Where to find a scraper, to clear the scum from the surface of our pure azure
let us reveal the sparkle of our multi coloured waters once more.
The confidence that the evil are showing, in this present fertile field for hatred, is terrifying
They puff up and spill their bile across the lands, while the good are forced onto their heels
What is going to turn the tide? Push hate back down into the hole, put devil back down below.
There is only so high you can fly
there is also only so low you can plummet
the depths and heights are merely creations of imagination
when you arrive to what you thought was high
you see the lowest still eye to eye.
What kind of dingbats think it is a good idea to get a microchip implanted into them? Actually volunteering for this gross technological invasion. Do they believe they will be some sort of enhanced machine hybrid, rather than being a scanned item on the system’s conveyor? So many people allow themselves to be manipulated, to be placed where and when those with the strings would desire, placated with shiny nonsense for their lobotomised micro brain. The realisation of reality meeting 1984’s last pages, the distress of the masses giving in to big brother.
Every price is rounded up
every age is rounded down
I wonder what that means.
I dream I cannot run. Though I try, my legs are in metaphorical treacle. I wish to run, I know it is a dream, so I dream in a dream I can pour through the air swiftly like light across a morning. To feel the globe tumble beneath me, to feel every sea and tree as they pass. But alas, I can run faster in reality than in my dreams.
Once high singing the song of flight
the air my anchor no strings on my kite
one stone from another in malice and mirth
splintered feathers have me tumbling to earth.
I love the turn of the leaves, the dark chill mornings
but I don’t want to hear of Autumns approach
until I have had my fill of warmth
I’m a quart down on warmth.
The rain shower feels good on the face
refreshes the earth, bringing forth its fresh aroma
invigorates the soul, washes away our spills
after a drought, after the sun, I love the rain
but, enough rain already.
The sun has finally splintered the clouds, shards of light sear the damp away
once oppressive, the sky breaks open revealing a hazy golden day.
I can see the plan now. A fiendishly clever one. Through the ages, when we witnessed the hate, prejudice and racism bubbling up every day, we were disgusted, yet we had little idea where it would bubble up from next, some of these crazies look normal at first glance. This plan to draw them out, to turn or destroy them, seemed at first like madness, but now it starts to unfold.
First, to create a monster, a crazies wet dream of a monster. They will spout forth of sexism, racism and patriotism. All right minded folks will have an aneurism! While the wannabe nazis will think all their Weihnachtens have come all at once. It will take an incredible amount of lunacy and hate to get the most secretive loons out, but it must be done. Extreme hateful policies will have normal folks close to a nervous breakdown, but they will be thankful later.
Once hate and lunacy are accepted as the norm, there will be a get together, a celebration the like that has never been seen. From all corners of the land the crazies will march out for their day in the sun. The monster will bring its flute.
There was this bull I knew, he was strong as hell, of course, he could pull a tree stump from concrete. Yet he never felt of much use at all. Despite his strength and beauty he would mope and sit alone, not wishing to impose his worthlessness upon the world. This upset me, yet I could not get through to him.
On the other hand, a cockerel I knew, he would strut through the world as if he was the shine on a crown. He told all “I could fly, yet have no use to prove it to those below”. His arrogance was such that many would literally run away, rather than hear another boastful word that he would say. This upset me too, yet no wishes of humility would puncture his balloon.
Till one occasion the bull sat under a chestnut tree avoiding all gaze. He happened to glance towards a small puff of feathers marching along on proud strutting legs, a chest so puffed up and tail so high, a ridiculous cockamamie sight. The bull’s shoulders started to shudder, to rock up and down. Then a laugh not heard since his voice broke, thundered out of his throat. One slice of ridiculous to break the spell. A thought to why not stop worrying? suddenly occurred, in a snap the bull was cured.
The Cockerel? Well, he will have to wait for his cessation of self glory, that is in another story.
Do not stay where you’re put.
Crow is playing in the field
as I wrestle with my writing
hearing cackling and cawing
as our orbit dims the lighting.
A pause, to wish all who pass here a good day and thank you.
Laying still as I can manage, face up on a table. The ceiling is featureless, I would look around, but I am told not to move. I can hear some strange noises, screeching, clattering of metal on metal, it sets me on edge. Strange hands grab at my shoulders, I can feel my limbs being pulled and prodded, yet I can do nothing about it. How did I end up here? It seems like hours pass, but who can tell in such circumstance, I could have been here days in this unnatural light. I am asked to turn over, fearfully I stare at the floor, while my back is grasped and pummelled, pains and spasms come and go, I wish to scream yet pride holds it in. Another eternity passes as my body burns, seeming to emanate ache. At last it ceases, my chance, in silence, I dare to sit up and look around. I sit exhausted in an empty room, but now, my antagonist returns! I stoop in frailty, flopping from the table. Invigorating massage, my ass.
Just received a wonderful compliment, apparently I have the feet of an athlete!
On a Sunday morning the loons come out in their inappropriately large cars to converge at the village green, to spend a day pretending to be American, as if American was a cosplay costume from a cartoon. Rain sodden star and stripy rags wave in the gales. Rock and roll music blares from a flapping marquee. Dislocated rockers stand drinking imported Budweiser while their hair sprayed quiff loses the fight to rain and gravity. They stare down at sodden suede shoes, dreaming of Memphis in the sun. Harmless fun.
Paint time’s ribbon
in iridescent shades
the ribbon stained forever
in the colours that you made.
