The edge of the world.

I went to the edge of the world, an almost endless trek. I looked over, I wondered why I had never seen a picture of it, it is quite impressive. I got my camera out of my pocket, and would you believe it, I dropped it over the edge. Just take my word for it, the edge is very impressive.

 

There is nothing much wrong with the world,
when surrounded by sleeping cats.

 

In amber air the fan whirls an off centre rattle twirl, blowing hot air down to the tables. Buzzap goes the glowing blue fly killer again. The waiter leans against the bar, slicks back his hair and tears the cellophane from a new pack of cigarettes, a ritual. The evening breeze blows the shutters against their catches. Soon the sun will dip, inviting the waifs and strays to tumble from the hill, to unwind the coils of work.

 

The ocean is lapping the beach so gently,
very forgiving I thought.

 

We time travel to the suns previous incarnation, we continue to thrive on mystery energy, we are staying and vibrant, despite the limited energy given. We have travelled for hours in the air, then we travelled for hours in the car, criss crossing the land to be shown where past adventure was had, to where ancestors nested, to where had changed and where had stayed the same. From Half Moon bay to Santa Clara, from Santa Clara to Palo Alto on back to Half Moon bay, then to San Francisco, from San Francisco to Santa Cruz, then back to Half Moon bay. The waves. Though all is thrown at her, all waste, all poisons and death slung into her, still she gives. I believe the Pacific ocean is giving us the vibrancy for continued uninterrupted joy. That, and Stan’s glazed doughnuts for breakfast.

 

The bush chatters, so I reply, I reassure it that I am good, that the weather is fine. The bush chatters more. I feel that is it’s way of thanks. We chat some more, then the birds fly away.

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Jogging.

Jogging now illegal.

Indeed it was a shame we had to make jogging illegal, but it was an inevitable outcome for the common good. The helmet laws were somewhat successful, but there is only so much protection a helmet can provide for such an impact. You know how much it hurts just walking into a door, now imagine jogging into it. Now imagine a door was jogging towards you. But do not put too much thought into it, it would disturb your very fibres to see such an impact. So you see, there really was no choice at all. Jogging will soon be available in purpose built soft areas, the first SoftJog will be rolling out in the spring of 2021, and feel free to carry on walking, but please, walk slowly and be aware of your surroundings. Also remember to note, walking and talking is still a finable offence in city centres. Stay safe and enjoy your aware stroll in open areas.

 

Dear Penny,

As excited as Stephen was to attend your event, unfortunately he is unable to come as he was abducted by the Korean mafia. They came under cover of daylight, at around 10:30 on Tuesday, cloaked in the guise of PVC guttering salesmen. So far no demands have been made, but the abductors assure us Stephen is having a ‘lovely time’. Stephen has never expressed any desire to holiday in Korea, but the abductors seemed to have warm, friendly faces in the video they sent us. God willing Stephen will be back in the new year, around February perhaps.
Have a wonderful time with your celebrations, perhaps next time Stephen will not be diverted by some unforeseen malady,

Regards,

Stephen’s Mum.

___________

Well he was not on my list, but he was an irritant,
I was just on the way to my paid job, I had my tools,
a free favour, to the world, one less irritant,
you’re welcome.

Well, the first thing you need to know is, don’t have a way, don’t have a modus operandi, do you want all to know your work? Our work is not for fame, not for glory, it is just for love.

Learn your craft, learn it forwards and backwards, learn every tool, never occupy the centre, reside in the edges, always be prepared to flee.

________

Dear sir,

I have some issue with these appendages given to me in your grand wisdom. The spout is unruly and aimless and the other two items appear to be of no purpose at all, but to be a seating fragility. The spout also has some issue with my attire, what was once fitted becomes snug at the mere thought of a damsel’s ankle. Some sort of exchange would be prudent, to prevent this distraction progressing further.

