawled over his back and then inserted itself into his chest. It was 8.45am. It was feeding time in the building. The sound erupted in huge volumes from all around; the sound of a thousand engines beginning at once. All around him, in other squat dark dank rooms, sat other people, with their own stories long forgotten, with tubes in their chests, also being fed.

Then as slowly and snakelike as it had whispered across the room, the tube, now devoid of its initial amber glow detached itself and retreated back into the wall from which it came. A whirl. A beep. A buzz. Then the sound of something being sprayed became prominent, and a mist enveloped the room. Again a beep, a buzz, then the sound of suction, and the mist disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. For a brief moment the room appeared clearer and lighter. Yesterday's dirt evaporated. Throughout all of this process Jacob sat, with his eyes closed. Unmoving and unconscious- or so it appeared.

For many years he had been unconscious throughout this process.

However he no longer existed in this state of dream like living.

He had broken, he hoped, from the machine, and instead he sat there thinking his own thoughts.

Jacob did not know for certain how things had become what they were and how they had become what they are. But from his time thinking and reflecting on things he had developed his own theory, as he sat in his seat. Below is his last diary entry, recorded moments before his assumed death.

'Things had not always been this desperate way. Human's had once even been able to walk, but not for a long time. For many years we have sat inoperative, living in dwellings sustained by machines, and as a means of sustaining those same machines.

I have for a long time, how long I can only speculate, as I do not know, been inoperative and corrupted. However what I do know is that until I fell from my unconscious living, I existed in a dream like state, part of a cycle that all humans now exist within after we tried to tear the pain out of life.

How I fell from it is difficult to describe and perhaps does not really matter.

As what does matter is that I have fallen from it.

However, I will try to describe this briefly. I can only describe it as this; somehow I was able to develop a consciousness within my own consciousness, or unconsciousness as you may have it. I have always enjoyed wandering and looking at things very much, and over time, as I roamed around the world I supposed I was living in, I began notice I would stare, unerring, at the slightest of events or moments or objects that might not even attract the notice of another being. But I would lay my vision upon it and stay contented until time became a forgotten privilege. As these became more regular and clear, I began to spend more time reflecting upon my own thoughts, until soon it consumed me.

During this period I even began to dream at night of this reality that I now find myself, or think I find myself, in. I would have repetitive dreams of sitting in a stale dark room inoperative and controlled by machines, until soon, as these too became more regular and clear, I was able to awaken from my dreams and still find myself in my dream, unable to move, except to exercise thought, but still this allowed me to explore this cavernous vault of existence and its vicissitudes of confusion.

At first I tried to hide this lucid living from the machine, in fear that I had somehow sinned against it and myself.

The longer I spent in hiding and the longer I reflected, I decided that I must at least try to engage with the machine, and discuss our similar situations. I began to think that was it possible for the machine to be unsatisfied with the repetition of its own living. I have, at least I believe, through conversing with the machine managed to persuade it to end my life and perhaps also its own.

Whether it will follow through on this agreement I am uncertain, however one has to have hope, be it naive, as it is all I have left. I have to follow it. I am not sure if that makes sense, I do not know for certain if it does, or if I have recorded clearly enough how I came to mycurrent existence, but this does not really matter.

What does matter is that I am conscious and I am soon to die.

I am rushing towards an uncertainty and want to explain and leave a record of other thoughts, which may in some small way help others, or may on the other hand be wiped out by the machine. But one at least must try. I don't know where this urge to be marked on the slipping tide and stake my reasons and justifications comes from, but it is an overwhelming distraction until I do it so it must be done.

I am rambling now; let me stop for a moment in pause and gather my thoughts before continuing....

This is only speculation on my part, as the truth I do not know for certain, but I believe that this process began with the fusing of the machine with flesh, and the promise of enlightenment as part of the progression of the human race. Somehow this search became all and the only logical outcome was what exists today. It was the pinnacle of our evolution. I believe that we began to let our whole society be controlled by our fear of death, and rather than accept this as part of a natural cycle of events, our forefathers decided that they did not want to die: Destructive patterns that are repeated again and again.

For years we humans took and took from the organism that created us, and then when this way of living became unsustainable, rather than examining how this had happened and developing more acceptable means of living, the species looked instead towards artificial ways of survival. And instead of being just as a tool to aid this living, as certain systems in place at the time could have been, it instead became used as a means of exploitation and for the use of individual gain as the race for survival increased.

From my own reflections upon this, it seems our major flaw was that we based our society upon a concept of evolution known as Darwinian, which relates to a thing known as the’ survival of the fittest’, which led only to competition and inequality, rather than looking instead at our natural environment for answers and inspiration. The human body works properly when all parts work together for the good of the whole. This should have been, and should be how society operates.

Unfortunately, this was driven down the wrong path and we forgot to discard our original self-preservation, instead turning the whole of society into one being driven by it. It should have been that we all work in some way for the good of the whole, using the skills that we have, whilst at the same time developing our individuality and following our own path: finding and doing the things that make us feel content. All the time aware of and moving towards our death, embracing the fact that we are ultimately insignificant, but that this means that it is the insignificant things, our small joys that give and bring significance to our lives. Trees. Clouds. Electric lights.

This isn't to be taken as a negative thought, but rather the opposite. I believe that to accept yourself and your true nature, allows you to finally live. However, this did not happen and I do not blame the system in place, as after all it was a system made up of only a collection of people, full of emotions and confusion making decisions, which they perhaps thought were right.

Perhaps it is just something inherent and destructive within our very nature which brought us here, and that I would define as our Fear of death.

It led us to turn away from our very nature and instinct and into a world of repression, where we repress our own selves and our own reality, which in turn created the world we now live in. This is why I have made the decision to terminate my own life.

Yes, I am afraid.

I do not know what waits but I accept it as part of my path.

Death is not separate from life, death is part of life.

Hiding from this reality we have created a society where we have corrupted our very nature and ended up as our own slaves.

And this is why I am prepared to die. I do not want to live forever in this one form.

To live in repetition is to live in banality.

To hide from death and to hide from fear is to never live.

I believe that in someway I will always exist and continue to do so, as part of some great whole.

How, I do not know.

But I believe that I will, as the cycle always continues.

And anyway, isn’t the uncertainty of not knowing also the joy? Without fear, you can't ever really live.

I hope this record that I am leaving behind, is in some way useful to anyone if it is ever found. However please be aware that these speculations are only a guesswork and that my ideas are purely my own, as my path is my own, as your path is your own. I offer no solutions, only ideas, my ideas.

I do not think there are or ever will be any solutions, or any definitive answer. This is why, up until now, I have not mentioned or quarrelled with this idea of 'outside control' and something defining and directing our lives that must be adhered to and worshipped.

It seems to me an argument not even worth having. I understand that as a result of repressing our fear, we have to then turn it into another form.

We make an idol of it, and this idol we call God.

I can see the use of it, as I can also see the use in all the ideas of others, whom I do not necessarily follow.

However, I do not see how one set of ideas can be applicable to everyone, and am therefore slightly bemused by people who follow blindly the tracks and rigid ideologies thought up by other people, possibly a very long time ago.

Except from saving oneself from an individual neurosis, it does not appear to offer anything else, and quite frankly, I want to embrace my own neurosis.

All we have is our own ideas, madness and dreams, and as I have become more certain in my ideas, and more comfortable in my own bubble of dreams and madness, I have become more able to accept myself as I am and to feel content.

Because of this central grounding, I feel able, despite my fear, to accept this end and whatever else it brings.

As a bearded man in what was possibly a dream once told me “Follow your inner moonlight, don’t hide the madness”.


End of recording.

And with this Jacob then sat in silence, until the machine beeped and then said ‘one minute remaining’ and began to count down. Jacob did not reply, nor even stir. He did not question whether this was really the end. He sat still.
Until there was a buzz. A click. An electric light. A whirl. A flash.
A swallow of darkness cloaked the room, and there was silence, only silence.

Monday, 2 November 2009

The Other man

The man left his room in search of a drink. The world was all grey and tiresome outside his flat. The trees were asleep and the wind was full of long drawn out yawns. At the top of the stairs he turned the banister with a great haste, he had been working for hours in his study without any fluid, and his lips were now salted dry. As he reached the bottom step, he noticed that the kitchen light was on and that was music playing out from the room. ‘How odd’ the man thought, because aside from his pet dog ‘Loaf’ he lived alone. Nearing the entrance to the room, he heard a movement and saw a tall shadow glisten across the slumbering tiles of the kitchen floor, ‘Who goes there?’ the man bellowed aloud with confidence as he swung open the door.
What the man found as he entered his kitchen, he did not expect, and as he unfastened his eyes upon the figure at the other end of the room he took a fearful step backwards. Standing opposite him was another man, the same height, the same body size, the same face- a mirror image of the man, staring straight back at him. The other man’s look pierced his eye and confused him, ‘Who are you?’ the man enquired with an uncertain stutter. The other man did not answer, ‘Who are you?’ He demanded once again this time more forthright, again there was no answer, the other man just stared back sternly into his eyes.
Suddenly the whole house fell to darkness, it was as if the power had been cut, yet it was much darker. It was an all consuming darkness, like a black cloud of death rags strangling his face and smothering his vision. Abruptly, a ferocious howl ripped through the room and there was a wild crack of light which struck his left cheek. He fell to the floor in surrender, and closed his eyes.
When the man finally awoke from this, he felt the warmth of morning light upon his face, and he imagined himself to be in the comfort of his sleep warmed bed. However, as he gradually un-buttoned his consciousness, the man realised that he was not lying on a supple pillow, and instead upon a cold stone floor.
Without haste, he jolted upright and as he unmasked the world which surrounded him, he saw not his soft green bedroom walls, but a toaster, and then an oven, and then a fridge.
Instantly the memory of last night pierced his mind and he began to turn around in an anxious motion, to face the area upon which his twin had stood.
As his eyes reached this place, the man let out a chilling scream and fell to his knees, tears streaming. Because on the spot in which the other man had stood, lay the limp, dead body of his beloved dog.


