The doors are a little askew in the frame, one scrapes the mantle, but no matter, I shall pad these poorly fettled hinges and the doors shall fit. Now the drip I see sits proud of the door, a drip is no good if it allows water past it, but no matter, I shall tighten the neglected screws, pulling the pieces to one. Ah now I notice the tongue and groove does not run straight, they have allowed it to stray before affixing the screws, it interferes with the other door, but no matter, I shall take the door apart, squeeze the door into a whole, fixing it square and true. Now I notice.. the top of the drip interferes with the overlap, but no matter, I shall move the over lap a touch, ah, but the overlap is glued as well as pinned, so I shall shave a little clearance to allow it to pass freely. Now I see the lock does not fit it’s keep, but no matter, I shall adjust it’s case, it will soon fit snugly. Ah, the bolts, there is no place for a bolt of any length to fit on the bottom of the door.. But, no matter, I shall try again tomorrow.


Humans are pervertedly dedicated in their laziness,
they will toil eternally to make their life easier.


While I practice Dr Chi Chiang Tao’s tai chi form, others call it a corrupted form, a mutilation of a former Yang form. Yet that form is grown from another, then another before that. Back thousands of years these form’s reach down, each branch splits in a different way, to suit a different teacher, yet all from the same seed, the seed of observing animals. The cats, the monkeys, the snakes, all who inspire. The animals laugh at our ‘athleticism’.


Leaping at a made up quest
in imagination they invest
inventive stories of the mind
see what nuisance they can find
dreamed adventure has no bounds
with kittens, joy is to be found.


I was never one for the ladies, I spent my entire time creatively, concocting devices of every variety. My friends were on the other hand turning into rabid hormone monsters. Of course they were very keen on trying my lady snares. Some were built around flowers and perfume, others of chain and pits.. when my friends began to be frustrated by the waiting. These were halcyon times, wonderful times, before the screaming and the jail time.


“If we were all hippies,
who would fight the wars?”..


The Show

It is a large house in the country, built in the eighteen hundreds, it sits proudly pale, nestled in the dark forest. At the weekend guests arrive and gather in the expansive lounge. They reside on buttoned red leather sofas and at small round tables bearing beer mats of every flavour. At one end a large fire crackles in a stone fireplace, making the room flicker tangerine. At the opposite end an alcove resides, a small bar. The host goes into the bar, closing the folding top behind him, he ducks down. Mr Punch pops up and says hello to all the boys and girls.


I wait in the small white room, there are muffled voices behind a door. Then I can hear the drilling, it wails high, then low as it faces resistance. The screaming and the grinding. I quite regret being kidnapped.


In the hut the air is stale, it tastes of sun-stroked palms. The table I sit at is as bare as the floor. I look to the open window, it’s shutters idly flap in the breeze, just as a bulldog floats in. It gnashes and growls and flutters it’s slate grey wings. In my mind I flail at the invasive beast, yet my eyes see no arms at all, just the shudder of the world tape skipping too and fro. I can feel myself shake and flinch, my unblinking eyes track the flying dog as it leaves, out through the same window it came. I leap in a launch of fearful adrenalin and close the window hard, shattering it, sending glass sprinkles across the wooden floor. The noise it makes is almost unbearable.


At first when you fall in you splutter and splash, her powerful currents take you where they will, she is overwhelming. Where is the heart in her waters, where can tranquility reside? If you can move with the water, find the eddies. Eventually the bubbling excitement, the whirling pools, learning her currents could perhaps become a joy.


We are the blue in the galaxy snooker, no more than a ball in God’s game.
But we are worth five points, so there’s that.



