Beneath The Sounding Arch

Parham, 23rd April 2014.

2014-04-28T10:51:00.000-07:00

There Lies the 17th Baroness of Haryngworth.

De La Zouche.

A cloudy day with the occasional drop of rain.

A bleak but warm expanse of green

And lightning-struck brown-skeleton-trees

Below the ancient South Downs.

The parish church is open

On sundays at nine fifteen,

Where worship has taken place

Since the 15th Century.

Deer crowd under a tree some little distance

From the quiet graveyard,

Where the orange moss on the headstones

Clash with the fading daffodils,

And the Bluebells swell on the outskirts

And whisper of Summer's close coming.

On a grassy outlet, a stag stands

Arrogantly alone, holding his heavy

headpiece to the changeable breeze,

Rabbits and red pheasants fleeing his stare,

As he looks on out to the horizon,

In search of Summer's hazy kiss.

Towards the house

Two rusty lawn-rollers stand lazily

At the boundary of an unkept cricket pitch;

"We are waiting for Summer," they say,

And the proud stag laughs.

The ice is kept cool under the hill,

Shaded by a great door -

A portal into Narnia, where it's always winter,

Or maybe somewhere darker.

All is uneven but the church roof and,

Beyond the peeping haha,

The archetypal English Hall,

Stern and unyielding as the mighty stag

that wanders its grounds,

Strong and square and harking back

To the Interbellum

(we wait for Gatsby to appear)

And listen silently for the echoes

From further back in time,

Of the first Elizabeth

And baying Irish hounds near the fireplace,

And stable-boys whistling in the straw.

A pilot takes a flying lesson,

Circling the house in awe of the bird's-eye view

Like the jackdaws that hide in the tall pines

opposite the waiting rollers.
And a girl with dirtied curly hair and Welsh and

Russian blood in her veins,

Gallops her horse along the crest of the hill.

Her helmet is purple.

Her grip is secure.

Her eyes fixed on the house at the bottom,

Where the crow guards a swing under a black tree,

And Magnolia hugs the windowsills
And the coats of arms,

And the world races by.

The old stag winks knowingly,

A blackbird chatters -
Yes, yes this is our little secret

Yes, this is the place to be,

Yes there are great paintings in the library

And down the great hallways.

But we look at black and white photographs,

and gravestones and consider the death of a Twelve year old

And the awful contrast to the age of the house

beyond the breathing stone walls.

I tell you how Grandma wants a marble angel,

And Grandpa wants a wooden cross,

And how it should probably be the other way around.

The stableboy is now a groundsman

Unlocking the gate to mow the lawn.

"It could do with a water too" I tell him.

The sun fights through the gloom

And our backs begin to warm

And the stag turns his head to leave his lonely outcrop,

And so we leave too, in the other direction,

Wandering back up the winding drive,

Up past the old smoking-house

And the stoney lion that does not stir

As we turn our backs to go home.

Up past the cattle-grid

And then onto the main-road and

Modern life and our small momentary

Escape remains a well kept secret

With the regal stag at Parham,

Where all is at peace.

Yes, that was the place to be.

And as we leave, the Heron

Flies back from the Mesozoic Age

To its nest by the lake and the summerhouse.

All is at peace. And it is like we were never here.

Yes, this is our little secret,

The daffodils tarry
And Parham waits for the hazy kiss of Summer.

Diamond

2014-02-02T11:05:00.002-08:00

Dream on little diamond, light shines better in the darkness,

So dream on little diamond, dream on and sparkle.

See all the clearer your dreams clear as crystal,

Little diamond be happy, be happy and whistle,

Oh, you flower among thistles,

Bend in the wind, don't stand to be brittle.

Don't stand to be little, make your little voice heard,

And don't stand to settle for anything less than

bright-white beam-dream bottle-neck-blues and ice-cream

teacup-sweet fresh-air green-bean naked footfall.

Dream on little diamond.

Teen-queen dreams of lean sheen,

Warm furs and long cotton socks and long cotton stockings,

Belonging and belongings and obscene scenes for shocking,

Locking mean dreams behind close doors,

And clawing and clamouring for the real cream,

the bona fide creme of the crop dream.

Why expect anything less, when searching without rest,

For what it is that you want, what it is you want found,

What it is you find best, what it is you will grip when all else has digressed,

So when lying in bed, you can sleep without stress as you live to express what,

You have to confess, is your pleasure and pest of a calling -

the calling of the voice inside your head that you try to impress.

Dream on little diamond.

Your glint is flint upon tinder, it helps and doesn't hinder,

When lost in the dark. Your spark is inspiring,

Desiring attention, always worthy of a mention.

A red-hot-dot fire-shot invention with a bite like a shark

To match that bark of your full-vol Venus and Mars ascension.

Dream on little diamond.

I hear those dreams scream through the lines in your brow,

Out from the synapses and pulses into the pine-horizon

And up to the starry studded plough,

Making holes in the clouds,

Your thoughts written down or spoken out loud

Are willed into fruition,

And I do not know how.

How you wrestle the white rabbit that inhabits your brain,

How you tame the beast-tyrant that abides in your cranium,

In control of the polecat that shreds your electronic insides.

(Dream on little diamond.)

The polyphonic pentatonic phantom-blizzard lizard-wizard

That rides around your mind,

I have seen you draw it out.

I have seen you try to hide it, and when it's not about

I its cold white-lightning in your eyes.

It never dies, i know not why.

When you smile I see it rise.

When you cry i see it cry.

So dream on little diamond.

You've so much to give, so much to find out

And so much to live for and live through

and live with and live up to,

Though there's much to avoid,

much to interrupt and corrupt you.

But always aspire to go higher.

The flames of your fires will lay waste without haste

for the dreams you desire, for the dreams that you chase.