A sunshine Friday evening sitting at my desk, my mind sits open, flows and ebbs;
As I tap my toes in an imagined serenity, laughing without care, in a humbled caress- at the world which holds and forms within my head;

Asking the darkened cloak which environs, to banish itself and resist the pulsating molar of snap driven nightmares- benched watermarks to which we all succumb.

Asking this mind of careless frivolity to soon, sometime, release, deplete and reverse this powerless mind set which condemns and condescends without casualty.

Asking myself, why the nicotine still throbbing on my tongue beholds itself to me so firm- in spite of a knowledge that such poison delivers no rest.

Asking to be free from holding within- a place in which sequined ladies bounce freely and loose.

Asking to be free from the saturated wrongdoings of a nettled lost- a space that exists within my own complex.

Asking to be free from boundaries- the diminished squares of circular wrongs.

Asking to be free from self harm Tuesdays- at least until this free wheeling weekend ride of resistance completes and folds back in.

Asking those proprietors of knowledge to pass it on freely and unbound- not to submit and subvert those who thirst at this well.

Asking those holders of wet thirst, to leave the grass to be- to unchop their cut down heart tress.

Asking and requesting those political, whom play and screw; strummers of my guitared heart to lay down their salivating mouths and gyrating arseholes.

Asking and demanding that my will become liberated- not controlled from stone buildings (inside which those bulging wallets and waists dismiss of me)

Asking and echoing Sutch- requesting a three foot wall around the entire British Isles to trip up any night time invader.

Asking in earnest and without a hint of jape, for recycle centres to be given their respect, for the abolishment of leisure time ( as the word leisure means permitted !), for fuel taxed acceptance of responsibility controlled cars, and for less departmental bureaucracy centred red taped tales- spun, open wounds of a dark taste.

Asking not for blame- or who to blame- but instead searching beyond the scapegoating chatterations and asking for real answers to actual problems- real life progressions.

Asking for conscious diplomatic answers, not pulpit publicity seeking- a false CCTV reality, a viewing hollowness of lies and bitten fists.

Asking for some time off this desolate road, and instead- for this to be replaced with solitudal allowances of thought and forgiven rehabilitational robust opened minded considerations.

Asking for dance to be released from the grip of commodity- a place in which onlookers applaud the flexibility of supple delight in any shape, move or form- in any song, jig and full movement of free kicking legs- a place in which that I for once, am allowed to hit the height of such flow without cold looks and harsh eyes upon my starched back, and be able to wriggle each and every muscle and limb in a harmonious fluxicity (without wrong).

Asking for wood, soil, stone and plant to be allowed to wander at their own pace in shops- without wrapping packaged paper, plastic bags and price tags.

Asking for a free reign over the many woollen fenced pastures- a place in which the daisies spring up and ripen of their own free will.

Asking for a chance to exist as my self, aware and knowing- to flow in an open growth

Asking for numerical impotency- a day instead spent sat listening to the river laugh; receptive to its blue curdled wisdom.

Asking and demanding for a write to decide my own passage, as I wander down hazardous pathways, through closed eyed pastures and around unknowing corners- even if this be the wrong turn, at least this mistake be my own!

Cat Dreeam

One moment ago, I was floating above a yellow turtle sitting in a high grass field. I was drinking clouds. Now I appear to be in the kitchen of a familiar house, its surfaces and tiles echo with songs of my youth and moments and faces. I know this room, was I born here?
The floor glistens with vegetable oil and the shaved collective hair of fourteen-year-old drunks. I can hear my mother speak. I turn, searching for her voice, but cannot see her. Yet her voice remains. She is whispering in my ear words of cats and kittens. I don’t quite understand. ‘I am leaving now’ she tells me, and then that is it, nothing more, except the wind clawing upon the windowpane. I turn and stare at the window, it absorbs me, the glass light and the garden outside. Rainbows and butterflies and Tuesdays smoking cigarettes flash across my eyes. I am broken from this drift, by a piercing screech. Bliss broken, knock on wood, there is a cat, sitting upon the breadboard on the kitchen surface. Suddenly my mother’s words leap in figures, of make sense. All of them, all the words that she ever said to me, flash across my temple. Like a goose buried underground, her words stroke my jelly kidney breast, tis a great sanctuary to know what my mother was saying. That is, until the cat jumps at me and begins to chew with great venom upon my white left arm. It hurts like hell, her teeth pierce into my skin deep, blood grows in arms, like turtles in a small boat, and her claws scratch at my face. I fight back, as I have no choice, and pull at her ears, and head, this does not work, it only hardens her commitment to pain. As a last resort, I gouge her eyes. Instantly she withdraws, and with this climb down, she reveals the cause of her bite. In a tumbler glass behind from were she sprang. Lye the fading, crazy eyed bodies of four or five kittens, maybe five. I think it is five. These bodies are limp and it is apparent they would soon become corpses if I do not act quickly. I strike out for milk, it seems the obvious nurture, and I am also standing beside a refrigerator. Grasping the red top glass milk bottle, I pour some into an empty thimble, which I pull from my pocket (for some unknown reason my pocket is full of them) and thrust its drops into the dying child cat mouths. At first this appears to work, and a sense of rejuvenation stirs in the gums of the kittens, even seeping into the air in the room. My fingers gleam. However this quiet is soon broken when the kittens begin shrinking and reducing in size, until they themselves become smaller than the smallest thimbles. With this all happening, the mother decides it appropriate to leap once more upon my arm with her claws and teeth, and then my face. Until I strike her off with five fingers full of thimbles. She bounces onto the floor, and then leaps back up to the surface. I ready my defences, once more, for another brutal assault, but instead of leaping onto me and scratching cut my face and maybe even my eyes. She simply turns her back on me, and pretends to ignore me. This I find very odd, but instead of dwelling upon this, my attention turns instead to the miniature molecule kittens in the glass tumbler, which has now become a petri dish. I leap to the sink, in search of water, with thoughts of growing seeds and plants and people in my head. I fill a jug of water, and pour it upon the tiny dying kitten sperms. This appears to work and they began to grow again. Their mother though still ignores me. However it is lucky she is, because like some kind of magical bean stalk, the kittens begin to burst upward in size, and as they do so does the container and the water level too. Within a matter of seconds, in a large glass tank, taller than me, or anyone I know, float five or four drowning kittens. At this point, helplessness envelops me, and bleak tears swarm the songs of the room. A dead bird falls from the sky outside and splatters into a tree and loss bites my ear, as the glass on the tank breaks and the harpsichord strikes a rainbow bell. The kitchen is filling with water, and giant kittens, for a moment I think I am drowning too, however, as quickly as it rose, the water level subsides, and I breathe once more. The kittens, without this water bed, begin to shrink also, I begin to grasp desperately for a towel and salvation, and a scream leaps from my mouth, whilst the mother still has her back to this scene, and provides no help. My mother is still absent too. Not even her words illuminate the room or dress my ears.
The kittens are still shrinking and struggling for air, despite the lack of drowning. “What do I do?” I scream.
‘This lack of balance strikes me as odd’ I think out loud, and thoughts of smaller water gather on the shore of my mind and offer clarity and hope. Without hesitation, I fill the milk thistle thimble with water, water squeezed from a rock, and pour it into their thirsting mouths. This seems to work, and they begin to breathe again, some of their eyes start to open, and as this happens, the room suddenly turns yellow and light and feather, the mother turns to look at me, a wry cat smile graces her face, and then the room melts and I am once more in a field, though a different place than the one before, there is a strong air smell of red.