Underneath the bridge I waited for the dragon to cross above me. The rain had driven him down to the ground. His nostrils sizzled and spat hot oil as the cool rain lashed down against his hot head. He lumbered forwards towards me, every step making the stones chatter above me. The bridge shifted and warped, but held firm. If anything, it was settling stronger than ever. I held the handle of my sword tightly, wringing water from the soaked leather grip, my head rested on the pommel, I watched the water running down the blade, biding my time till my moment, my cowardly moment to sneak beneath his belly. Even over the hammering rain I could hear his furnace roar deep in his chest with every breath exuded. Water ran down the blade in orange, the evening’s sunset captured in steel reflection. Now the thump of my own heart drowns out the rain, even the dragons breath above me. My time is now. Adrenaline drives me upwards, yet I slip, one tiny moment shattered my nerve, the sword heavy and unwieldy, the dragon’s underbelly is massive, soaked scales lit in sunset orange as my blade glide above me. With all my might I thrust my sword upwards, but fatigue sends me at a tangent, barely grazing his scales with the slightest clink. I don’t even see his hind leg swinging at me, It knocked me into the water, I land as dead weight, attracting the dragons attention. I spluttered and gasped, my face emerged from the river just as the silhouette of a huge neck craned down towards me. The last thing I saw of him, were teeth, many many menhir teeth. Impotent, I am consumed. A dark whirling smoke plume fades from view. I find I am here still, residing in this stream.


The big question, what becomes of us after death, the great unknown, continues unanswered. Many a theory floats around yet no one can answer unless someone goes and returns. Yet some have returned, some speak of light and of floating, of travel, of crossings. These are disregarded, of course, for our default is the solid world of matter bumping about, then not. More credence is given to those who return and recall nothing, that death was a void, an end. So we have this account of nothing, as the scientific proof of death as an end. Yet dreams, dreams are denied by many, they wake, they have no recollection of any dream. So many deny dreaming, yet I have dreamt. Despite disbelief, I will dream again.


There is a certain humour in sports commentary not found in normal humour. The sports commentator will find hilarity in any unusual happening, a fall, a wink, anything outside the monotony of their monologue. It seems the more boring the sport, the more hilarious the tiny moments are to them. Snooker player Cliff Thorburn dropped his chalk once causing both commentators to be hospitalised.




The air is swelteringly claustrophobic, across the street the market ripples through the haze, everyone is languid uninclined to motion, every sound has a sizzle to it’s edge. On my small round table a tall glass glimmers with condensation, I watch the ice cold dew make it’s way down the glass, fresh ice and a slice of lime reside in my lemon refreshment.


Fondled and fired, displayed and admired, awaiting their place
volcanic arrival for tactile desire, from heat and clay’s embrace.


It is far too dangerous to wake at the crack of dawn
why risk being sliced by the dawn’s shards?
Better to wander the morning thoughts
for afternoon’s fall is not so hard.


There is nothing more tepid than forgotten tea.


I wonder does intimate knowledge of music, of it’s structure and rules dull creativity, does it quash the search for new rules, for new ways. Perhaps there are no new ways. No, the ways are infinite. Well almost, such as the ways to shuffle a pack of cards. 80,658,175,170,943,878,571,660,636, 856,403,766,975,289,505,440, 883,277,824,000,000,000,000 ways, to be exact. That’s probably a lot of tunes out there still.


The first slice of the cake is delicious, the last is savoured
those between are often just something to chew on.


The morning light is trickling in through the windows, a warm day, yet tempered by a cooling breeze that lazily wanders the rooms. The doors are swinging mournfully, we are haunted by a morose trombone player. He plays adagio complimenting the sparrows busy refrain in the garden. In the garden the shrubs wave gently, greeting the bees gentle hum. All days should be this way.

High Summer

The hot weather has reduced my pulse to treacle. I cannot operate at this temperature, my energy has withered such, that existence is doing enough. I can feel the blood oozing lazily through my limbs, making it exhausting to move at all, sleep arrives swiftly as ether on a handkerchief.


It’s getting hotter. The roof tiles are steaming, softening. Through the heat haze I can see them melting. They are starting to drip down scorching the walls. The windows are glowing orange, returning to the state they came from, pouring in a lava flow to the ground, where the earth ignites in tangerine flame, each house the same, In the morning nothing will remain.


