Out and about

It’s too warm out today, yet the skies are grey, I’m sweating in this coat, my head is in a foggy place, am I walking sideways? I am unsure. Is this what it feels like right before you faint?


Surely it is not that hot, no one else looks that hot, I must be ill, why am I out when I’m ill. I’m too far way from home to be ill. Maybe it is that hot.


Walking is different alone, I judge myself more when alone. Am I staring? Are they staring? Why am I wearing a hat? No one else is wearing a hat, am I walking normally? Do I look lonely? Is everyone else thinking ‘Just a little more, then I can go home’?


At Caffe Nero, Italian coffee, Italian cake, the strings flow on the radio. Then the singing starts, in French, this throws me.


Fiddling over the speakers, coffee in the air, my pulse is sinking to lounge level.


Now I am more relaxed, I can indulge in some people watching, so many different stories on so many different faces.


Fledged Thoughts

There is nothing to write, but I will write anyway, for surely if the plug is removed, some clear water will come, after I flush the scum. Still nothing, yet this is something, if little. Yet from little seeds, huge trees are felled and made into books.. A twisted analogy, or a metaphor, I wonder what the difference is? [Leaves to look it up].. [Returns]. Well I am somewhat enlightened, yet not entirely, The analogy is an explicit comparison, one of reality, the metaphor is implicit, not necessarily a literal comparison at all. In short it seems a metaphor is an analogy for the imaginative. Then there is ‘Allegory’ which I stumbled upon, hmm, this is a story with a second depth, another meaning. So close, yet in many ways they do not overlap. Subtle ways to steer a mind towards an intention, without giving ones agenda away. All sorts of disagreeables can agree to what they thought they did not, just by putting a thought in a different context. In a snap they can be un-hypnotised. What a wonderful thought, to think that a hateful mind could be reset with a different view. What a naive thought, hoho. But out there somewhere is the cure for stupidity, just a minute, I think it is knowledge. Cracked it! Then I continue, there are words after all, ah, the tap is spitting rust again, perhaps a knock to the faucet, but the clear water is from a far away well. Glug glug, drip, drip. Sigh, is it proper english to write ‘sigh’? Perhaps ‘He gave a sigh’ or ‘There was no sigh deep enough’, I should have perhaps quoted myself ‘sigh’, yet I do not say sigh, I’ll go with *sigh* an action, unwritten officially, maybe. Not that I am writing in proper english anyway, whatever that might mean in an ever-evolving language. Something eloquent, away from any hip or temporary slang. Poncey or pretentious? Well, I hope not. Just elegant as I see it. A sentence un-shortened, at just the right flow is a beautiful thing to behold. Crisply dancing to imaginary music, a waltzing sentence barely touches the floor.


In the corner of the room, barely noticeable, hush as a whisper, the end of the world began. We had time of course, the end of the world was very ponderous, or should I say languid, as the end did not show one sign of wavering. If it was found sooner, before it spread throughout the house.. well, it would have made no difference. Probably would have just made the last days more stressful.


The ship is heaving and crashing in contradiction to my stomach. Every crash sends my stomach up, every heave sends it to the deck. The mast is heaving too, creaking at the strain of too much sail. The captain is obstinate, he will sink another boat in his bloody minded quest to beat the wind and sea. Take us poor souls too in his mania. Surely mutiny is not as offensive as following a captain to the depths. Yet the crew are busying themselves bailing and sewing sails, to send them up to tear once more. I can feel the strain in every beam, we will never again see the shore.


A snake, a dragon, scaled down.


I came here to write, but found nothing but white. What am I supposed to do with that? Just the vacant glare of a page saturated in emptiness. Soon from staring so longingly, my soul reflects the emptiness of the page. Damn it, the situation is supposed to be the entire reverse, the page to be filled with my soul’s renderings. All I can see is the map of the pulp’s final resting place, where it should be bracing for it’s pounding by words. Yet this page is unafraid, unintimidated, I don’t blame it. What a sorry state of affairs, beaten to a pulp, by pulp.