And by the grace you've been granted,

The seeds that are planted within you will bloom,

They'll boom and balloon into whatever you want them to,

So dream on little diamond.

The fun has only just begun so let your sleek fast riverboat run.

Let the emperor thumb a gladiatorial victory

That will go down in history as you start the mystery tour

Of a lifetime in awe of your own self-potential.

Always want more but never alter who you are

Or the skin you were born in.

Know that blood is thicker than water, and that

You'll conquer the world with just a pestle and mortar.

And remember i'm proud.

And always remember to dream on little diamond.

Dream on little diamond girl.

Dream on and be happy my diamond daughter.

Viewing Things For Edwin

2013-12-20T16:59:00.001-08:00

What I love about churches are their cold echo

What I hate about politicians are their change of tune

What I love about the Landrover is its steadfastness of character

What I hate about liars is their culpability

What I love about smoke is its fire and brimstone

What hate about tabloids is their lack of fine print

What I love about Tambourine is her amber freckles, unrealised divination and experienced youthfulness

What I hate about Mary’s husband (Andrew) is his sly unrealised arrogance and sleek new trainers

What I love about Gem-stone is her unwavering iridescence, humour and love

What I hate about rhythm is the bars that beat around and about me

What I love about William is his kindred spirit

What I hate about South Africa is its unfortunately timed Orwellian manifestation

What I love about St. Nick is his willingness to involve and challenge me

What I hate about bottles are their bottoms

What I love about poetry is its girth and potential, its liberty and open road

What I hate about Eden is its unthoughtful paradigmatic ideology

What I love about the light-bulb is its refusal to be stifled

What I hate about creation is its ability to allude me

What I love about love is currently a mystery

What I hate about hate is its capacity for blindness

What I love about hate is its place on the emotional spectrum

What I hate about love is its theft

What I love about Juan-Henri is our propensity to concur

What I hate about Jack is his lack of mastery and uneducated southern drool

What I love about St. Steven is his ability to laugh at himself with the happiness of others in mind

What I hate about Christmas is its hollow annual metaphors

What I love about the wind depends on which way it’s blowing

What I hate about derelict buildings is the older they get the more stubborn they become

What I love about a cloud is its Eye of Providence – omniscient, bird’s eye view

What I hate about you, wretched cancer, is your abhorrence for reason, justice and fair play

What I love about the outsider is his underdog chance, his view looking in, and his eventually and inevitable triumph against the odds

What I love about the mountain air is its palpable, gulpable crystal-clean purity and soothing cerebral refresh

And what I love about us is we all agree

The Moon Is A 'Hotless' Child

2013-11-07T15:51:00.000-08:00

The moon is a hotless child. And I?

A blurred prince that dreamt I saw you

On the front row of a congregation.

You and the preacher-man were in cahoots.

We cleaned up our sins

And the mud off our boots.

There is nothing there now

So why try to bite?

Why try fly a plane

Before flying a kite?

The beginning is over

The end hasn’t come yet

And all there is to care about is now,

Hanging here, now, a branch on a tree

Whether happy or in pain,

I bow, I submit, I endure.

The moon is a hotless child. And I?

I am its long lost brother,

For tonight the bottle is half empty,

Half full of air, half full of poison,

Whichever is better for you.

The moon is a hotless child. And I?

The hapless father of a lukewarm generation.

Where is the fruit of my long suffered alternative philosophy?

Where is the organic home grown apple of my eye?

What ails the men at arms,

Fighting for a slither of originality?

How comes such valour with so little reward?

Where is the son? Where is the Sun

Of glorious pastimes,

Glorious passed times,

Glorious past times;

The offspring of creativity itself

In a lukewarm bath of befuddlement

And lack of sincere aim?

The moon is a hotless child. And I?

A frozen lunatic.

Marred by my own bewilderment

By my own ineptitude

By my own lack of foresight

By my own fuzzy logic and indecisiveness,

Though as of yet not hoisted by my own placard.

A blurred prince?

To say the least. Boots clean,

And you on the front pew,

In the cockpit,

Dancing in the orchard,

And manipulating solar spheres,

While your hands still shake

When you strike a match.

The moon is a hotless child. And I?

The day after tomorrow’s dawn.

Though as of yet, I’m undecided.

Ramblings of A Wander-Lusting Neophyte (The Usual Blur of Words)

2013-04-25T18:47:00.000-07:00

Are you ready? For a copyright infringement

That will go down a storm

In the right pair of ears.

Are you ready? For a right-inky-mess,

Neurotically depreciative of its own engineering.

A slippery sex-on-the-beach-monkey-nipple of a thought…

Discerning baggy-clothed and barefoot to be the happier option.

Do I dare,

And do I dare disturb the universe

With a cacophony of half-baked words,

Amounting to an ‘I love the bones of you,

That, I cannot escape.’ (?)

Some mirror ball, in an empty disco hall,

Reflects a similar sentiment –

That of Everything In Its Right Place,

Everything Has Changed.

Tonight the city sounds were violins,

Tonight the stars were multicoloured.

And whilst I reiterate, whilst I regurgitate,

Somewhere the last echoes of a snare drum

Fade out to a quick acoustic death.

Lets then. Yes lets – entertain a myriad of impressions

Fantastic and evanescent,

A sharp steel shard of the refreshingly ordinary –

Something like ‘world peace, less pollution

And butts that look good everywhere.’

…put that in your cocktail shaker.

Lets have a powwow

A Boom-Boom-Pow-Wow

To welcome Dawn’s eternal throes

And grasp earthy tufts of fuller life

To glide the highs and ride the lows

And help rebuff a word, a world, of strife.

