Ribbon

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.

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Bitching truth

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.

Sand

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Untitled

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.

Fidget spin

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
At dusk
Tugging a blanket of
Stars

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ygdrasil

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.