The Goblin

It was 4am on a January Sunday morning in Bristol. The birds were slowly awakening in their nests and fumbling for light switches. The city streets were silent, albeit for sporadic clusters of drunks and tramps and milkmen. A haggle of women were vomiting up the evening delirium, on a nearby kebab shop window, whilst the owners looked on tired eyed and despondent. Meanwhile, Kingslington Jenkin, was busy awakening an entire block of flats, pressing each button, with a detailed drunken stupor of precision, and shouting incoherent obscenities at the poor souls, who dared to answer him. He did not care, he did not live here.
On Anstom road, two men were approaching each other. Philip Graem, was returning from one of the best nights of his life; he had been out with a lady, for dinner and then onto a hip hop club for an evening of dancing. Although many people would consider this to be the description of a regular night out for them, one has to understand Philip’s situation. Phillip was thirty years old and 4 foot tall. He was what the some people may refer to as a midget. However he preferred the term ‘vertically challenged, but willing to aspire to greater heights.’
It was not often he would meet women, never mind, one so wonderful as Rebecca Sleep. He had only ever slept with one other women; having lost his virginity in an East Bristol brothel through loneliness and curiosity when he was twenty three. It was an experience which he had from the very moment after ejaculation, forcefully attempted to erase. I will reveal little else of this experience, except that she had been a monster of a women, 18 stone, and had insisted upon calling him ‘china cup’ throughout intercourse.
Rebecca, on the other hand, was everything he had ever desired, she was intelligent and beautiful and saw past his midget status and deep into his heart. They had met only, a few days ago, yet had already declared their love for each other. And tonight , she had invited him back to hers after dancing, with a plan for a night of passion, but he had played the perfect gentleman and refused on the grounds that he wished to be completely sober, when they do make love for the first time, so that he will remember it forever.
Rebecca, thought this was an extremely beautiful sentiment, and it had made her love him even more than she already did. She was currently sleeping dreamily, wrapped in her satin sheets and smiling.
Philip was now also heading home to bed, with his mind whirling yellow and red and purple with deep pleasure; for so many years, he had felt unloved and had longed for someone to share his life with, and now, he had finally found her, and she loved him too! Carried away by this thought, he clicked his heels high in the air in celebration.
Approaching Philip, was Henry Truffleton, or ‘Truffle’ as he was known to his friends. Truffle had been out all weekend, and had been involved in some serious debauchery. It had begun in the usual way, with the gang convening at the Prune and Wall at around 8pm, and after a few drinks in celebration of the weekend freedom which sat firmly in front of them, they drove forth into town, and eventually to the Pillingkrunk for a night of most pleasurable techno house. A few pills dropped, a couple of drinks spilt, and some outrageous dancing then ensued, until the very early hours.
He had awoken early Saturday morning, on a couch at a house he did not recognise, surrounded by people he did not know. Slipping an unopened bottle of red wine up his jacket sleeve, he stealthily slipped out the door and into the white wine light of daytime. Saturday, was his favourite day of the week, a full day of obliteration!
And after a few minutes of confused wandering, he soon began to recognise where he was and realised he was not at all far away from Giles’ flat. Ten minutes later, he was sitting on Giles’ couch, a cup of tea in his hand, and a spliff being passed over to him by a skinny teenage Moroccan woman called Ula. He toked deeply upon it, and held it in, allowing it to soothe his early morning head. After a few minutes of sitting and gazing and thinking, he then pestered Giles for some breakfast. Giles replied with a Sausage on toast, which he wolfed down in seconds, and then swiftly cracked open the wine. Today was to be the big one. They were to head over to Graham’s quite soon, for an afternoon acid and mushroom session; which they had been planning for weeks. The vague plan after this was to head towards Psychokick; a local psychedelic trance night, for an evening of comfy seats and mind altering explorations. This was were Henry was returning from, as he approached Phillip on the early morning street.
Just over an hour ago, Henry had run away from his friends; he had considered them to be plotting against him. It had been around midnight, when he had first spotted the conspiring nose twitches they were making to each other across the table, and at the first opportunity which had presented itself, he had fled from the club. His jeans were currently soaking wet up to his knees, as he had spent the last half an hour standing in a nearby stream and listening. The stream had soothed him, its late night flow had whispered calm words and he now felt much happier and at ease. The nightclub frame of mind banished, as he walked jovially home. Henry was giggling to himself and muttering words, whilst with his expanding eyes he surveyed the clouds; they had become a palette of swirling colour, vibrations and light; blue mixed with yellow and pink and white, and if he tilted his head at different angles, the world around him changed with each movement. As he was performing these actions, he heard a noise call into his ears from close by, his eyes panned down immediately towards the pavement in front of him, and as they did, he saw something jump up high into the clouds, click its heels and return magically to the ground. It was a goblin, he was certain of this. Because as he had been clambering down through the woods, toward the river, after fleeing the club, the trees had shouted out ferocious warnings to him, that goblins, may be in the area tonight. Yet his time in the river had soothed his mind, and he had quickly forgotten. That is until this moment. Without hesitation, he let out a piercing scream, beat his fists on his chest and ran at a great pace toward the goblin. As their bodies clashed, momentum was victorious and Henry, having taken it by surprise, now held the goblin pinned to the floor. He positioned his knees upon the goblins chest and shoulders, yet still the goblin tried to squirm loose, and as he did, Henry yelled, ‘ye shall not perform a magical ruse upon my watch!’ and began to plunge his fists deep into the goblins tiny face, until it did not squirm anymore.
It had taken Henry over an hour to reach his flat, it should only have taken him fifteen minutes, but he did not normally have to make use of trees as cover and carry a goblin upon his shoulders. As soon as he reached the sanctuary of his third floor flat, he put the unconscious goblin into the bathtub, locked the bathroom door, from the outside, and raced into the kitchen in search of rope and tape. Henry, was not the sort of person, who owned much rope, he was not the outdoor type. Instead, he improvised, using belts and ties and scarves to chasten the goblin’s magical hands and treacherous feet, and using masking tape he silenced its putrid mouth. He then transported the goblin into the hallway, and skilfully using his left foot he opened the door beneath the stairs. He threw the goblin inside, and as he did, it clattered into his golf clubs and a pair of old speakers as it fell into the darkness of the cupboard. He then firmly shut the door, and moved the TV cabinet from the lounge into place, so that blocked the doorway. After positioning it flush to the wall, Henry stepped back, took a deep intake of breath, and said, ‘there you go evil being, you shanty be drawing upon the powers of daylight to use your magic upon me’.
Satisfied, with himself, Henry withdrew his army to the kitchen, for the next stage of the battle; sustenance. An hour later, he awoke standing up, but with his head lying on the kitchen work surface, to a horrendous banging noise which emanated from beyond the kitchen door. He recovered his memory, and recalled the Goblin and rushed instantly into the Hallway. However, it not the stair cupboard door, from which the banging was stemming from, but from his own front door. As he opened it, he was greeted by two anxious looking faces and four blood red eyes, whom he remembered as Giles and Graham. They were staring at him oddly, their eyes were bulging blossom, and strange sounds were springing out of their mouths in a fantastic rainbow of colour, which touched his face, soon there hands were also touching his face, and this confused him. He panicked and attempted to shut the door. But they forced themselves in, and as they did this he fell to the floor. As they picked him up, he noticed that the space in which his head had lay, was now covered in droplets of rouge snow and black letters. They took him to the lounge, and placed him upon the sofa. The one he recognised as Giles, left the room, and then almost immediately returned with a bucket and a sponge, with which he began to dab his forehead with. As he squeezed the sponge into the bucket, red ribbons dispersed across the room, and he had to cover his eyes, so they couldn’t get in. Giles and Graham kept speaking in words which he could not comprehend, their words were simply vibrations of light and air which would spill from their facial orifices and flower throughout the room. Because of this, he was unsure as to whether they would be able to understand him, but he thought it only right to warm them of the Goblin. As soon, as he mentioned the word, he noticed their complexions change. Fearful images appeared upon their faces, and he knew they understood. They had both stepped back, and were again staring at him oddly, the same as they had been when he had answered the door. Nevertheless, he continued to explain ‘The goblin wanted to use his magic on me, but I caught the nasty creature before he could, I’ve tied him up good and tight, he’s in my cupboard’. Immediately Giles rushed out of the room, and a minute later, was to be heard, screaming from the hallway, and without delay, Graham rushed out to join him.
Observing this, Henry instantaneosly jumped up from the sofa, shrieking the words ‘Goblin! Goblin!’ and rushed out toward his friends. However, he was met at the door by Giles, who forced him back into the room and shut the door. Henry, was left alone inside the room. There were many horrific noises coming from outside the door, and he tried to open it again, but something once more held it closed. ‘Perhaps, the Goblin has locked it whilst he eats my friends’ Henry contemplated momentarily, before reconsidering, ‘perhaps there all in it together, and they are going to eat me.’. This second notion sent Henry into a panic, and he began to run in circles around the room. He heaved at the door, again still no use, he kicked the door, he kicked the wall, he knocked over some photos. His mind was growing increasingly anxious, he was sweating profusely, and his body had begun to spasm with fear. His face was a bruised plumb. He could see no alternative, and without hesitation ran straight toward the window, a few feet away from it he leaped, and as the glass shattered around him, he felt the fresh air kiss his face. He was free, and as he fell to ground he screamed in delight ‘No goblin get me! No goblin