The airwaves hum (Zumm Zumm),

The transatlantic, London to Brighton

“ Problems of an extravert”,

So peculiarly foreign.

The Exotic Other?

No. The Great Unknown.

Physicians are a good sort.

They want to do the right thing.

And yet all of us, behind closed doors,

Would kill to hear the Sirens sing.

…Do not all charms fly

At the mere touch of cold philosophy?

Cold and calculating, knowing all –

Nothing left to imagination’s sense of adventure.

Well, you’ve the wrong weather forecast.

That life, you know the one set out for you by others,

The one that has the universal-thumbs-up,

You-can-do-it-Facebook-official,

Chew-on-yer-pen, follow the leader

Yellow-brick-road

In red shoes kinda deal;

The one constructed in all futures but yours,

Set out in all plans but yours?

That’s the one you think hardest about.

Think harder, and then contemplate it in full -

Just for good measure.

Then, with your head in circles,

And out of kilter with Daddy’s Five-Year-Plan,

Look up the word ‘wanderlust’ in the dictionary.

And whatever your mind falls to

In the pending moments,

That is what you

Chase. And be happy(ier).

So say all earnest generations previously.

So say I.

The Montepulciano agrees.
Do I dare to eat a peach?

…Out to the windy beach,

Far from the twisted reach

Of crazy final moment’s

Sweet surrender, fragmentary,

Paradigmatic, post-modern,

Dada inspired sorrow.

It’s OK. I was a neophyte once

Upon a time, dressing so fine…

With bones on the table…

Feathers in the garden…

Clothes on the line.

Dystopia eat your heart out

2013-03-02T05:23:00.000-08:00

You have the right to know that my heart is in this matter. So when I know you were here before, that you left a wet footprint on the bathroom floor, a ghost of your presence, a shadow to the wind, a whisper to your essence, the likes of which I can conjure up without a second thought, but might be tinged with the smallest dose of pain sometimes, remember my heart misty murmur is in this. We all have to strive, and strain and seek what is good and where the silver lining that is the only thing on God’s green earth worth shouting about, and if not then no one’s got a chance. And everyone wants a chance…

…The moon, yes the moon. I haven’t howled at it, but it outshines a mid-night metropolis. Streets sleep, pavements are empty but the city has a pulse that cannot be stopped and a thirst which cannot be quenched, no matter how many hipster jazz cats bop to the underground night beats that no one can see but are always heard.

Lets be me, whoever you are, and entertain a world of furies and wear Nike ironically in pretence but covertly think it the thing to wear, and everyone else thinks the same and nods and passes narcotics in your direction, as if it’s the cure, the remedy for times of insecurity and despair – one of the two.

Call Lane reeks of the failed artistry of European song, once shot in the chest, but he’ll ‘give you a sheet of his unpublished music genius ‘cos you played Mardy Bum so tight considering the time of night and the alcohol percentage of Red Stripe.’ He digs it. Man, he digs it.

If only Cadillacs were from Yorkshire. We could get one second hand, I know a guy who knows a guy who knows Cadillacs. Real cheap. Real good nick. Real great Nike. Real good spanner in the works, and we could bomb to the coast and get high on grey waves and white wine or try to find the Pennines and make our mark. But the roads are too small, incorrigibly acute and sheep and rain and old stonewalls ooze obtuse Shakespearian anxieties, a kinda rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind notion and the Rozzers wouldn’t be too keen.

If you ask me, I think we’re too middleclass to revolt enough to see ourselves as we wish. This may not be the case. I hope it isn’t. Hope being the main reason why I write. To be free of the fear. THE FEAR. To be free is to write, but in writing, I address what it is I cannot surpass (I think.) And I am left nonethewiser much like when you find yourself on Call Lane. Although how much like it it is I have no idea. The similarity lies in the searching, I would suggest. The big fat gypsy nothing we wish to fill in – colouring in the spaces between the lines that define us, like the train journeys that are the gaps between our sense of life. And to find articulate brevity that matches what it is in our minds we cannot verbalise of vocalise – to find and capitalise on that is what those on Call Lane search for. Or so I like to think… that’s why, certainly, I’ve found myself there a few times.

Mixing it with the revellers – pretending to be on a level of loss, which I can relate to, but find weary, both at the same time, at the same instant when handing over moola and looking down the sticky neon bubblegum drum rum bar at my own reflection, and the mirrored image of myself I find in others, those Sambuca fiends give me back a knowing look of ‘yeah I got a loan out for this shindig’ and I’m like ‘yeah I can’t relate as much as you think I can.’ And the music swirls and gyrates, people swim through it and come out the other side dry-wet and grinning helplessly, it heats the room, and more time than you think is spent looking at the floor and your feet and the sink in the toilets. Then you’re gone and you hit taxi tyres and fumble wallets and shout at some cat that was meant to be sharing a lift to our neck of the woods. But before you know it you’re shouting out orders for Styrofoam boxes with extra mayo and go easy on the garlic and why would I want salad, swearing for the lack of fizzy tin pop sweet drink, then reaching for the payment in your pocket you’re nine pennies short of, and after incredulity think that although worn out, home is close and the chirp bird dawn chorus don’t get heard by many.