Motorsport looks more and more perverse as every year ticks over. I used to love the romance of it. The brightly coloured cars roaring, snarling and screaming around the circuit, scrabbling for grip. The pitlane would be full of glamour and sex. But no more, the cars got geeky and clinical. Ironically all sex is leaving the show as it all gets more perverse. Passionless monotony enters, finishing with a mechanical champagne ejaculation, after they have had their way with the world. Celebrating their sport of consumption in a world that needs to be nurtured and held with respect, after years of careless decadence.
There is a popular conundrum about a plane on a treadmill. If the treadmill matches the speed of the plane’s wheels, will the plane be able to move forward and take off?
The plane is not powered by the wheels, it is powered independently. So, the wheels will roll forwards, the treadmill will do opposite, and as the plane takes off as normal, the wheels will be travelling twice as fast.
Another train of thought goes, but what if the wheels are powering the crafts take off? Well then as they increase speed, the treadmill will increase, but in this theorisation the treadmill is not in control. The wheels will continue to accelerate immediately to infinity.
This second version is also a good metaphor for consumerism. A system that has no end but self destruction.
Bitten by a tiny bug, three puncture marks on my ankle. The ankle is swollen, and it itches. Why does it itch? It is natural to scratch it, virtually impossible to ignore it. Yet the scratching does not ease the itching, it riles the wounds and angers my skin, keep scratching and it bleeds. Continue and it scars. What point is an itch? Perhaps we are meant to dig away the poison, in a different time we would possibly pass if we did not eject the venom. Yet, I am sure it is not a lethal dose. Stop itching.
Indoctrinated to unquestioningly pledge allegiance to the flag every morning, It’s a powerful way to hypnotise the masses. To lobotomise the masses, lobotnosis if you will. Leading folks by the flag, to idiotic conclusions. Pledge allegiance to your own thoughts, your own heart.
It is not boring while I’m pouring
letters for sentence on the page
I will keep stirring and observing
till the poem comes of age.
People hold their sand in very different regard. Some grasp it so fiercely they would kill and eat friends to keep their grains from slipping away. While others would let it all fall, to save another’s glass from shattering.
Down in the water
at the bottom of the well
not one colour or sound is found
no joy just one soul resides alone
you are left to your own demons
If you can face them you will ascend
to see the surface sparkle
in the sun.
So blinkered to what’s set out
you have not one sliver of doubt
the imagination of a sheltered louse
you walk straight to the slaughter house.
Looking at your shattered time
I see your broken edges shine
Vulnerable yet still you fight
Every day with all your might.
Tired of feeding stock
Sick of crops with blight
Now the farmers harvest light.
We are formed of interstellar dust
In the shape of saggy bald apes.
The robin flickers in the tree
the blue tit flies in bobs and arcs
sparrows scatter across the branches
feathered notes play on the garden’s staves.
Palm trees, a beautifully silent firework
tracing a stream up the trunk
to mute exploding leaves.
One line written
a slice of mind in one time
by the second line
I may disagree with my first
yet a slice of time has vibrancy.
“No to fur” they announced, and strutted in the papers
Yet they return to wearing death on their shoulder
As if principles changed with fashion
They have no weight to their soul
They are tugged in which ever gust would take them
Nothing of substance to hold them firm
Imagine if you knew yesterday what you know now
I wonder if I’ll know tomorrow what I know now.
Do not disturb the writer
He is disturbed enough.
Times move on, kids get more sophisticated. Back in my day we would have toy trains, meccano and lego. Now there are virtual reality headsets, super phones and tablets of many forms. Yet perversely, they seem to be hypnotised by watching a piece of plastic go around. Go figure.
Flame dart fires through the woods in play
Destructive terrorising beast they say
Blood and fleshy monster apparition
Paranoia has blurred your vision.
The fish are scampering on the hill
The birds have spent all their bills
All down is up and all up is down
I am trying to jump up to ground
Lobsters danced into the pots
The world is losing the plot.
The undiagnosed disease festered unseen.
Now we learn the shocking truth, that we are sick.
It is a horrible thing to face, a terrible thing to face.
Yet now we can see the disease, we can treat it.
We will get better for knowing it.
Pandora was somewhere around Ancient Greece when she decided to take the lid off the jar… Suddenly there was a terrible roar all around her and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around. A voice was screaming ‘Holy Zeus! What are these god damn animals?.
Bringing the night
Tugging a blanket of
Arid birds cawed, damning eastern flood’s gate
hard I jimmied knowing latches may never open
pleas quashed, reality soaked through undone
vanquished, wishing xero yatagan zephyr.
life’s connections splintered
what you cannot have you kill
your venom seeps into us all
you’re poisoning Ygdrasil
couldn’t buy the love you miss
you know it never will.
Norns see your evil deeds
they will take you far away
beyond the Ygdrasil leaves
away you’ll have to stay.
Man attacks the air in tin torpedoes
while the birds become the air
painting beauty in the blue.
Another failed attempt at ascension by rope
They do not understand.
First I did not spy her, she came from higher than I can see
A rare glimpse of her magnificence, giving hope to gravity
Spreads feathered fingers to the wind, she turns away from me
Spiralling up she climbs, to infinity.
We never know when we are going to find we are not alone in the universe, or what the circumstances might be.
Then the following tuesday we received an Email, we have won the universal galactic postcode lottery.
Our prize, a planetary death ray, what a disappointment the universe is.
The many ways of growing up. Some feel they must jettison all of their childish ways, play is cast aside, in favour of dourness, all irresponsibility a sin. Angrily they clench their maturity. When they could be skating and singing, letting their child like anger fall behind.
Chaos’s bad humour slung our friends far and wide
We found a way to forage where they reside
What wonder in a twinkling stream
Manifesting from our dreams.
Cackling caws from charcoal birds
Trees spine leaves and world
Such beauty it’s absurd.