All that danced is still, all grounds are moving a tango towards the door, the birds inspired are swimming the seas, the cows are shattering the sound barrier in flights of fancy, the houses frolic delicately down a frothing road, the humans are struck deaf and dumb sending fleshy roots in to the ground, contraire sounds strain the eyes, deafened by the stench of a billion fish waltzing in the newly flesh forest, the air crawls and the sea flies, in so many folds we will return to normality.


Is there room for art in this numb perfunctory society? What are we looking for, what do we wait for at the end of the day, at the end of the week? Another dose of social adjustment, a violent outbreak, is there anything real that people buy? Just electric drugs bought and used to sooth a passing moment. Does anyone understand why a flower is beautiful, do they know how much energy is amassed to create a petal? Is a painting a worthless waste, a carving beyond comprehension? Have we evolved only to preen pluck and paint our eyebrows?


I note the walls solidity, they will be here long after me. A plant wavers in a gentle breeze, already wilting, as far as I can see. The sun fires shadows across the floor, a book lays in gloom behind the door. I hear the birds, a flickering flame, soon extinguished, a crying shame. Passing cloud blunts the shadow’s edge, the book reveals it’s title.


She appears, at first, to be frail. Yet as soon as her eyes are held to yours, any thoughts of escape are folly.



Half Full

The alcohol is to the glass
what the bullet is to the gun
ban the shot glasses
to sober everyone.


Wisps coil beautifully from a neat paper funnel
admired indistinctly for no cause but cancer.


Sulking at his confiscated mouse, sullenly he turned away
we picked him up and held him, he purred,
against his better judgement.


He would plot of things to do
and things to be done
his life of task only just begun
he would think of things to learn
music to play, money to earn
endless lists for the fullest life
beautiful house and robust wife
all the world gives invitation
yet he sits indoors
with imagination.


The sky turned darkest blue then black, yet lit still by the burning sun. All began to collapse. At first this was disturbing, thinking of recovery and repair, yet in moments I knew it would not matter, there would be no repair, no recovery. I went from despair to freedom in a blink. The ground leapt, shaken into the air, then plunging back down. All we built and made sprinkled like biscuit crumbs into the sea. Where the sea boiled, meeting the earths steaming guts pouring from within. Tumbling and collapsing, in millennia our corpse finally fizzled out in the sun, like spit on a stove.


An ever expanding jagged crescent grows before my eyes, rippling coloured angles dancing. Perhaps I am looking to another place, perhaps I am downloading an update.


But today is another day, today I feel I will be forever trapped by my own anxiety, the window gifts for a time, a beautiful view, which lends an even starker contrast against these walls, walls built by me, no one else, I know me so well, I built them to counter any plan I could have for escape. I counter reason and hope with self deprecation, spite and slander, hearing the rusty key turn, I lock me in again.

Sugar and Syrup

On my back I rest, I fall towards sleep, a gentle fall, like the first step down a stair, then I bob back up to awake, I can feel consciousness crest then fall back down deeper, as the fall of a swing. I reach the gates, but I am pulled back, pulled from the waters, rising to the precipice of awake before falling once more. Plunging as if from a cliff top, till in the valley I am caught by dream.


Science is a washing powder ad, all bright and clean, trustworthy, getting your whites perfectly bright. Till they change it, say that this is the new perfect, the ever-evolving lie of knowledge.


When I was young, around nine, Dad would take me fishing. There were a few lakes we would frequent, one behind tall fences and a locked gate, where only those with the keys could go fish. You would sit among shrubs, weeds and nettles, a stones throw from the housing estate surrounding it. I preferred another one, a lake dug in an old pit if memory serves, huge hills of earth towered around. some dirt was carved out for BMXs to ride on over a dragon’s tail trail. I would run along them, up and down the steep hills, left and right. I would imagine I was flying, climbing and diving, banking from side to side in an imaginary dog fight. I would love to run.


They keep pulling the bricks from this house’s walls. ‘This is a strong house, there are many bricks’ They say. Well how many do you think till the house falls? How near are we to collapse?


Lights are just a flicker in an infinite of dark
earth is just a shelter an ever sinking ark
pin sparks take the night sky to bed
blinking for the universe so the void is fed
closed eyes see the blooms as nothing more than coal
brightness is a scream from the lonely souls.


The universe is infinitely shallow.
an ever expanding pancake
sugar and syrup please.



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.