Stagger past steaming green bins and you crash into dark kitchen space at first light and smash silently up hollow stairs and look into space before closing out that same caffeinated city spectacle scene that now twitches awake while you twitch for sleep, a big fat gypsy nothing of sleep that your soul yearns for until afternoon. But your liver moans, then it groans and turns inside out with self-satisfying disgust. Throwing a window open for cold air to ice lungs and face, unconscious gasps of invisible nature quench stripes of red unease, and you watch an obese sunburnt blue belly hero sort in a panama hat toke a Cuban, while you momentarily remember we’re out of matches, you get Spanish strings and woody acoustic type vibes and sounds and the Samba pulse through thoughts best left for a smoky room full of mahogany and whisky and moustaches singing snooker and the tap’n’echo-click of billiard balls on verde velvet. But that’s a place you haunt too often and discard it from cloudy mindset and lean and teeter from a window, which once held the moon misty and the street-lamp-lit skeleton frame of urban immortality, but now frames a pylon wire web spread to the horizon and a dead-electric black Mercedes-Benz and a newsagents that charges to pay on card. The moon the moon the murky orb hovers the city swells and shivers morning’s unstoppable beckons. This is where we eat ourselves and in doing so recognise our self-destructive hardwiring. But all you know you need is a roll of toilet paper and a lined notebook for the degree you should probably start working towards. But you justify coffee to the list to make it worth your while and squeeze downstairs and into sunlight, vile and deviant and unforgiving like a frowning adult who’s never had a hangover. You rock to and fro and think you’re rocking aviators for the light-pain, but really you look like some sort of televised talent show boy band member dropout with hair to match, and end up crashing on the sofa because the guy on ITV turns out to be a thief and a severe neurotic and you pity him more than you dislike him, and anyway Grand Designs is on plus one in a quarter of an hours time… Dystopia eat your heart out.

Some Called Him Vincent

2012-12-16T18:54:00.002-08:00

They tease only because they like what is true. 

That is why you call them friends.

So when, in avocado skies,

With the fragrance of fuchsias,  

And perhaps even focaccia,  

And other salty, honest facts of life,

Droning like blue hummingbirds

And Manuka bees,

You seep through my weak and ailing

Ego, out onto the blotting paper of my conscious mind,  

I shall consider what it is they cherish,  

And come, perhaps, to feel the same.

And do not berate me when I do,  

I tease you only because I like what's true! 

But here's a precursory thought or two,

Already noted on bibulous blue...

While I write a bottle’s worth

Of evasive attempts at articulation,

The following transpires:

That I have more in common with Van Gogh

Than most care to know, or notice.

That some called him Vincent.

That all I’ve ever written does not sum me up now,

And that the whereabouts of Brighton really doesn’t matter.

That you are the closest I will ever come

To understanding the stars,

And candidness is more attractive

And captivating

Than anyone cares to admit.

That lousy house parties

Are sometimes better than expected.

And you are braver than me,

And I thank you for it.

That speech is, more often than not,

Inadequate, and

Words seldom do justice

(However hard I battle with them.)

And that self-confessing,

Asymmetrical smiles

Are secretly my favorite kind.

That some songs have a hold on me,

That I could never explain much,

And photographs are not my favorite medium.

That poems are often incredibly hard to write,

And it’s all your fault.

(That you’re forgiven.)

And that even the spectrum

Of browns, golden and dusty,

Azul, virescent and viridescent,

Warm and hazy, igneous-red,

Flushed in sunset,

Curled in blazing amber;

The hue of gloriously tawny,

Shaggy apertures

Of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers

Are no match

For the honeyed morning's

Beams of light

Dancing on your head.

'But how can words express the feel of sunlight in the morning...'

Aunties that would

2012-11-29T05:25:00.003-08:00

I pace a space of limited freedom.

A space where, when love’s concerned,

We’re rarely in our right mind.

And times eternal lines wash out

Onto white pages in elegant contours of black -

Outlining all it is I cannot say,

Like ink on a body bathed in caramel.

Tonight the roof is open. And enigmatic

Shapes fill the void above our heads;

Incandescent shapes swirling and burning

At night before the eyes of stars,

The stern staring bright shafts of winking white,

And yellow and crystal.

Oh, Pompeian Girl – the old me was young!

Oh, reckless indecision,

Ever evading good sense,

Like shapes in the black;

Light evasive figures of light-lost spaces –

Pinning at hope in the dark.

Oh discontented winter of your youth,

You have been weighed.

You have been found wanting.

You’re going down

And I’m coming with you.

Electricity hurts,

And the Hippie-code is broken.

Placid indifference envelops my heart.

The city reeks of Urban Folk, miscalculation and conceit.

I eat my hand, fingers first,

Contemplating the Epic Cycle,

Like Plato in the shadows of the Beule Gate.

And write drivel

With the neurotic mind of a sonneteer –

Past cure am I now reason is past care.

Still no star-fangled shape of blurry

Minds eye reveals itself.

Still the work is not yet done.

Tilting for months-on-end

Upon the abyss of some nauseating

Overheated, drug-induced-calm-before-the-storm.

I lose my touch,

And touch loose ends

Of quasi-philosophical moments

Of enlightenment, or revelation,

Or some other nonsensical,

Unimportant bullshit,

Like the etymology of

God and good.

Good God, and giddy aunts,

And aunties that would put the sophists

And the pop world, and the upper class,

And parliamentary embarrassment, and

The football score, and grammar, and

Self-induced debt, and man-flu, and

‘off days’, and awkward dates, and

Broken phones, and insufferable library fellows, and

Hangovers, and the middle class, and first world problems,

And second world problems, and no signal,

And problems with the ex, and

The wrong coloured flowers,

And the fickle whims of fussy eaters, -

The repulsion of grown men at the sight of blood,

Or a reasonably dirty kitchen surface;

A broken string, a bad day, a long week,

A bad long week, a weekend cut short,

A short changing, the wrong sized internet-delivery,

The trivial pursuit of ancient notions of justice,

And early mornings, and morning sickness,

And the evasive nature of

Soul-mates and talent and happiness,

And fucking myxomatosis,

And dissertation proposals

And dissertations, and deadlines and pay-cheques,

And checkups;

Anything that is not fighting for your life

Or for those you love…

…Aunties that put all this to shame.

She is strong.