Yours truly

Johan Amthryct

_____________

 

I take her for granted, what an insult meant as a compliment, like the sun in the sky and the earth beneath my feet, irreplaceable, solid and unbreakably there. I could celebrate every moment, yet merely cherish them. I will always be here to admire her and she knows that. The sun knows me, the earth knows me, not from my words and not from my actions. Something else at work, they know my weakness, know my strength, as she knows I will remain.

 

I move from subjective to objective,
or vice versa, as I move from sickness,
all my good intentions are melting away,
it all looks too good now, I would miss it too much.
From a place of wellness, the risk of sickness is worth it.

 

The worth of expression is reaction
the value of reaction is priceless.

 

 

Willett Wood

In Willett wood the immortal sprites are playful again. Whispering in passing ears, sending playful shivers to walker’s spines and wafting leaves to dance circles in the glades. Every dawn their Yew tree lets them out into the new light, to help the gnomes maintain the wood. They sprinkle the moss on the bark and lay the sparkle upon the webs, but play is never far away. Many years ago a sprite named Skiin would love to play, glee would erupt from every shiver he drew. But in time, his play grew more cruel, we would trip the children and giggle at their tears, blood would only make his cruel belly heave in laughter. He would push the pheasants into the paths of passing carts and crisp the branches of ancient trees, causing their painful collapse. His kin grew more and more concerned with Skiin, his Yew tree too. Enough thought his Yew. After a tiring day of more than mischief Skiin went to bed in his Yew. Yew closed tightly resolved to never let Skiin out again, or at least until a few centuries had passed, when he could learn his lessons. But Skiin was angry now, these bounds just made him seethe, he knitted his wood magic into a mighty lever and forced his way from his Yew, heaving her roots from the earth. In a fierce flame he flew through the woods, tinder to the ancient ones. The gnomes then took notice and took control. They bound the cruel Skiin, they built a magical brick tower to pin him down, away from world. There he remains, a stones throw from his poor mangled Yew, who grows now stronger than ever, in spite of the cruel sprite.

While sleeping

I search for shoes that match, in a drawer, in an alley. Behind me dogs drag men with chains, wild thick necked dogs with sopping jowls. The chains creak with tension as they drag their keepers towards me, sniffing and snarling at my shoes. I retreat up a stairway, where I meet a man observing the scene. He is a jovial sort, if somewhat imposing as he towers over me. He leans on the rail and casually fondles his pistol while telling me of the dogs. “These dogs are only to pull him down there, he is the one to watch out for”. I look down to where he points and see a huge puce thick set dog dozing. He is almost entirely jowl and has three legs. I take the pistol and fire towards the huge beast, I miss and the dog does not react at all, not a flinch, twitch or blink. I hand the gun back. “Were you sent for me?” I ask. “Oh no” he replies “But in your line of work, you never know”.   :An excerpt from last nights dreaming.

 

July seems so far away, my bones remember nothing of warmth in their winter chill. Circulation is not venturing far from my heart, my fingers and toes are numbing. Holding my soul dear with the warmth that remains. The bus is late.

 