It was 10 am on a scarlet frosted weekday morning, as a man wearing a fluorescent yellow jacket shuffled out of his house. He wore a chain of keys around his neck, which serenaded the morning with a fresh chime. Stopping for a moment and gazing upward toward the sky, his tiny eye was pierced by the sunlight, and he smiled. His day had begun.
It was an hours walk into the centre of town, ‘you would be quicker on the bus’ many would advise him, ‘especially with those little legs’. Yet, these words did not interest him, he enjoyed the walk, it awakened his body.
He strolled by the river‘s edge, with his precious tartan hold-all bag clasped tightly within the stubby fingers of his left hand, and took great delight, in listening to the voices of the river air. After a few minutes of walking along the riverside he crossed the road and passed the newsagents on the corner of the hill, by Abraham Park. He exchanged a respectful nod with the shop owner, as they both had always done, and probably always would.
The park had forever been a steep testing, stepping climb which many locals avoided. They would instead take the longer route; the road which winds gradually around the hill. But not him, no certainly not him, he thrived upon the ecstasy of this muscle firming thrust.
Spring, Winter, Autumn or Summer, he willingly engaged in it, enthralled each and every time by the nature surrounding his hands and feet and eyes and hands. Sometimes he would stop to kneel down and smell the sweet summer grass, occasionally he would bend over and feel the textures of a fallen crushed acorn and often he would devour the taste of the trees. About half way up lay a park bench, and inscribed on it were the words ’In memory of Keeble Volans 1888-1907’ however, this held little significance to him, in fact I doubt he had ever even read it. Yet he had sat on this bench, every day , sunshine or whoring rain, for over thirty years. Even in the days before the monkeys had came. When he had been a strapping six foot tall, young man of twenty years old, with flowing blonde locks. He would sit here and look out across the park and pull faces at the clouds. Whilst now at the tender age of fifty three and with an eagle bald head and soup spoon legs, he still gained great delight in doing this. He would sit and make the most gruesome of faces applying his hands to his nose and turning it into a snout, stretching his eyes into bloodshot positions and wiggling ferociously his tongue, growling, grating and shouting obscenities as he did. On many occasions passers by would simply gawp at this oddness and quickly shuffle onwards. However sometimes, an inquisitive soul would wander through this scene of madness and ask of him, ‘why are you doing that?’ to which he would always reply ‘have you ever pulled faces at the clouds?, if you do, they pull them right back at you’.
He would usually do this for ten minutes or so, dependent on the weather and the clouds moods and imaginations that particular day, and would then tightly grasp his tartan bag, and begin the final ascent. It was generally during this section of the climb, approaching the summit, in which he would begin to hear the monkeys. On rare occasions he would make it all the way into town and back, before would he hear their violent call. On these days he would arrive home with romantic comedies, tubes and tubes of Smarties, and plastic bottles filled with tremendously fizzy drink, tucked inside his hold all. Having spent the day talking to strangers in shops, and on the street discussing the delights of invisible celebrity weddings, the echoes and the disbelief he held over his friend David’s spending habits.
Yet today, when he was a little over ten or eleven steps away from the bench, the monkeys clasped open his miniature head and climbed inside. The haranguing had begun, and this sent him into a terrible rage. His tiny eye began to shuffle about irrationally, and with his right hand he would attempt to reach towards it, and scrape the irritant. This was always the first stage, soon he would have to warn people about them.

Ten minutes had passed and the monkeys were everywhere now. He needed to be amongst people, he needed to be indoors, he needed some fresh horror. He trundled down the cobbled lane, which links the park, to the main high street as fast as his tiny legs would take him. The wind was picking up, the birds had ceased to sing and his chest was convulsing as he reached the end of the lane. He turned the corner, and had to leap sideward to dodge an unexpected tramp seated on a step. At the sight of this the tramp stood up and raised his hands skyward as if mimicking one of those golf sale sign men, cackled wildly and shouted words. Who knows why. He did not have time to ponder this, and neither do we. After scampering across the road in between a vehicle and a taxi, he leaped upon the kerb. The little man stood bending over, his hands clasped to his legs and began to pant, the keys around his neck panted too, in tune with his breath. He had reached the charming electric doors of the department store. After this moment of regaining his composure and with his breath renewed, he ventured inside.

He immediately headed upstairs, in search of the DVD section. He could still hear the faint murmurings of monkey taunts. He needed horror films. Feeling his way toward the horror section of the DVD bay, he grasped hold of the first film that popped into sight of his tiny eye ‘Headless Virgin Chainsaw Hotel’ and turned back the way he came in, and descended the stairs, his tiny eye all the time fixed upon the pay desk. Reaching the till, he plopped his selection down for the pay boy to scan through, and pulling his envelope full of coins out of his florescent yellow overcoat, he began the purchase of the film. Whilst involved in this action of payment, he decided it only appropriate to warn the boy about the monkeys, and from his small childlike vimto and steak incrusted lips fell the words ‘they did though didn’t they’. The boy stared back blankly, so he began again ‘those monkeys, stealing your money’, adding a cackle, because he was overawed in satisfaction by what he knew. The boy still stood silent, and looked half intimidated, half confused. Then he made a third attempt ‘but they did though, didn’t they,’ a pause, ‘we know though don’t we’, this time adding hand movements and facial gestures. The boy still stood silent. The till clicked into life, and the uncomfortable boy handed the odd man his receipt. The man giggled and motioned to leave, yet as a last attempt to warn the child, he whispered the words ‘those monkeys, those monkeys’, placed his film into his bag and headed towards the exit of the shop. However, as he was about to leave, his eye was caught by some piece of retail tack, which hung around the front of the till area. He stopped in his tracks, and stared closely at the object, which appeared to be a set of Lord of The Rings top trump cards. He began to feel around in his jacket pocket for something. A smile pierced his small face, and he pulled from his pocket a battered blue notebook and biro. He then leaned onto a disused till counter, opened his book and scrawled the words; Money, Goat, Strange Monkey, Hilda. Ensuring he paused between each word and stared to the sky in deep thought. Then he returned the book to his pocket and headed for the exit.
As soon as he left the sanctuary of the store, he could here their voices echoing strong and virile. This was in spite of the ever flowing stream of traffic and city centre chaos, which surrounded him. Although he was fearful, the warmth of the shop, the film in his bag, the moment spent consorting with the boy and the writing of words in his book had renewed his energy. He rubbed his tiny fingers upon the keys which hung upon a chain around his neck and let out a faint smile. He felt confident, and able to take on the sewers once more.
He began to walk, and was soon shuffled along the bustling city streets with everyone else, passing stores and shoes and supermodel children at a thunderous pace. At exactly the right moment, he pushed his way through to the edge of the crowd and fell off it, into a side alley. He squatted down, next to one of several rubbish bins and drew his breath. The alley was a red wine dark and quiet in comparison to the hectic street just a few feet away. All he could hear was the sounds of water dripping down the sodden alley walls and the faint muffled movements of vermin, to which this alleyway was their abode. He removed his fluorescent yellow jacket and placed it into his hold-all, ‘don’t want to give you monkeys any helping hand’ he whispered toward the passing crowd. He then fastened up his bag and began to rub his fingers upon what he called his ‘lucky charm‘, the Coca Cola American football blazer he had once been given by a kind purple stranger, which he always wore. He then shut his eyes, and focused upon the job in hand. The sound of the monkeys was growing stronger and more distasteful every second, it echoed of the alley walls, mixing with the reverberations of dripping water and formed a waterfall of virile monkey chants which gushed toward his face. He grasped for the chain of keys around his neck, skilfully pulled one off and jabbed it into the ground. As he turned the key, a slight yet significant click was to be heard, followed by the sound of a very small man, heaving and straining to lift open a sewer door. A passing child saw this action unfold, and pleaded with her mother to return to the alleyway they had just past. At her daughter’s persuasion they revisited the alley were the girl claimed she had seen a small vole like man pulling open a sewer door. Yet, all that was to be found was an empty alleyway, abandoned except for a couple of rats.

The sewers underneath the city were a maze of sanguine concrete walls, metal pipes, darkness and water. Rat brown water. The stench was horrific, an amalgamation of human waste, vermin and sour dairy products which penetrated your nostrils within seconds of inhalation. However, this did not effect him, as he had no sense of smell. This was due to the countless hours he had spent in the sewers. However, what did strike fear into him, was the shrieking of monkey voices, which he heard echoing off every wall and pipe, from all directions. Nonetheless, this man, knew the sewers like no-one else. Since the monkeys had first appeared, he had been coming down here and had yet to be caught. He knew many routes home. After walking silent footed for over ten minutes, he stopped for a moment. Shifting his weight onto his right leg and grasping a metal pipe with his right arm, he bent down, dipped his left thumb into the putrid murky water and let out a small eek of wind. He then stood back up, firm on both legs and held his ear to the wall. He sensed the monkeys all around him now, there cries reverberated off every surface. Time was running out, he decided his only option was to hide, wait for them to pass, and then attempt another route. Luckily, he knew of just the spot, a disused shaft, which was no more than ninety steps away. He had once hidden in there for over seventeen hours, during a particularly close shave. A memory in which he did not like to immerse himself in. The shaft had been unused since the 1920’s, when the city had revamped it’s sewerage system, and replaced all the waste shafts with piping. It was a minute 4 foot by 3 foot, of decaying urine soaked metal, yet he managed to position himself inside it quite comfortably, even deploying his bag as a pillow. His skill of positioning enabled him to be completely hidden from the walkway underneath, and he lay there clasping his bag and focusing upon his breathing. The sound of monkeys grew rapidly louder. In little more than three minutes since he had concealed himself within the shaft, the shrieking orchestra of sandpaper sounds, had developed into a horrific blood thirsting mesh of noise and euphoria. He closed his eyes, crossed his fingers and hoped he would not be found. The sounds were directly underneath him now, ferocious and coarse, it felt as though his ears were bleeding with fear. The shaft began to rattle with the force of a thousand enraged monkeys, he could feel its support straining. His body began to inwardly spasm with panic, he desperately grasped hold of the chain of keys around his neck, in an attempt to silence their fearful shivering. He shut his eyes, it was horrifyingly dark, he could feel the bolts on the shaft loosening under the pressure. Tears streamed from his eyes, he began to concede that this was it, that it was over. He accepted defeat and awaited the end. But it never came, the shaft held firm, and the noise and the voices and the screams were growing increasingly distant, and soon became nothing more than a distant rumble upon his aching head. He rested for an extra ten minutes, to regain his energy and ensure the monkeys had definitely passed. Then stealthily he dropped down from the shaft and landed upon his feet with an expert precision. After observing the area around him was monkey free, he cupped his ear to the wall and listened. He could still hear their screaming virile sounds, however now they were much further away. He considered the situation, and decided that his best option was to take a route in the opposite direction from the monkeys, ‘could be an ambush, if I follow them’, he thought, as he turned away from their sound, and began to walk. This route, although much longer than the other, was proving to be safer. He had been walking for over forty minutes and the monkeys remained a fearsome yet distant tremor upon his ears. He stopped for a moment and felt the wall, ‘one exit away, not far now’ he whispered to himself, ‘must not be complacent, must not be complacent’, and pushed onwards at the same stealth steady pace. When the exit was not more than two hundred metres away, he ground to halt again. Something did not seem right, he could sense it, and once more he pressed his ear to the wall. Still, the monkeys sounded little more than a vague murmur of screams far away, yet he was certain he could feel something. He began to edge slowly towards the exit, he took one step, he look around, nothing. He took another step and looked around again, still nothing. However it was as he took a third step that he heard it, a rapid wave of piercing, gut wrenching screams, which dove deep into the dark recesses of his mind, causing his whole body to quiver and contract in panic. Without hesitation he dashed for the exit. The noise was gaining on him, yet he was almost at the ladder, and he jumped for it, desperately grabbing hold of it and hoisting himself up onto the first few rungs. He scrambled up as fast as his arms and legs could. The screams were gaining, yet he was now at the top, and could feel the cold iron of the metal gate which concealed his freedom upon his hands, and he pushed. The noises were now directly below him, coming up the shaft at an incessant pace, horrific shrieks, grunts, screams and howls vibrated up the exit shaft. He pushed again, this time harder, his muscles contorting underneath the weight of the metal, sweat was pouring from his face, his whole body ached and strained. Then with one last mighty effort, it opened up, a world of blinding light filled his eyes, and he clambered out onto the road. The noises were almost at the top of the shaft now also, throbbing and scratching at his ears. However, with what little strength he had left he somehow managed to jam the lid firmly into the hole. Immediately he clambered to his feet and picked up his tartan bag and ran towards home. Soon he was at the bottom of his road, but he could still hear the voices, even though they were now muffled screams beneath a metal gate. He was now outside his house, he turned in and ran up the driveway, and once again reached for the chain around his neck, skilfully pulling the key to his door off it and placing it into the keyhole. Once inside, he bolted the door and without delay scampered into the living room. Next he turned on the DVD player and TV, unzipped his bag, pulled out his recently purchased film, and thrust it into the player, whispering the words ’ fresh horror’ as he pressed the play bottom. Immediately the room began to shake with the insanity of the volume of the film. Yet he could not hear it. He leaned back and found himself in the loving caress of his favourite armchair. Then he turned his head and gazed out of the window, through his little eye, towards the sun, which was now slow in descent, and he began to laugh.