She eats Odysseus for breakfast,

With his affable, sneering, divine assistance.

Lighten her load if you can.

My helpless heart and I are here all week.

And my velvet tongue will inflame

And be an irritant.

My unconscious will tell me that you scoff,

Though you don’t,

I know you don’t.

Yet doubt and delusion will prevail,

And I find myself

Pacing a space of limited freedom,

Crowded by celestial forms, looming deadlines

And unfinished sentences that...

Un-poem ( for D )

2012-09-19T19:26:00.003-07:00

I ache somewhere I cannot touch

And long for something other –

Something I cannot feel or fathom,

For it has not been invented yet.

I will nurse this aching, this longing,

This yearning, though I know not what it is,

And then I will pioneer it, build it,

Shout it from the very mountains I’ve created –

I do not boast, or gloat.

This is not arrogance – just the facts.

Someone once hit the nail on the head, you see,

Suggesting “A quiet confidence.”

I will rise in the same breath others see as my downfall,

And in rising, others will foresee my plight.

A hard fall – fool-hardy descent I’m sure,

Whatever that means.

I notice that others are embarrassed about their strengths,

And I struggle to see anything but the same.

And if it weren’t for a tingling in my bones –

And the strength in my inky voice

Which, whether or not triumphant,

Gets me where I wish to go,

and gives me warmth,

And a comfort otherwise unknown.

I hope you feel this too,

For there is no space for elitism -

Stirrups and dishtowels are all the same to me.

I hijack races,

I do not boycott them,

Whilst waiting for your approving word.

You are me, but with a song to sing,

And at better odds with the world.

There’s no faster way to send a message than through song,

And you’re delivering the post -

Whether it be in how you deliver,

Or in what you enclose,

It will be with grace

And artfully,

And with authority.

So do not tire.

In the gentle hours you return.

Concentration is lost,

And as you enter I realise I cannot write,

And that you’re too big for the paper in front of me.

I dream of bones, and what you mean,

And what you mean to create.

I pretend to understand,

And wish I did,

And wish a myriad of other possibilities

Embodied by you.

Potential is something you have come to know,

Whilst for most it remains aloof,

And at the top of stairwells yet discovered.

Remember this.

Treasure this.

Utilise this.

If only for my sake?

Believe it or not,

You pass through my mind

Whenever I sit down to write.

Do not go ego-tripping –

I know you wont.

But know that I know that you know you have the confidence to succeed –

However Ehrmannian (it’s a word now) this might sound.

I’m sorry we have not been in touch

As much as we should –

Clichéd perhaps,

But true.

Come visit.

Yours, as ever…

Philosophie.

2012-09-19T17:34:00.003-07:00

Pulling long strands of your lemon grass hair from my clothes,

I consider, as I watch them fall to the ground one by one,

Should I let you go as easily?

Coffee stains, you see my Darling, are not so easy to remove.

And amber stones infect my heart with rapidity.

I stole an esoteric kiss from red, enraptured, trembling lips,

While eyes deep and wide enough to drown in shot me through the chest,

And fingertips

Traced my limbs

Through candle-lit smoke rings.

And achingly beautiful birthmarks, scars and loveable idiosyncrasies

Swirl around my mind, awash with whisky,

And Puccini,

And suicidal Butterflies.

A dangerous, heady, Olive-green elixir.

An ethereal melee perpetuating unrest,

And thoughts of when I'll be seeing you next...

And other nervous questions,

Like where can you get a good night sleep round here?

‘Reverse Cowgirl & Thinking of Death’

2012-08-01T19:02:00.003-07:00

You grip my throat sporadically, erratically – not often.

And trickle in through passages and pores I can’t defend.

Treacle through fingers.

But you avoid me too, and I hate it just as much.

I wait for your hand to loosen,

I breathe cool air,

Then I feel your absence.

Your gloopy venom is addictive.

I tasted you once, and now my tongue yearns,

And eats itself –

It flickers and twists and spits its serpentine-self out. In vain.

A vague, dull shadowy lustre remains,

Undulating under baited breath,

For another foul injection.

In reality I fear you. I despise you. I hate you.

If you’d only never return,

I could spit you out forever,

And tongue sweeter, healthier, more benign stuff.

No more swilling,

No more idiosyncratic sways upon social norms,

High Society and empty smiles that stifle natural intentions.

You are a disease, and far from untreated.

You are the last drag, the last hit,

The very last dose that no one actually wants.

I rebuke myself wholeheartedly
At even entertaining the idea of having you in my company. Yet there you are –

In every message, in every ransacked draw,

In every turned out rucksack, every old coat pocket,

Every dirty shirt, every unstitched button,

In every visitor’s news, every car back-seat,

Every dusty notebook, every empty fruit-bowl,

Every old, long-unseen smile, every dowsed fire,

Every man woman and child I sit across the table from.

There you are. Somehow. In some form.

Turning my sweat cold like cheap wine,

In what is otherwise an already disturbingly depressing

Struggle to maintain some kind of equilibrium or serenity,

Let alone with your smug mug cropping up scornfully uninvited.

You seduce me before I recognise you.

Helping yourself to the food on my plate with a wink,

While I do nothing as if handcuffed, and chained at the soul.

Then I move to eat.

Hand to fork.

Fork to mouth.

And it tastes of you.

It reeks of you.

And if I were anything but human,

I’d spit you out onto the kitchen floor,

Stamp on the bile you’ve stolen from me,

Burn you with kerosene,

And wage a third world war on the very concept of you ever existing.

But I am a human.

And moments later you have me

‘reverse cowgirl and thinking of death’

As coy and Marvellian as you like.

I indulge in full-knowing paralysis,

Lapping up your unvanquished honeyed venom,

With a voraciousness that redefines Lovesick –

Giving it a whole new meaning

Going beyond the epitome of disgust.