Does there need to be point to a story? Can I perhaps just make something up, I think so, no hero and no villain. No consequences and no conclusion. Just me on my own, going to the supermarket. On approach it does look a story of it’s own, the people pour from all directions like to the mountain in close encounters of the third kind. I imagine the first two being pick your own and convenience stores.. The place is huge, it was not here last year, as soon as it was built it imagined up a whole city of folks who went evidently otherwise hungry. In three circuits I find that someone is leaving, after false alarms of fetched tickets being put into cars, oh the horror of the nearly space. Victory! I leave and get a ticket, to disappoint another poor soul searching for a space. No, I am just returning to put a parking ticket in the windscreen, embarrassing wave.. I don’t know what I need, I know I need crisps, we always need crisps, and biscuits. I should get onions and broccoli, but it is so cold in that forsaken aisle, it was fine for a cool down on a summers day, but this autumnal day is lending an uninviting air to the chill of the aisles, no wonder people tend to buy biscuits, cupa soup, crisps and booze, we stick to the warm aisles. But I guess I must venture down them, for meat and such. I can see my breath, I should not be able to see my breath indoors, I don’t think I could see my breath when I was in the car park. Grab and retreat to warmer aisles. Ah biscuits, you beautiful temptations, always another new, more layers, more chocolate, more sweet. I am reaching my crowd limit, the other people are feeling the same, elbows and eyes are sharp and wicked in their quest for room. I have enough, enough to see me through an evening of TV. I try to gauge how long it would take to get to the register, a longer queue, but less things, those seem to have many small things. Just pick a lane! Oh, a chatty register, this baskets handles are cutting my fingers, yes the weather is the same as this morning. Finally the conveyor, the stick of next invites me to lay out my wares for inspection, a short journey along the rumble strip, along the bleep and down the slide of bought. I feel for my change as the green numbers rise, that much, how awkward a number. I look through my change, but all maths is gone as I feel the weight of the queue behind me, so I hand a large note to the girl. She digs out the notes and change and I try in vain to keep all in my hand, blushing I fumble the coins, fold the notes into my wallet with shaking hands, the pressure of the queue remains. Finally the groceries bagged, my change in my pocket, I can escape to give a wandering soul my space.

 

Lunch box memories.
I see a tupperware lunchbox, the form and smell takes me back, a multitude of years. I can smell the food in the lunchbox, the school dining hall I sat in, I can hear the hustle and bustle of the hectic space, I can see the walls. I would never have the school dinners, not just because they smelt odd and wrong, but the lunchbox would be a vital break from an alien place, a vital link to home.

 

 

 

 

Our emptying bowl

Near the end of the bowl we can see the bottom, the aware slow to preserve what’s left, though there are those who will scrape at the porcelain mindlessly. Sip, look to where the bowl was filled, do you wish to merely remember the flavour? Or wish to sip some more? Perhaps share the next bowl. The cars still pound the road, still burn the fuel. We ignore the pattern below our feet, the swirls at the bottom of the bowl, the pattern that says ‘no more’. We continue to create more and more, slurping at the spoon. We race the cars in circles as if we had a bowl to spare. Planes rip the sky in banshee shrieks. Infinite steel tankers slop precious darkness to the depths, killing the beauty in the sea. A selfish momentum that they cannot or will not slow. That scraping and scraping, how does it not offend their ears?

 

This might be a simulation. Yet contextually, to the avatar, all is real.

 

There is nothing in my day today, no meetings, no work, no occupation at all. I will just watch this candle burn down to nothing, as if time was worthless. Yet if I knew truly how little time I had, I would be overcome with grief at opportunities passing, though what use is such sorrow, it would ruin the enjoyment of watching this candle burn down to nothing.

 

The universe is a toy on Brians desk. Where he sits on an atom considering the eternal loop of time and dimension.

 

Autumn has set light in orange and gold
perversely warm in the fall’s bitter cold
leaving the trees with withered bare branches
reducing the blooms of summer to ashes.

 

Normality is a ruse and a falsehood, pursued by the real perverts, who will maim rape and kill to keep their devilishly straight path shining like hate. In time normality will be uncovered as the fetish it is.

Rebirth

Death and rebirth beautifully choreographed, year after year, century after century. All washed and replenished from a never ceasing orb.
Even the most destructive and selfish demons burning and raping her, are nothing but a minuscule smear on infinite time.

 

The earth looks as blue looking down from above, as it does looking up from below.

 

The grass mugged the cow, the sky just took the clouds and threw them at the mountains, the mountains so shocked, they dropped their snow on the lounging trees, causing them to run to the lake to cool off, if only the lake was warned, he would not have drowned the trees. Now the lake is inconsolable, crying on his knees, drowning the bushes too, oh what days are these?!

 

Beyond the rain, beyond the cloud, beyond the blue. In the darkness, the stars are still there, shining for someone else.

 

Every generation ashamed of evil in it’s pot.
Hoping the following generation
becomes what they could not.