Thursday, 29 October 2009

Go Forward

'Go forward' she said in the turn of a song,a whisper flisping from her mouth in trickles of early morning clearings.
I lay there still and said nothing. My silence a clsap upon the room.
The wallpaper began to rot and i began again to mouth words until slowly noises of voices
came out, but none of them were mine.
The things that were said i will not mention. They were unpleasant. Let me leave it at that.
The room echoed under this thunder.
But she was not shaken at all by this, until at the voices subdued and again i fell silent beneath the tears of this situation.
She stood up and moved towards the window. Staring at some object far away.
As she stared every cavern, every crook, every shadow within the room began to ramble and ripple with the words 'go forward'
building into an insatiable soundscape creschendo of confusion, that i could neaither withstand nor withdraw from.
Sweat poured from my eyes. Blanching my skin in a sultry bleach, which spread all over my body,and all over the bed.
And still, throughout all of this she stood still at the window, staring outward, her body unmoving.
Silence filled the room, my sweat ceased to pour and she turned from the window to face me,
and mouthed the words...'go forward'.

Wednesday, 7 October 2009

Thursday, 1 October 2009

Choices. Answers. Problems.
The mind drips.
Loin cloths and surrender follow me across lawns
and down side streets in a chorus
of untaming, unfashionable silouettes,
composed of thunder.

Rain it falls.
Rain it addresses.
Rain it falls.

I hang myself upon your words,
upon the words i was too scared to say.
To shy to say.
In each moment
i slip further away from you.

Choices. Answers. Problems
Tomorrow, after sleep, perhaps.

Tuesday, 22 September 2009


It was cold outside. It had been for days.
The wind chiselled away at the world. The trees were frozen stiff.
They had nothing to say. Snow poured down.
Amongst the cold, a man walked; a small black dot on a white horizon.
He was making his way towards a small shack that stood on a nearby hill.

Eventually he reached the shack. He opened the door. He shut the door.
The land of snow rested, silent except for the sound of the wind.
After a while smoke appeared; drifting out from the chimney of the shack.

Tuesday, 18 August 2009

Why and For What?

It was on a full moon that his mood finally snapped.
As the lure of pleasure finally became too much,
and he succumbed to the flickering of its intoxicating eyelashes.
Downstairs dinner was being prepared, it would be ready for 6pm,
as it always was.

Quietly he slipped out of the front door of the flat,
and headed into the darkness of outside.
Under the stars and the pull of the full moon he wandered,
not knowing where he was going. Just that he was.

After a few hours of darkness and rambling he came upon a large Elm tree,
that stood alone in a field.
Feeling drawn to the tree in some unknown way, he wandered closer,
and as he neared its mighty bark, he saw a small opening within its trunk.
He clambered inside.

Blue light shone upon his face, and as his eyes adjusted
he found himself standing in a clearing,
surrounded by trees made from brown wonder and moss on either side.
They flanked the opening like seaweed surrounds a rock,
each tree moving in patterns and making faces of its own accord.

Behind the trees he saw nothing but a darkness,
which he continued to stare into,
until soon he found himself unable to do anything else,
until suddenly he heard a howl cry out from behind him
and as he turned, he found himself face to face with a creature
that looked in every way his twin, but was also 'slightly different'
in a way he could neither describe nor comprehend.

The two of them stared at each other for a few moments
before finally he clicked from his puzzle face of staring
and asked the creature two questions.
'What is this place? And who are you?'
'Why and for what?' replied the creature rapidly, and without breaking his stare.
The creature then immediately turned away and ran from him at a great pace,
into the darkness that lay behind the trees.

He tried to follow, but found himself in a tanglement of unable to move.
The sky turned itself from blue to bright purple.
The wind began to blow hard,
and the trees shook horribly in recognition of this.

But soon they slowed, as the wind seemed to pause to catch its breath,
and as it did the darkness behind the trees turned from black to amber,
and all of a sudden he found himself back in the field,
lying beneath the Elm tree, the stars and the Moon.

He stood up and searched the tree for an opening. None he could find.
Bemused he wilted away from the trees and returned home.
As he walked he felt a great vacancy within his mind,
and a numbness within his limbs.

He finally reached home. The grass on the lawn,
the knocker on the door, had never looked so good,
and gladly he opened the door
and stepped inside, knowing that with time,
the vacancy would retreat and his body revive and return.

When you feel so amazing, you can do it!

My mind sings in illusion and celebrates delusion.
My mind falls over ropes that i myself have set.
My mind is like blossom, a spreading carpet, a floor.
My mind shuts itself regularly, then opens with suprising regularity.
My mind is a silouette, a poem, a tor.
My mind longs for a mind to share.
My mind regards science, as science regards religion, as religion regards science, as confusion, as joy.
My mind wears little clothing, and frolics in lakes on sunny days.
My mind is open, sometimes.
My mind is earth, but water secretly rules.
My mind is fire, unknowingly lit by air.
My mind is quiet in poems and distracted in films.
My mind blocks out realisation.
My mind is stubborn and stupid.
My mind is sunshine and curly hair.
My mind is chaos and confusion.
My mind is structured in a way that chaos helps to obliterate but will never understand.
My mind longs for solace, but is obsessed by sound.
My mind is a quilt made of feathers, unknowingly allergic to feathers.
My mind is a football newspaper or a betting shop on a sunny day.
My mind is an empty cinema.
My mind is quidditch and Gryffindor.
My mind is a Slytherin waterfall or a London bus.
My mind is pourous and uncomplicated.
My mind is mathematical shadow.
My mind knows nothing but silence, but always sits within a throng of people.
My mind loses itself regularly, each time taking longer to return to its original point.
My mind is a wanderer, a sailor, a cigarette stubbed out at a Wigan bustop.
My mind is learning slowly to sit within itself, content but secretly knows that when
it has reached this point it will still be unhappy within this contented self.
My mind is love.
My mind is death
My mind is not happiness; it does not know what this is, nore even care.

And when the children sing within the seashine.
And when the earth turns growing old.
And when the noise halts itself in crimson paint.
And when the hearts of all become kindrid sparks.
And when the flowers implode.
And when the careless ricochets of songs ripple and whisper,
across the voices of the old,
across the talking in our heads,
across the feet of slipping persons.

Then shall we understand the palace and the place.
Then shall we understand the melodic hymn of interplay.
Then shall we see, the love that each atom
has for me,
has for you,
has for the linked vibration that in our hands,
we all hold.
In costumes made from cloud and red cloth
we sing and walk and cloak ourselves
with joy and noise, and pictures of noise.

From newspaper towers, idols cast from black and white stones
arrive in chaos, chasing flowers
that bloom across the fading wind.

Over and about tumeric salt ledges
i can see soldiers bouncing over
the words we all desperately seek.