Enslaved, you have me smash myself against the ceiling.

And eat myself over again from within.

Consuming me like the fire I found you in.

You have me rage and conspire against those I don’t know.

But I will conspire against you one-day.

You have me hate others, but I will forever hate you.

You have me search my soul and grate it upon street corners

And the pavement of city-centres,

While you gleefully, whimsically prod my past

Or polish vain, rose-tinted hopes that without you

I’d know were futile and unjust –

Until I ruin them myself, knowing all the while

That you are the author of my unnecessary devastations.

But I will smash your green demonic skull into obsolescence

In some back-alley where none will find your

Bubbling frothing corpse.

You will be utterly repudiated even by the rats.

And the flies will drop you,

Iota

Iota,

Onto the tracks at Dalston to be rendered into absolute oblivion.

And I will go, a man unshackled, about my business –

Whether it be of importance or not,

It will be with a conscience cleansed.

But for now, vile sham of an emotion that you are,

I do your inglorious bidding.

Zombified and putrid, my actions smell of you.

They reek of you.

You intoxicate what should be left alone

And endured with silence and rapidity.

Yet you elongate these private, personal trails torturously,

In some sensational Cold War.

It goes without saying,

The world would be well rid of you.

Yet godlike, you endure the ages

Just as we endure you.

Perhaps Keats was too afraid to admit it –

You are the original

La Belle Dame Sans Merci.

Pluto’s daughter in persistent disguise.

To be seen presently

‘reverse cowgirl and thinking of death’.

I'm Not There.

2012-06-05T17:45:00.002-07:00

You may look for me on Oxford Street

At dawn or dusk or night.

Or downtown where the down-and-outs meet

To drink and sleep and fight.

You may catch my shadow lurking on the curb

In the rainy middle-class suburbs.

(You’ll be chewing on the cud and on the curd,)

And they’ll all think you quite absurd,

And pass you by without a word

Without a care.

You won’t find me.

No, I’m not there.

You might get a glimpse at sundown

Of me and The Sundance Kid,

Riding onto Cape Town,

Or sliding through Madrid,

Or stealing through the byways of Turin –

Winking at the bottom of your glass of bitter gin,

Breathing through your window, on your skin,

Guessing what I think, just like a twin

But I swear,

You won’t find me,

No, I’m not there.

Chase my name to the horizon

Or the shores of Timbuktu;

Just be sure to keep your eyes on

Those two feet in-front of you.

I’ll be biting at your heels,

The stinging citrus scent of the fruit you peel,

The whirling hub of your bicycle wheel,

The hassock you fall upon when you come to kneel

In prayer.

But you won’t find me,

No, I’m not there.

Do not think that I will answer

When you ask or shout or call.

The figure of the folk dancer

Will not be me at all.

I’ll be the one that you’re not looking at,

Sitting in the place where you just sat,

Wiping from my face what you have spat,

Sleeping in every dark empty pocket of every new coat that

You wear.

Oh, you won’t find me,

I’m not there.

In every crowd and every gathering

You will turn around to see

That where I am not standing

Is not where you want to be.

Somewhere between you waking and your sleep

I swim the deepest secrets that you keep,

Silently catching the tears you weep,

In the kitchen cooking the food you eat

Minding what you sow you reap!

I am one step ahead of a sentient sweet

And fair.

But you will not find me.

I am not there.

Square One

2012-05-31T15:27:00.000-07:00

It’s like biting into a lemon,

Or choosing the wrong pill

Offered to you by a bald man in dark glasses

In some wonderland fantasy exalting a looking glass,

When you choose to chase down memories…

Like a white rabbit bolting down a black hole.

I reconstruct you necessarily…

It hurts – I shouldn’t do it,

But inevitably.

And I compare you to everything;

To everything in it’s right place,

Clinging on to what was,

Or what should have been.

Whoever you are

You were the root of a root,

The sky of a sky of a tree called What If

At the bottom of my glass,

In the first place that didn’t know my name.

You controlled me for a second

With your eyes.

With your hands.

But now you handle me remotely

From somewhere I don’t know

And will never be.

You would say things like

“Don’t you think

That just for one evening

The stars should be

Multi-coloured.” And you

Smile sheepishly

Wishfully,

Then stare at the bottom of your own glass

And then say “Anyway

There’s a thin line between love and hate

It’s so easy to have feelings of hate

For someone you love -

You end up caring too much,

And then they do the slightest thing wrong to hurt you

And you hate them for it.

That’s how I see it anyway.”

Or something like that.

As for me, I intend to sit and read.

Then I will smoke and dance.

Because the way I see it,

I live in a city with no memory,

The way money is between good friends…

And my days shall be lazy without end.

Cos the way I see it,

Love makes you solitary,

And all at sea

Contemplate universal facts that can’t be helped, like –

Straights smoke quicker than rollies.

And yes you can say “this happens to everyone”

No doubt it regularly does –

Probably because you can go anywhere

Dress as someone else.

You’ve don’t that, I can tell.

I guess what I really want to know is who are you?

Here I am.

Reeling at the very idea of remembrance.

In my own historic battle,

Perpetually considering you.

Y.O.U

You owe ME.

As I crash land,

Heavily injured,

Into a room you might call “Square One”,

Questioning just how it is exactly

I’m here again.

What Are You Thinking?

2012-03-25T16:29:00.004-07:00

What are you thinking? She said.
Have you ever tried standing outside
Late at night and have everything

Sound so silent that you can
Hear your ears ringing?
No. She said.
What are you thinking?
Nothing. She said.