Looking at the animal kingdom. The warm blooded work more efficiently in the cool weather. Once the temperature rises, they come to a stop, exhausted. The cold blooded, they love the heat, the warmer it gets the better they like it, they do not laze in the sun, they bask. At the shore I sit in the shade with a drink, watching the lizards on the beach.


The magician approached me, he produced a pack of cards in a flourish, nimbly he removed the cellophane and fanned them deftly, immaculately. He proffered them to me, “Pick a card” he said to me. “No” I said.


Enjoying the click and snick of the fine machining, he distracted himself, cleaning her for hours. She gleamed immaculately, he knew her intimately. Empty, she clicked and snapped, but loaded she thundered and leapt hypnotically, the beauty of the machine, the bullets paths, he quite forgot the beating hearts.


I have found a lego tree, it grows lego leaves and lego fruit from lego limbs. I could turn it into anything, but I like the way it is.


As long as you are powerless, why not drink yourself to distraction, sing to each other of nothing at all, dance while your hearts are your own, bask in the empty ride. The destination will just bring you down.

Brandishing air

I wonder if intentional weirdness is just a rehash of a boring mind trying to create an interesting persona from things they thought were odd. Or if weird is an unintentional leakage while trying normal on for size, bursting at boring’s seams.


I am watching the house plant, willing it to grow faster. Perhaps there is not enough light, perhaps there is not enough water, perhaps too much water. Perhaps the plant is watching me, willing me to slow down.


Climbing, climbing is not my strength, nor jumping or leaping, you would barely see air beneath my feet. You see, the earth has a tight hold on me, if I would wander too far from her hand, drift too far from the land, she would pull me back with much enthusiasm. Such enthusiasm that I am misshapen against her bosom. She just loves me too much.


Solstice. As the only man in the ceremony it came to me to don the elk skin cape and the antlers of fertility to go forth and strut in a figure eight, this representing infinity. One volunteer held the sun staff, hewn from purest MDF, encrusted with jewels we found in the potpourri, raising it to it’s full height of thirty seven feet. Following close behind her another lady held the moon aloft, a sickle we found at a second hand store. It is mostly blunt so we generally avoid most injuries during the moon phase dance, a wild dance involving cartwheels and flailing limbs, if they are still attached while flailing, we call that a victory. Victorious we move on to the drums. Some of us beat an irregular rhythm on smaller drums while I and Hilda bore the enormous Solstice drum upon our shoulders, Darci smacked it with a six foot long beater, sending shockwaves reverberating all the way down to the valley below. To wake all, to send the message of high summer to all the living, past and future.


a bottle is a glass in a mitre
a plate is a dish in a tutu
a pencil is an indecisive pen
a wall is a stern hedge
a bee is an organised fly
a fridge is a confused oven
a fork is an incontinent spoon.


And when they fly away do not flail at their feathers,
a heart as free as yours when you release the tethers.



Fluttering petals

Daybreak marks my first complaint, as my eyes protest at the excess of light. Next my limbs forget movement, crying of heinous abuse. Horizontal turns slowly to vertical with a thump of my throbbing head. Coffee.


ugly as a silk flower
a blooms impermanence
is the essence of her beauty.


That big guy, he looks like he could earn his place on the restaurant wall, facing off against that tiny girl. Yet I should have known when I saw his warm smile, I saw her dagger stare. This is not a match of size, this is a test to find the machine, a consuming machine. Those with a soul need not apply, look into the winners eyes, you’ll find a shiver there. Pain is a switch to flick, they will cross the line with an alligator grin, no joy for the victory, just born to win.


Goals and gains, coins and notes, I never sailed that boat
this money seemed unseemly, I was just busy dreaming.


I could explain why I love them, but you would not understand, I could list examples, show them to you, make you listen, but this would not change a thing, it is my head, my world, my sculpture of perception.


The blooms shone
on a beautiful summers day
when all at once
the petals flapped
the flowers
flew away.