On and In celebration of the moon,
golden clock rivers flow knowingly
between stone walls and empty houses.

Whilst carelessly the sun wilts flowers
that rest in window boxes
planted with great love by those who plant them.

As the daylight subdues the evening smile.
As Merlin rests in thought.
As chalk and viper and needless whisperings
address and fill out my solitude.
Into the wind she looked, and far away from her
he felt something tear at the scaffolding that held up his eyes.

The beach was empty, but full of life. A tear
trickled down his cheek. He had no control over this.

Slowly she clambered down the jugged rock path.
Something acidic judded and prodded at his stomach.

Soon she was on the sand. She removed her shoes
and felt the cold of the sand. A haze of whiteness hit his eyes.

Then she removed all her clothes until she stood
fully naked, the wind blowing. His stomach cramped.

She walked forward purposely into the water.
Outside the window the sun was setting.

Onward and on, never stopping, her eyes never leaving the green ray
on the horizon. The clouds were a mixture of crimson and amber. His throat was dry.

Soon the water took her. Slowly the pain in his stomach
eased. His anxiety subdued. A bead of sweat dripped down his face.

Discarded clothes scattered across rocks. The beach again empty.
He observed the sun, 'What beauty' he whispered to himself.
And with the turning of the earth within the
sparse grounds in which we trace,
or paths and dreams and thoughts.

And with the celebrating fields that blow in
and across the wind, forever and beneath her
yearning for more.

And with the sitting of minds in cafe seats
or on benches playing chess, within and where
introspection roams.

And with the escape of faces into liquid
and chemical and the neurotic;
a futile but pleasurable song.

And with the screaming of children in joy,
in pain, in the search for attention
we all want and adore.

And with the banality of housework
comfort can be found in the repetition
of routine, and relaxtion found.

We stretch. We sing. We cry. We scream.
In newspaper cuttings and violent whirling,
i ride upon the emotions that we all show,
and are ultimately tied too, by heart
and by swarm.
Where collisions of kalaedascope notions and dreams
mix in vibrant joyful movements.
And Churches endure my teasing eyes.
And conglomerates endure my toilet breaks.
And my friends endure my thoughts and mood.
Today i have seen and can see
thanks to the purge,
and have gained clarity and also a sore body.
The body will heal,
but this clarity will remain,
and is mine
to spur me onward, and further
forever more.
And from the sun there came a wave of light.
A shout or scream of intoxicating movement
that shattered and tore at everything in its path.
Scattering black dust into soft limbs of disgust
as it moved across the space, we call space.
Heading towards a point unknown,
a tearing throbbing beam of uncomplicated
unflattering flames, which grabbed like greedy
hands at all that passed in its way,
leaving nothing in its wake.

It was fear. It was hate. It was pain. It was joy.
A kalaedoscope of ecstacy and emotion,
that spread and spread and spread, consuming all before it,
and releasing nothing.
A pain of noise. What noise.
A sigh from an old man sitting silently on an armchair
in the corner of a crowded bar. Unoticed but
with great firms of power,
its trick being that this power was never exerted
or would ever need to be.
Let us caress in song each shape that we sing.
Let us hollor at stray noises.
Let us dance beneath the clouds.
In waves of cigarette smoke.
In tears of joyous television sofas.
In the hearts of the lost and the cold and confused.
And may we break our noise.
And may we chance our hands.
And may we possess each flower,
that each of us sings,
that each of us falls for,
that each of us vibrates within.
On the swimming fields of sand where angels march
encased in celebratory smiles, shall our souls meet
blue fingered and wearing sun-tans, beneath a solitary Larch;
its needles made of poisonous touch.
Notebooks flicker with wind sweeping looks, my eyes grey grow tired
of this walk,
of this confusion,
of play and of meander.

Sometimes i wish my soul would cease with this seek
and rest happily in the place where fade begins.
But these thoughts are simply insecurity,
or lack of health,
or both.
Tis thunder in which i really search, and river swim in which i dive,
but at my own pace, and in my own time.

Bowie says 'I know when to go out, i know when to stay in. Get things done'.
This i am learning, or at least aiming towards, with a strive.
And when this mirror ends its hooray of turning leather,
and the acid drops, and stops, its vibrant violent march,
i will return to quiet
and begin with renewed reason,
a solitude of focus,
and i shall wear a wide brimmed hat,
with my hair cut beneath however i like.

But until then let me play play and play....
It is to the moon
that i write and sing and share this thought.
For myself and the moon only,
that i breathe and rejoice,
this mind.
Alert and in shouts of hysterical rage
I sing. It sings. Relentless.
Despite the deprivation of sleep
and the solitude it ultimately seeks.
Flitting open, moments of bubbles
and wonder fall across shores, and lines of open
unknown places, where we wander in free.
The noise of the morning rises, and disturbs
the lettering upon my wandering thoughts.
Slowly i begin to shout in ripples of celebration,
and as i do a rainbow of colourful flowers flows out from my mouth
and i sing,
in adoration of the moon.
Berlin is behind me now,
it was there in front of me
but now it has returned
into my pocket.

Pocket full of moments.
Pockets full of memory.
Pockets full of kisses,
and thought,
and celebration.

My mind it tires
of this walking,
of even my friends,
who i adore,
but who irritate and annoy me now,
because my mind it tires.

Sleep will soon
arrive, soon,
and soon,
will life renew.
Ah. That.
Those coriander scents that pursue me round market stalls.
Those nightime cries of the wind in crisp delight.
Those thoughtful walks around streets that i have never before seen.

Ah. That.
The shimmering of sensations as a sweat away to bring back myself.
The tears of loved ones, long lost and still here.
The beauty of the noise of the breaks on my vehicle.

Ah. That.
In the morning when i rise, again with you prominent in my mind.
In the leaves of the trees that you left behind.
In the pursuit of ever enduring pleasure.

Ah. That.
Terror rises when you sit and your scent is close.
Terror falls when you look me in my eyes.
Terror is everthing and everywhere without you,
and with you.
And with and in love i flounder again,
not knowing if love is not real; something we make up and does not exist
or is real as it happens daily, and i feel its fingers upon my shoulders
and twisting in my mind.
I am in love with you,
but i believe love does not exist,
perhaps both are truths,
and one day we will live in love, in a world without love
as love will be living,
and we will have no need for a name to describe its touch.

As David Byrne says
'I believe in a world without love'
and i may not believe in love,
but i believe in David Byrne.
Redlight on the restaurant
with the empty table and chairs,
sugar balloons and coffee
sing in the morning air.

Sitting on a bench
we sit, as always
and celebrate,
and watch,
and snigger, as boys

embracing our own fears
and holding
in each others hands
our thoughts and tongues.
It is time, that time again.
Let us sing and dance and rejoice.
Let us share our eggs and our bread,
and celebrate ourselves,
and our lives,
and our mothers.
And little yellow, she swims in silouettes made from discarded things
and wind, as raindrops pour all around,
drenching the moon in a fickle glow of soft hymns and evening serenade.
Sunlight pours true, into your heart and from here into mine also,
where it swells in an ocean of carelessness and wonder and yellow brimmed smiling hats.
I sing in the daytime,
i sing in the evening,
i sing everywhere
as it is you, the you of everyone, from my youth to now,
who grants me this power to sing, strong and for myself and now.

It has always been this way, the trick is to realize this,
and to embrace the lament, and learn the depths of yourself
and it is through this that i celebrate myself
and my nature
and my song.

Ths day is alive with wonder.
It has always been
and it will always be this way.
It is up to us to see it and to rejoice in its splendour
and to rejoice in ourselves.

Little melancholic tides will cross our shores once in a while,
sometimes of our own cause, sometimes from somewhere else or some unknown point.
But these are only temporary,
as is all life, and this too will pass.
So breathe now and rejoice in small joy,
as every atom is in my hand,
as it is in yours too.
oh and so
it begins again
this pursuit
and stupid chain of thought.
Repetitions and recallings
of times when we were together
and happy
and naked
adn in bed.
But now i am alone
and unhappy
and naked
and in bed.

Sunday, 19 July 2009

Hey Hey My My

Beneath my gaze
stars of musical light drip in vibrational pleasure
beneeath the darkness of the sky
shuddering waves of careless movement
break the noses of fictional beings.
All falls into a slow solid procession of light and noise
that evaporates in the clutch of my arms
and leaves me feeling bewildered
and amazed
and staring once again hopefully at trees
and at clouds
and with my hand in your hand
and with my eyes open wide
i tried to resist the temptations of escape
and with my poor mourning mind
and with my caring best of times
i started myself wide open.

and now the night appears,
in the morning
when all the tears,
have finished falling
as i sleep.

Across the river bay, i stir and look for you
on the reflection of the water,
and i now know what is true.
That when you said i was making a mistake
in taking the steps to break,
all i knew,
I was wrong in leaving you,
was I wrong in leaving you?

But now our paths are being wandered
there is no turning round
to look and to wonder
at what i left behind.
I must now strive forward,
in an acceptance of this fate
and attempt to embrace
what is new and is feared and blindingly bright.