And then you realise,

Staring into wide effervescent eyes,

That your intense willingness to be
Open and honest with this
Daisy-chain enwreathed
Creature of sensation,

Does not compliment

Her nervous wish to maintain
an extraordinarily exquisite air of mystery.

A mystery in itself, no less...
...and rather unhelpful, if you ask me.

Flesh On Flesh.

2012-01-29T14:03:00.000-08:00

Flesh on flesh. Eyes watch eyes

Following fingers round curvatures. Caressing skin.

Skin on skin. Flesh in flesh.

A gin-sung-dream –

Silent utterances from the dark-side of a candlestick.

An unsung overture to Nature’s greatest gift

And Nature’s perfect curse.

Lips pursed open, speechless. Breathless.

Wide-white eyes scream STOP. blink. GO ON.

Glances flash between the flickers of candlelight ,

Meeting unknown looks in the black. Bodies

Embrace, writing words that have their own

Music. Heard only by its two composers.

Everywhere the other wishes to be –

Vivacity. Revelling in promiscuity.

Obscurity. Strangers share a warmth

As old as the ages.

A wafer-thin knife-edge of meaning.

Gin-song dreaming. An opaque tonic

For loneliness.

Hands in hands, heart fleeting.

The perfect curse of Man

In the stroking of skin.

Later, a vague sound of water, a towel

A drawer closing – a door latch clicks.

The world floods back.

Through the curtains,

Through the drainpipes

Your fleeting heart sheepishly returns,

Aching like a hangover.

Too much gin.

The momentary tonic wears off.

Heart in hand,

Hand to head.

Candlelit premonitions return.

Heated flesh. Arching backs.

Fingers through hair…

Salty fingers through oily hair and

Blood-red-wine lipstick smudges and

A singeing waxy smell makes you reel

To the window for air.

And there you are again,

In the middle of a city that knows you

More than your Alcoholic Lover,

A Melancholic Mother to all your needs,

Except the one you tried to soothe

A few hours back.

The one you pine for.

The one you lack.

Oh, this Humdrum City

Rushing you, with your heart in your hand, off your feet.

And your heart in the street

And the gin in your glass

Whenever you meet

Whoever it is that might

Make you complete…

A vague sound of water, a towel,

A candle extinguished, a door hinge creeks.

Wafer-thin. Flesh on flesh.

A belt buckle rings, a zip

A drawer closing, a door latch clicks.

The door latch clicks.

New Beginnings.

2012-01-29T14:01:00.000-08:00

Am I not your root, your source?
Do I not bite into your being?
Did I not draw you from the depths of Hell,
Out into the vast light of atmospheric health
To be born of more solid stuff, oh Auburn Queen of Fall?

Before you plunged us both back
We were made of the same solid stuff, the same self.
We were one once, you and I.

I traded in God for the first you,
Shortly after time began.
I felt your eyes upon me, oh Amphetamine Queen of all I've seen,
And all the places I have been since time immemorial.
Yet now, now alas, for this grey shadow,
Once a man, would sign any Faustian pact again,
And act protagonist to any damned Marlowian tragedy!

Tortured with optical touches
And words unsaid.
The composer of commotion strange
Inside a prelapsarian breast
Has left me fraught throughout the ages.
And still, I'd fall nine more satanic days through Chaos pure,
If it meant landing any closer to you.

Let us go back to Paradise, you and I.
What is lost can surely be regained.
Here's to new beginnings...

2011-05-16T04:03:00.001-07:00

Had we but world enough, and time,

(And all was fair in love and war,)

To read the mariner's ancient rime,

And know what stout Cortez first saw,

Perhaps then we would understand

What Sophocles heard upon the dark Aegean;

And how Agamemnon felt.

Or when, on Dover's cobbled beach

Arnold had his nation knelt

In a moment's soul's reflection.

Plath ate her men like air.

Tantalus served the gods his son.

But to dine with literary kings and queens,

And share their feast, is an honor I've yet won.

Mid-Summer Dance

2011-02-05T13:05:00.000-08:00

The next time you go running in circles daydreaming, take me with you.

Round and round and round and round

Until the sky clears, clouds disperse on the ocean,

Dancing.

On unswept autumn leaves.

On a hillside with the heavens open - soaking you to the skin.

A field of long grass in morning mist, of corn at sunset.

Flowers in your hair, linen round your shoulders, round your waist,

Freckles swimming in flushed cheeks, auburn hair

Whipping round your face. Smiling, laughing,

Round and round you race, chasing down your dreams,

Leaving normality behind. Up you soar

To dizzying heights,

Forgetting sleep on summer nights.

Tired.

2010-09-16T07:57:00.000-07:00

You write. The table moves rhythmically.

Sip hot chocolate. Pages scattered.

A candle burns, shadows flicker across

Your face. Concentrate.

Inky blue fingers, bic lighters. Lucky Strikes.

You are studious. Hands in sleeves.

Rosy lips, hidden behind your shawl.

Velvet jacket. Passionate.

Your hand writing is bold, round

Friendly but forceful - excited or in a hurry?

You tear pages apart. Swear, and write on.

The only blank page is your face.

You write with your eyes.

Expression impossible to detect.

What do you think?

I want to know you. How will this end?

I will learn how to read you.

Know you. Second guess you.

Where will you be? I hope.

Fingers crossed.

To be scared, terrified of repetition.

Rehabilitation.

Finally I am tired. You have worn me out.

Mind Body and Soul.

Wonderful exhaustion.

But your presence keeps me awake.

Short sighs - of love ( I hope )

Just audible over your pen scratching doggedly.

Sleeves on paper edges. Leaves rustling. Sandpaper.

Kiss me again Ridiculous Girl. You pause,

Stroke my hair - an eternity of navy blues,

Greys and strawberry cheeks.

Paint in my hair. Sugar at the bottom of my cup.