It is different out in the country. In our house we can hear no traffic, no honks and no revs no conversation, no argument and no music. The fly buzzing around the room is the loudest thing we will hear today, yes, as annoying here as anywhere. Yet we are not totally secluded here, we have a house next door, a small cluster of houses at the end of the long garden, to the left of those a church, on a Monday the bells sing as their tails are pulled by a small invading force of loons. There is a farm house to our right, but we couldn’t hit it with a stone, even if we wanted to. The post even comes to our door via a chatty postman. Out front, facing south, a distant green hill rises, displaying sheep and even deer from time to time. Beyond the crest hides the goings on on the other side. To the left fifty crows nests reside in a tall tiny forest, singing seasonal cackles, signalling what the crows are up to, mating, nesting, feeding and resting. To get to our home you drive along a twisted hilly narrow lane, that gets even narrower in the summer as nature impinges on the patchy blacktop. Yet the roads are surprisingly good here. No doubt all who have lived here for generations know someone who can twist an ear, to get any blemish buffed out swiftly. The lack of traffic also gifts the roads longevity. At the end of the lane and left, there resides a small village, so small in fact, it has no pub, no shops, not even a newsagents, just a small hall where meat and knitting are sold each month on a Saturday morning. If we are out of bread, it is a half hour drive to the nearest shop. Sometimes I miss being able to walk to the shop, the convenience of immediately having what you haven’t, the interactive stroll, the nods, the smiles, a small time with humanity, even from a hopeless introvert like myself. But, if we wish interaction we can find it, we are lucky to live in such peace.


What is a meta for?
seeing outside of the thing
undiluted by internal bias.


There is a fine line between cynicism and naivety.


You are a special and unique wonderful person
you are standing at the end of someone else’s rainbow.


The orangutan is upset at the changes around him
he feels powerless to change any of it
because he is.


Whichever way we leave, in sleep or terrible shreds
As violent as the action, always gentle is the passing.


It’s a shame so many feel that decadence is a positive trait.


No card shop, my Dad doesn’t fish, he doesn’t smoke a pipe, he doesn’t drive an MG, he doesn’t play darts, he doesn’t drink beer, he doesn’t watch the football, he doesn’t sail a yacht, he’s more than your cards have got.

Whizz pop

The car is reaching a junction, so to speak.. Down one road the oil burner rides, down the other the electric car. For years the electric car has been the future, a clean future, a laser zap future, yet never the now. We waited and waited, for just around the corner the advancements were promised. But this corner was much longer than we anticipated, much longer than the technicians anticipated, (when you look at AI and robotics, we are far from the end of the curve). But, the car, the car is reaching a point where the old oil burner is finally losing ground to the electric car. The electric car is more powerful, cleaner, simpler and getting more efficient every day. The junction is here and the direction is obvious, yet, I will miss the engine’s howl.


Happiness. Don’t wait for happiness, don’t look forward to happiness, don’t look to past happiness, reside in now’s happiness. Unless you are happy looking forward to future happiness, or unless you are happy thinking of past happiness.. Then reside in the happiness of then and future, or not, it’s your life.


It feels like we are grains of sand petitioning for the tide not to come in.


They’re at the brook again, dunking the blessed and the sinners. The blessed come back up again, the sinners float away. They are gibbering around the fields chanting incantations of praise to the above. Their robes are soaked in brook clay, dragging through the grass, they create swirls and sickles that hypnotise the cattle. Every month the same.


I try to every day unleash my inner worrier. Be sure to see the grief, the horror and the blight, to keep my worrier mind set right.


Alone in the woods, not a creature in sight or sound. The trees stand seemingly silently still. Yet if I quieten myself, I can hear a billion cells expanding and growing. I reside in absolute tranquility, then one birch sneezed. Followed by a woody ‘shit!’. So, when a tree sneezes and someone is there, the tree is annoyed, perhaps embarrassed. Such glorious sentinels, such proud timeless relics, such a bummer to have allergies.


The moon sprinkled sugar across the heavens
a lonely cold evening sweetened by stars.