 

I am on edge as the bodies could come in at any time, in any room, the only sure thing is, they will come, in shredded pieces, wailing in pain. My heart is in constant preparation for grief.

 

“Just concentrate” he said to the orange.

Death a mixed bag

When we were young we’d flick his nose
then we’d age and the fear would grow
we’d do anything to avoid his gate
In time we see his friendly face.

 

Blue is the sky and green is the tree
one is for sadness and one for jealousy
both wish to see what the other can see.

 

The bus was full to bursting with righteous religious folks heading to the church. Half way they find the road is blocked. They remained there indefinitely. There was a diversion, but there is only one way for the righteous. In a town not that far away, the church stands sadly empty, at the junction of many paths.

 

All flavour in the meal, not tasteless water, not the wadding of starchy potato. Sparkling spice from one mouthful to the next. A meal is not a chore, it is not a grind, it is tingles and smiles, satisfied sounds. A meal, as a book, as a movie.

 

I bought the same shirt as I saw a guy on TV wearing,
now I am as unique as he is.

 

The heroes are the ones who rescue us
no hero has attacked anyone.

 

The new generation is different to the old, the older generation do not understand them. The young enjoy a different tune, a different food, a different language. The generational gap, the misunderstood. Yet no, the new generation do enjoy garbage, they lazily sit upon inherited knowledge, they love the frivolous and the superficial, they love the chemical and plastic. they are lacklustre. The older generation know this, as they created them, they paved the way to stupidity with greed and laziness, profit margins and prejudice. We cannot complain of our own fetid flawed product.

 

The crow’s calamitous call
is tumbling down the tree
it does not sound at all
like wisdom to me.

Cats and cads

He hands me a golden heart, pristine
I am overjoyed
he takes it and shreds it in front of me
however can I look at him again
carefully he sews it together
the repair makes it more beautiful than ever
I am in love again
he throws it to the wall to shatter
I fall to the well, to the darkness
sly he takes to the silken thread again
patiently I wait to be rescued again
such a fool.

 

A fabrication of a falsehood, an aggrandisement of hyperbole, a boastful embroidery, of an elaboration of an extravagance, a magnification of an overestimation, a million ways to introduce your meagre slice of lies.

 

Without thought the words arrive, how they form they can’t decide, I’ll continue to type and relay absurd, those other else are not yet cured. It must be a joke I believe, something for their tension to relieve, it doesn’t really need to rhyme, just their joke at this time, an aerial to gather mist, a receptor for a wording gist, my mind is open the rivers flow, till the dam clogs to stop the go, crashing through the water eager, washes away obtrusive beaver, he can go where suns have gone, far away then beyond, leave me to receive the signal, erratic spangle befuddle mingle, a crash of rhino a murder of crows, these thoughts do not arrive in rows, shake them out onto a page, let the times new roman age, wring them out, spread them on the plate, till the count is one four eight.

 

Dream of the money tree
wish for being free financially
keep feeding that greedy plan
turn away as they rape the land
worthlessness from the press
another president manifests
green can be so very gory
rewrite a heartfelt story.

 

We are the tigers and the bears
we are the mice and the flies
we are the birds in the sky
and all the fish in the sea
we are all and everything
we should respect ourselves.

 

She preens and perfects at the end of the bed
claws checked and vision calibrated
a sniper assembles her rifle.