I miss you, though you sit in front of me.

Bushfire Season

2010-09-16T07:15:00.000-07:00

My feet sweat, my shoulders burn

But I am indifferent.

Nature plays around me.

Close your eyes. The last thing you see

is a white butterfly dance past the tree-line

into oblivion blue.

Bush leaves crackle above you in branches

and below you, let loose through brittle grass.

A light wind conducts a symphony in which

Each shrub plays a part.

Each dry branch, kindling ready to explode,

Itching to snap its dangerously perfect note.

Thorns whistle sharply - reeds hiss and hum.

Every breeze is a clown, taking up instruments

And jostling melodies to play all at once.

The grass rushes to its queue, dry as a bone.

Leaves follow behind in vague harmonies.

I wait on the edge of an eventful storm.

The sky is blue.

A storm of events - something big,

Behind the horizon, behind the mirage.

A rhino.

A microlite .

Electric fences, purring.

A wan nation celebrates, then groans behind the hills.

Natures orchestra sings to no one in particular

To T. (Part I.)

2010-09-16T07:10:00.000-07:00

A lyrical scarf to warm your throat,

And stay up with you on cold winter nights.

- Keeps you going, keeps you sweet,

Alive and merry.

Relieves you, revives you, releases a smile.

Complimenting the stars, the moon.

And tobacco on your lips.

Or Sunrise, early showers, soapy skin

- Waiting in the morning to greet you gently.

Takes you to bed, where it keeps your body warm.

Snug –

While lavender soothes the little of your being it cannot.

Reflecting emotion. Moods.

Mild, sweet, milky.

Bitter, dark, hot.

Black or white.

Satisfying the palette.

Settling your stomach,

Quenching a dry mouth.

Hospitable. Welcoming. Kind.

An Icebreaker.

An offering.

Pulling down barriers.

Instructing courage, calming fear –

Spiders in life’s web,

Guard dogs in foreign countries,

And smoky kitchens are overcome.

- Strength, heart and peace of mind rebuilt.

Stirs thought as a spoon stirs sugar –

Feeding a fire, a flame – billows to a weary mind,

Wind to lifeless sails. Perpetual motion.

Washing motivation into your soul

Somewhere between breakfast and lunch.

The afternoon’s unsuspecting catalyst.

Preserving optimism.

A fifth hope. Tshepo.

Encouraging self-erudition. Articulation.

Translating and unwinding complex language.

For two and a half minutes, the world is a simple place.

Trains, Games & Choices.

2010-02-08T07:08:00.000-08:00

Girls wearing pearls & flexy morals round their necks,
Write cheques to boys in cars from soho bars.
They're wined & dinned - all the time,
Purring like cats, strike a match
Light a fag, have a drag.
They let the good times roll too far out of control,
Far too long ago. There is no hope.
Fur coats slope down shoulders -
We all grow older.

She wear's his scarf, just feels colder.
Down cobbled streets, under christmas lights,
on dark december nights,

the story strays & no music plays

they loose their way.

She stopped thinking & started drinking.
Decided to come home
When she had that sinking feeling.
Should never have accepted

Whatever he was dealing.
Now the days are stagnant,
Oh, she might be pregnant -
Just wants to fly away, for a year & a day,
& never ever ever reach the end of her tether again.

The pain wasn't worth it.
She was told she'd regret it.
But listen she wouldn't,

And stay true she couldn't.
On a one way train too far down the line.

Well this my friend is the end of the line,

We're out of time.
Cut it some slack, she won't be back.
Let her lose, sing the blues.
Watch the news, who'd she choose?
She let the good times be, opted for revelry.
Ran before she walked.

Sang before she could talk herself out of the game.
Who's to blame, when it rains in the streets,
When Coppers hit the beat?

Oh, they'd weep for such girls & their pearls
'cos the world is their oyster
Yet they still loiter along cobbled lanes,

Past Soho lights on dark december nights.
Their story strays & no music plays.
They've lost their way.

The Black Wave

2010-02-01T08:09:00.001-08:00

Back to a world of drudgery dearth and broken dreams,

Where a fatalistic sense of eternal loss

Washes in through the door of the classrooms I sit in.

Back to the futile sham that mocks humanity

And the selfishness that engulfs all around,

Touching us all in different ways.

An angry black and bitter wave waiting to drown us all.

Three hours of nothingness,

Lost to the past,

Contemplating what is required

For this machine I live inside.

The single, once crisp tulip.

2010-01-27T02:34:00.000-08:00

I am dying

From within. I don’t wish to,

But I think of this skin

That holds me

Back and I feel ill. I stare,

Glazed over, at all the happiness I have tried to

Capture in moments of grace,

And self contentment.

But this does not do me justice.

This hand does not do me justice.

It all falls short of feeling.

Now I write blankly, efficiently, capturing

What I feel because it is easy.

Do I long for you, or do I wish happiness

Would knock me dead?

Knock me down,

The earth upon my head.

I wait, I long, silently.

Suffering all, wishing nothing.

Nothing will come of nothing.

Or shall I become a sod

So as not to feel and rot,

But just rot, unaware.

I am dying, like a flower,

Whose time is limited.

But unlike a flower,

I see what’s coming.

Unlike the single, once crisp tulip

That hangs aside from the others still-fresh,

Falling from the boring vase

I see my fall

And contemplate it often.

And read poetry which seems both

To help and to hinder.

Like you, an enigma.

The feeling seeps through my nib

Through my heart, through my ribs

Gushing out onto a page, limited,

Tired but taking shape.

Hope leaves me, to be implanted

In a line

A seed,

Sewn. Waiting, longing, wishing quietly

To grow.

But not knowing that its time is limited.

Romania

2010-01-22T07:40:00.001-08:00