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.
leaf by niggle
the early morning clover rises high above
leaf by niggle
in water we sense the air around us
leaf by niggle
ladybirds play on plants
leaf by niggle
in calming times
in calming times