Throwing Seahorses

In Clacton on sea, under blue skies, I spied an artefact. It shone gold on ancient polished stone, pebbles they called them. It sat inconsequential among the shopkeeper’s wares, bearing the sign ‘Welcome to Clacton on sea’. A gold seahorse in a sailer’s hat smiled from behind the slogan. As soon as I saw it, I had to have it. I approached the sly looking shop keeper, he was short, squinty and gimpy, he regarded my interest with suspicion. I enquired how much the piece might be worth, he replied “The sticker says five pounds ninety-nine”. I reached into my pocket, feeling through my coins, I pulled them out into the light, to my astonishment it came to five pounds ninety-nine. I asked if he would take five pounds, he said no. I handed the coins to the reluctant sales man, he begrudgingly handed me the item with a warning “Take it if you must, but do not cross the Essex seal, or there will be terrible consequences”. I paused then asked “What sort of consequences?”. He hurrumphed and said “Terrible ones” He then scurried back through the door behind the shop. I do not believe in magic, superstition and suchlike, yet the artefact seemed to shudder beneath it’s paper bag, I paid this no mind and shoved it into my duffle-coat pocket.
I continued to enjoy clear blue skies throughout the rest of the day, before returning to my car, a Y reg Cortina, in reasonable running order, just needing some toupee tape for her vinyl roof, which flaps and trails giving her the appearance of a sprinting bank manager. I gingerly lowered myself onto the scorching plastic seats and started her up to head home. The artefact shuddered once again. I put it down to a misfiring plug and pulled out of the carpark to head home. Blue skies continued to bless my day until along the A12 a dull rumble filled the car, I was approaching London, the border to take my leave of Essex, I thought ‘surely that was nonesen..’. My thought was interrupted by a black lightning bolt firing from the blue, splitting my Cortina in two. In a whirl I was thrown from the wreckage onto the bank. I grasped the shuddering and vibrating artefact from my pocket and threw it in clacton’s general direction. I turned and began my walk back to London.
This was several years ago, I still cannot stand the sight of a ‘Kiss me quick’ hat.

 

Ashen skies host a charcoal dance
mercurial crows untethered
chatter with glee to celebrate
another storm weathered.

 

Climbing in the car for a drive, a drive just for my entertainment, no chore, no reason. I soak in the view, admire the engineering, the hours that went into the tiniest switch. Then look to the road, the black ribbon twisting from left to right over and down, the feeling of the road through the steering wheel and beneath the seat. Then to begin to explore, explore how the car moves at speed, how the weight moves around the car, how the car balances on just one wheel as a ballerina pirouettes. The car is not behaving as a normal car anymore, she is dancing as in the hands of a racing driver. Yet I am not a racing driver, I am not experienced in such a place. I press too far, the feelings become alien, soon I do not know the movements she is showing me. Her skirt swings flamenco, my heart chatters in alarming rhythms. I gather my adrenalin, my ego, my exuberance and slow. To listen to the engine purr, the chassis settle, my heart recover, after the invigoration of dancing off the leash.

 

Just below the surface she swims. When the light is right you can catch a shimmer of her scales, in the corner of your eye, you can see her tail whip. On a full moon she emerges iridescent green and blue, piercing the surface of this world. She then returns back to her realm, to tell of what she saw.

 

Drinking the stew made from shrew
would cue the wretched flu ensued
a rendezvous with toilet tissue
instead imbue a tier of tiramisu
ensure the trips to the loo are few
accrue from the shrewd food guru.

Being different is not a sin

Our country and nation, our state, our fatherland, motherland and homeland, our realm, our kingdom, our empire, our republic, our commonwealth, our province, our district, our region, our domain. Our humorously phallic imaginary ownership.

 

I don’t want to pull at the stake
don’t want to loosen it’s grip
don’t want to slacken the rope
don’t want my tether to slip
I wish to abandon life’s fruits
wish to bury my roots
wish to stay in one place
for an expressionless face.

 

I have sensitive skin, any contact with what I dislike is met with an angry welt, anything distasteful is met with a rash of red itching annoyance. It dies off after a while, some time away from contact with the annoyance.

 

The sea does not call to me
not her beckoning melody
others paw at her diamond crests
their splashing laughter manifests
but I see the dark depths she hides
where all her sickening death resides
I will not step upon her trap door
my place is right here
on the shore.

 

The impossible is only what your mind does not believe
do not lose heart, all you dream can come true
all you need to do is put your mind to it
hey kids stop throwing stuff at me
while I flap around the yard.

 

We tread the path of difference
away from the well worn path
we are not the gossipers
we are the gossip.