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.