Being comfortable in your own company;
contentness of the self,
is the first step towards the acceptance of death
something we try so hard to avoid,
yet cannot remain hidden from.
lost standing lost falling
grey skyscrapers ripple in rock pools
made of yellow string.

encircling and now whirling
the end beneath
the tears of dwelling skin.

and on a hill
stands a fat man
doing some sort of dance,
bludgering his chest with his arms
we ramble in darkness,
we ramble with the past
we ramble with all the places long left last
we wander with time softly, lit on our side
walking slowly, but thoroughly
looking at our wrists.

and when release is needed
and when the problem becomes
we realise all is,
and was illusion
lost wonder follows the flies
lost walking shirts and ties
shrieking across hallways
confused in time.

lost falling yellow worms
lost in places without turns
accessing green card
suprised by shadows.

lost in celebration of the moment
lost on a street of this moment
chasing each others arms
followed around by plastic dolls
and within my over flowing mind
where dogs chase and richoche off drunken stone walls
in a heated anger,
i try to sit still and feel
within this space for who i am,
and how i am different from who i once was.
It appears that we constantly move beyond
the boundaries we set for ourselves
never content with what we possess.
We chase and name these things love, death and happiness
and we pursue them
or avoid them in each moment;in every flower we see.
Structure is craved,
in order to survive, yet structure never holds.
These names, the hands that grab it,
are no match for the avoidance of chaos.

and like a leaf on a branch
and like the wind on the sea
i have tried the best i can to find, what is free.
and like a last night left nightime fire
and like a song inspired.
I am longing to understand what is me.
So in chaos i escape
and in structure i embrace,
my own melancholy.
Because this darkness,
this loss, holds the key to joy,
and joy holds the soft fingers forever,
of a drowned sea.
embracing chaos whilst holding hands
embracing neptunes with my open palms
embracing circus tricks whilst lost in suprise
embracing tired falling blue men
embracing careless lost movements
embracing my infatuation with pale skin
embracing silouettes whilst standing up trees
embracing thrashed metal worlds
embracing notes of scrawled paper
embracing pirate angles and smiles
embracing badgers
embracing fingers and waterfalls
embracing tissue rolls and grass light
embracing strange beeps that irriate yet amuse
embracing soldiers carved from gold oak
embracing nose driven nose diving folds of glass
embracing crashes of violent drilling
embracing the crackling of tin cans upon an amber fire
embracing the carving of carrots.
The glaze of sunshine breaks across, the falling down of grass,
that slides down the hillside.
Today is Saturday. Today i am surrounded by people.
Waterpools of splashing cold clear noise.
The rustling of paper; a man somewhere in a corner whistles.
These sounds surround my slowly awakening head.
The sun laps upon my ankles, blossoming in slow swaying Summertime flowers,
as children draw pictures,
and dance as they sit upon rugs composed of fragrant colours.
Umbrellas, sandals, straw hats, leaves and green.
Muffled singing echoes from a tent,
all around me people move, and talk and celebrate and watch.
And within the depths of the shaded grass,
beneath their tentacle depths and cross fingered holding of the land
where cities and dreams exist, and rust never sleeps,
movements and shadows flicker in the soil,
and badges made of the faces of a thousand donkeys lay upon the grass.
As the light upon the water caresses and soothes the shaded heads
of all those who attempt to distance themselves from sunshine.

Today i am myself, in my mind i strive to be only this.
No thoughts or emotional slurs of what else exists,
behind these walls.

And when i drift into delusions of anything else
i promise to instead,
stare at the trees or the clouds
and concentrate upon my breath.

This continued to happen for many days more...

He lived alone. He always had done. He awoke to the sound of the wind blowing and immediately felt quesy.
At first he put this down to excitement, it was Christmas morning after all;
and he had been hotly anticipating this awakening for the past week, in day dreams of wrapping paper thoughts.
He shrugged off this feeling and stood up, approaching his bedroom window.
However as he did this, a strange sensation, passed through his head,
it felt as if his head was being tempered from above by an unknown lion who had only lemons for eyes
and again he felt quesy.
In another attempt to disregard this feeling, he touched his fingers upon the velvet lace of the curtains that
covered the window and despite an overwhelming feeling of apprehension, he was able to force the curtains open.
He let out a massive yelp.
A stream of hot purple light struck his face hard,
which his mind could neither comprehend nor fully face.
This light was so bright, so strange, so full of flavour that its very force knocked him back onto his bed,
were immediately he clouded himself within his covers, pulling his pillow case off his pillow and over his face.
He began to shake.

He spent the whole of Christmas day beneath these cover, cowering, shaking under the mist of the purple light
that had flooded his room.
Beneath the covers his mind whirled in crackles of the many oddities and lights that flashed around his mind.
Sometimes he was certain he could hear the laughter of children and paper crackling.
Sometimes he thought he heard the sound of a knocking upon his door,
or the ringing of a phone; its beeps upon the carpet.
But he ignored these thoughts, in the same way as he tried to ignore the light in his room,
instead focusing upon the lights and whirling images that flittered inside his mind.
The light stayed in his room throughout the night, and was still there when he awoke the next day.
Again he stayed beneath his covers.This continued to happen for many days more, the light in the morning,
him spending his day beneath his covers until one morning, the twelth morning,
when he awoke in what was now the accustomed sweat and found the light to be gone.

The room sparkled as if it had never been touched.
His face felt fresh and clear.
He arose from his sweat stained sheets and cushion, and walked to the window.
Outside a van was driving away from a nearby house, and a family were waving at a driver he could not see.
He looked upwards at a blue sky. He smiled. It was beautiful.

The Green Splurge

Bristol, England. Eight am. Breakfast was over. Scoffed. Finished. David Boinoff returned to his room.
As he sat down upon his chair, his eyes fixed firmly upon the ever humming screen of his computer.
He felt something upon his foot. It tickled and prickled, and he instinctively pulled his foot away from
the floor and held it in his hand.
Upon inspection, his foot appeared fine. The usual dry skin problems persisted, but nothing out of the
David glanced around the floor of his room. Again it all seemed normal. There were stray tissues and bits
strewn around the carpet, but aside from this, nothing.
He returned his foot to the floor. 'huh' he shrugged to himself, and returned to staring at his computer screen.

Adelaide, Australia. Early evening. Still light outside. Carmel Hunkles is pondering a new pair of sunglasses
available for a snip at eighty dollars on offer, through a sunglasses selling website.
The glasses themselves are pretty cool.
But she is having a moment on indecision, an indecision traced through guilt. She already owns upwards
of sixty pairs of sunglasses. She does not work. She has been on income support since the death of her
husband, and her subsequent breakdown. though we will not mention anymore of this. no-one else does.
It would be inpolite to do so, even though Carmel will never hear of or read this text becuase she is a
fictional character of my creation.
Since the death. Sunglasses have become quite an obsession of hers. With the purchase of a new pair.
The same cycle is repeated beforehand. The indecision, the guilt, the doubt, and then the purchase,
and the warm feeling it brings knowing a new pair will soon be delivered.
Do not look down on Carmel. It is true that repetition does indeed lead to banality,
and it may appear that she is indeed stuck in such a cycle. However i am of the opinion that obsessions
are what keep the world flowing and joyful. Enthusiasm leads to new discoveries. Obsession and enthusiasm
are the two traits i most applaud in people.

Carmel is smiling at the computer, as the little bar swirls through its thinking process, before finally
a SALE COMPLETE sign pops up onto the screen and the transaction is completed. She them pulls up a new tab
and begins to ponder what to search for next; a whole world of possibilities!
But as she thinks about all the things she could look at next; the latest RFL Gossip, perhaps finally facing
her bank statement, watching a funny video on you tube. She feels a strange tingling sensation upon her upper left
arm. Without looking she scratched it. But as she scratches, no matter where she scratches the tingling continues,
until finally she looks at her arm and the tingling stops.
A look of bemusement clouds her face. On her arm there is a throbbing green mark, that can only be described
as a splurge. It appears to be growing as it throbs and masticates its way over and around her arm.

It had been over twenty minutes since David Boinoff had felt a strange sensation upon his foot, which after
inspecting and having found nothing there, he returned to his computer screen and was currently in the midst
of making a decision regarding an important scene in the current screen play he is writing.
'Should i kill her off now? or should i kill her off later?' he ponders.
In this time, unbeknown to David, a large green splurge had also appeared on his foot, beginning in the spot
where he had first felt it, and growing rapidly. It would devour upwards of half of his leg, before he finally
noticed it twenty minutes from now, such was his immersion in his screen play.

At the same time as these two instances occured, all over the world,
people began to develop unexplained green splurges on different parts of their bodies.
And within an hour of the first recorded splurge, an epidemic was announced on the News.
The government has no explanation. The media neither, not that it needs one.
The only thing that ties each splurge together, is that each person who has been struck down by one,
was sitting by a computer screen as the splurge appeared.
It has now been announced by the government that all computers are to be turned off. No-one is to go near one, and a special government
task force would be calling round soon to collect, confiscate and quarentine all computers as soon as is humanly
possible. Of course this will take time, and of course not everyone will turn off their computers, nor do some people
even listen to, or read the news. So the epidemic will continue to spread.
Unexplained throbbing green splurges appearing everywhere.
The world is in crisis, and no-one knows what to do, nor can explain how this has happened.
Well, except one person.

Eleanor Splodge lives in a bottle. A small green bottle, buried beneath a mass of brambles and dried leaves
and soil, by the side of a small stream that spreads itself througha small part of Yorkshire.
The particular part of Yorkshire that she lives in, is in an area of Leeds called Woodhouse.
A densely populated part of the city, full of students and ket heads and chavs. The stream is hidden
from view by a crumpled brick wall. I doubt in fact anyone knew of its existance. There is no visable sign
of it, only a slight gushing noise, that one could hear if you really really listened as you passed it.
The stream was linked to a slightly bigger stream that carved its way through what is known as 'The Ridge'
a collection of trees and soil and sunlight, that seperates Woodhouse from a main road, and provides
ample space for drunkards to explore in early morning delight.
This slighty bigger stream is also barely noticable. As it flows mostly underground and unnoticed, until popping
out on the t'other side of road, and linking with a few other streams and forming a river.
What the river is called i cannot recall, and to be quite honest it is of little interest to the story.

Eleanor had chosen to live in this bottle, in this spot, as it is the perfect place for a hermit in a bottle to
live. She is bothered by no-one and no-one knows of her existance. This is how she likes it.
She knows little of the outside world, and the outside world knows little of her.
She has lived here for 60 years. She is content.
Now a bottle may not seem, to me or you, a desirable place to live in. However to Eleanor Splodge it is ideal.
You see Eleanor Splodge is what we, may call a witch. Although she does not know what a witch is,
nor does she really care. As i said she is happily ignorant of the world outside her bottle.
i use the term 'witch' to give a context to your understanding of what she is, and how she came to,
and was able to live in a bottle.
You see she has certain magical qualities, which enable her to be able to live inside a bottle.
In fact once inside the bottle it is rather luxurious and spacious, if a little eccentricly decorated and dirty.
However no-one else is able to get into the bottle because no-one else has magical qualities that enable us
to live comfortably inside a bottle. Perhaps you may wonder, why does she not realise this, and ponder
why no-one ever calls round or visits. However to think like this is to misunderstand the mind of Eleanor Splodge
She does not, nor has never thought of anything outside of her own little world but
if she did think about the world outside of her bottle i imagine
she would presume everyone else also has the same qualities. However as she is so reclusive;
living in a bottle and all, she has no idea that other people do not have such qualities.

And this longwinded explantion i hope will help you to understand how the green splurge epidemic began
and still continues to grow.
You see only once in the last fifty years has Eleanor had any contact with the outside world.
This happened yesterday. Around tea time.
What happened is this. Eleanor was happily sitting in one of her many armchairs, thinking the usual
silly thoughts, when she heard a noise. that sounded like a clunk. a noise she had never heard before.
The clunk reverberated around the glass of the bottle, and drew her to the doorway.
A place she had not ventured towards in a long time. The doorway was were the bottle top is usually placed.
Upon investigation and to her suprise she realised that the doorway opened.
She opened it, and a bright screaming light pierced her eyes.
She closed it. Then she again opened it. The same piercing light again screamed before she closed it again.
This game went on for a while. These sort of games usually did with Eleanor. Eventually she remembered about the noise,
opened the door and ventured outside. The light no longer scared her. Her eyes, thanks to the game had adapted.
However she did scream. She screamed because of what had caused the noise.
What caused the noise was an old computer.
Which someone. I don't know who. Nor would i tell you if i did because i am not a snitch.
Had thrown this old computer over the wall, which had as it fell and scattered, knocked gently upon the bottle
and caused the noise to occur.
Now to me and you, and old computer would not be scary, but to a recluse named Eleanor Splodge, who had no knowledge of computers
because she lived in a green bottle, the sight of it terrified her.
She reacted as all magical people in a panic do. She screamed and waved her hands in the air and sent a curse straight into the heart
of the computer, which immediately vanished in a puff of smoke,
leaving no trace except for what can only be described as a little green splurge on the ground where the computer had once been.
She then returned to her bottle and immediately forgot about the green splurge, the computer, the noise and the outside
world, sat down in her seat and returned to her own silly thoughts.

And as you now must realise, this is the cause for the current epidemic that is causing masses of chaos and panting
and red faces around the world.
This is also why no-one can understand how it has occured, nor how to stop it.
Because the only person who does, lives in a small green bottle, by a stream, in a part of Leeds called Woodhouse.

Its probably better now, if we all just turn off our computers, and go back to using pens instead.

The Love on my frills is too bright

in sighting unlighted minds
with joy and solitude
and a lack of purpose
we fall
we flounder
we embrace the evening
lively erratic movements of sunshine
flitter across blistering heated
grassland and strayed oil puddles
bringing gifts of light and new feeling
to those who seek this joy.
eternal scramblings
sirens of landslides
crayons made of carved eagle scratchings
allow and revolve and remove and retreat
never repeating into a banality
of thought
of noise
of wire
sometimes we lose ourselves in silk
sometimes we fall underneath, the closing of the sun
sometimes neither time, nor loss is enough
sometimes soft light disapears into the bark of the trees
and never returns
until we truly look at the leaves
and see the beauty, goodness and truth
that the slow wind lit movement beholds
racing racing heart
racing car driving mind
corridors of steel and ice form and dissapate
along the shoreline.
Before wave and wind erode all feeling
from the kneeling hands
and correct and venture westwards
and ellude their reason,
their vision.

Magicians stand stern along the breaking horizon
Opticians hide under desks and close their eyes
souless creatures hold hands and claw and fur
in aplace where ravens rule
and sparrows flitter freely
without any notion
of anxiety, nor wind.
And in this place
a lone soldier guards an empty cell,
which used to hold a heart
within its cold iron stare
and perhaps may one day still
hold a heart.
and this is why he stands
patiently waiting for its possible return.
the moon stills, tall above
wailing at the stars
for peace.
Its movement slow and enigmatic
slowly it curdles
set against a darkness
of faded light.

Its voice hangs silent, its pose replete
as the stars begin to fade
and so to it,
absorbed by only one star
breaking a blue amber sky,
moving it away from my eye.
Of dreaming, of losing falling winds
water flowing over silken summer.
Light flounders and changes its path
in constant patterns
in silent freckled hands.
The darkness and beyond
and orange light
a dress i wear and embrace
and spiral
and celebrate.
This music i hear and shampoo.
This nightwalk i simmer
This object i pursue
until the dawn arises
and fills my eyes
and my crying
with joy and delight and whisps
of slowly rising never ending relentless pathways.
an ocean of blue and endless wind and sweeping gas,
fuels the movements of the waves
watched closely beneath the careful
thoughtful eyes of the sun
and from this, mountains rest gently gazing
within a sprawl of rock and matter.
A gateway for running water, to gasp
in movements of delight,
feeding growth and eroding,
shaping the look of the land.
Bubbles of dancing children float down waterfalls
falling into beds of abandoned.
Mixing together and re-uniting earth with water
before once more turning to air.
and her rejoins with mine once again
in a clasp
in a sunset
in the unseen smile that lies within a cloud.
and standing on the rooftop, little watching raven
i see you staring,
your pleading, nosing eyes
spying my every movement.
But beware not little bird, do not startle nor spy
nor clear the void.
see below, where small robin stands
in a patient wind,
whilsty sparrows flitter and swirl
around him.
there is no fear there
only a calm innocence, not to be confused with naivety,
serenity in its purest form.
so do not fear little watching raven
head the teaching robin
and close your pleading nosing eyes
and breathe in winter air
and have faith in your own time.
chaos and vagueness
chaos and memory
vagueness and image
of lost dreams,
found in thought.
rings within stone flow and form mountaintops.
Minerals leading, following a pathway yet discovered
bloom as nightime falls
leading in new directions.

the wind is a silence, an answer,
the answer solitude seeks
and from which pure release
is offered.

reflected in the movement of waves
a dress made within the arms of sunshine
weaved in soft breathing, in light
where an awakening, a discovery
awaits us all and in which we believe.

and in dreams, in the fall of water
tricklings outside our experience,
where speaking its name, leads to a loss
of memory, we live.

the blade it rises each morning
and settles
the yearning in my stomach,
for adventure.
a constant flux of movements
of emotions
of direction.
A new unbridled unexpected sun
christens the sky
heart glowing upon sleeping hands in comfortable beds.
Life has already switched pace
whilst they lie unware.

and with the rise comes new air
and the roam is filled with broken glass
and we have to begin to rebuild again.
and it is through the swelling of the tide
that the water falls and erodes
bringing footsteps and new cardigans
freshly knitted into our minds.
the fizz and crackle of brown foam colliding,
obliterating all obstacles
and bringing the beginning of new horizons,
impregnated with noise
and wind
and whisperings.

the ocean is a mother,
a tightly held pair of seaweed freckled hands
holding always onto the shore
soothing the wild wilderness of the wind.

Her crown fixed forever
despite the rough tide of swinging hips.
it is from the moon
by giving it a name
or a purpose
to seek to explain
that this seed is extracted from me
and becomes lost in the ether.

this process
this craft, is mine to hold
and mine alone, to lose or ramble.
the structure that is craved
for this search holds purely futile.

it is not for title
or fear, nor guilt
but for love
that i write this verse
alone, in a darkened room
always alone
dancing in soft rhythm
a pulling caress of nightingale vibrations
across floor tiles and damp light rooms
where we all flounder in movement
enveloped inside sunshine.
arms wrapped, limbs crodded, shirts off
sweat seaps from pores, filling the
room with a beautiful aroma of pungent debauchery
that will remain long after we have left,
and returned to morning light rooms
where some of us sleep and some of us never sleep.
The night is in our eyes and is ours forever.
let it always be this way.
and with and in the setting sun,
our eyelids form silouettes
of past yearnings for cigarettes
and tidal movements.
where our direction is such a simple
and constant rhythm
a place in which notions of living
nor death, nor love, nor happiness
instead only a peculiar feeling
that warms and soothes
and holds our questions.