Snow has fallen
Songs are sung
Cheer is won
Fire is warm
Play the drum
Dance til dawn
Tell your pun
Laugh all night
Frying fat sizzled sound ears pop.
Jelly wobbles worse sugar sweet burst spot.
Often colours blend and swirl mix up make a new one.
Simple sayings sickly sink into deep thoughts all gone.
Purple picnic mountain side rain is here.
Hide the food mood has dropped take me home.
Sometimes squirrels eat our crumbs in the sun shone.
Now we’re home weather fine itchy John.
How much food can you eat while someone else is starving?
How much can you sleep at night while someone else has no home?
How much can you cope with your friends while someone else is being beaten?
How much can you do in a day when a supercomputer could do it in a second?
How far can you run while someone drives on past?
How do you breathe with all the pollution in the air?
Why do you do these things?
Do you enjoy them?
Dense, fine hairs on a leaf like fur.
He purrs until I pluck him off the tree to put in my book.
Saved or sacrificed? He lives with the letters I sent to this page.
A message just to say that all leaves fall eventually.
But don’t worry, they’ll soon spring back.
Give me iron.
Steam my engine.
Rocket to the moon.
Riding my cognition cycle.
Beetroot and sour cream.
Warm and wet.
I fall off my bike and tear up my knee.
A door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway.
Put down the book. Get back on.
I’m tired of all this sunny weather. Give me perpetual autumn. Cozy nights wrapped up in thick jumpers next to warm fires. The movement of falling leaves. The cold breeze against my face. The washing up a treat for my hands after eating some comforts.
A fallen star is just some grit to harden my chicken’s egg shell.
A positive move. Just smile more.
Just smile more. It’ll make you happier.
Smile more. It’ll please them.
Smile or forget.
Nothing is forgotten because it was never remembered. Not truly.
…give me strength.
I feed you food in hope that you produce compassion if not empathy.
May hope be a by product of staying alive.
May staying alive be easy and of value.
May ease come to you as an instinct.
May your instincts be kind.
They let their intelligence detach from their sense of helping others and helping themselves. Their needs and reactions.
If you lose yourself in knowledge you must first build yourself up without knowing anything.
I sink lower into my chair. Both slouched and hunched. Uncomfortable but listless. Aggrieved, I listen.
It sounds correct in their example context. Yet I apply this to things unexpected and I cannot react. It would seem like wisdom to seek the truth but how can they see it with eyes closed. I cannot react. I am lost.
Washed ashore with the driftwood I look for patterns. Repetition. Things to get used to. Things I can cope with. Trust in virtue. Trust in self. Be disobedient. Disregard all you know in the moments it gets too much. In the moments you need to.
The war of semantics in my thoughts can be tamed with acceptance. Temporary as it may be. It is a machine. It needs maintenance.
Putting square bricks in round holes, no longer. I can fly. I am abreeze the clouds. Lifted.
We seem to pick up those still afloat. Let’s do this.
Ignore it now and eat some chocolate.
There are bellies to fill. A tiger on a wall. Fire risen from the wood. A roar of thunder. A torrential downpour. Feeling shaped from thought. Not from knowledge. Survival.
The pages turn as the trees shake off old growth. A quiet melody plays whilst she reads by the fire. The plates are full. The cheer is here. In this moment we have no fear. October nights glow in our memories with smells reminiscent of smoke and warmth. When the nights are cold and strange and all the pets sleep on, and all the light has gone out and we go to dream new songs. I’ll think about the time you stayed with me and kept me as your own.
I am just a ghost in a ‘morbid dreamland’ but this is where we congregate now.
This is how we meet up and provide each other with the help we need.
My imagination will help power yours and yours will help power mine.
Let yourself drift.
Slide down every watery path until you reach the sea.
You can overcome everything you need to.
The sun and moon will glisten and the darkness will contain.
Books will expand the world if you are a prisoner. Food will contract it. Use them well.
The rules are simple but best forgotten.
The garlic sellers hands had an all day smell.
Stale from yesterday when the garlic sold well.
The hands were large.
Fat fingers like sausages.
Her date for the night was a crêpe suzette.
He said your scent is great come sit on my baguette.
Softly the feather cushion supports your skin.
Naked on the settee, free, otherwise not concerned.
A patterned patchwork dream in your head.
You want to act it out in 4K HDR colour before you’re dead.
Pretence and arrogance.
Often your day is long and you are tired.
There is housework to do and everything is unattractive.
What falls eventually rises again but not tonight. Fuck that.
Something soft is still relatively hard because I can’t do it. Shit.
There is often a case of caution with plaice. Leave this fish be in the ocean. A hazardous race of engines at pace is done by the boat as precaution.
But a potion is drunk by the sailors who stunk of fish kept in ice like lotion. It comprised of rum and felt like fun but sleep became their eventual notion.
Furious rage woke from drunken haze as the night turned to day and all the fish swept over. No luck, no clover, the drunken seaman went over as the seas demanded attention.
The trawler was ruined. The seagulls were stewing their plaice with salt water and kelp. The fishermen died without help and the shorter straw was drawn by the fish and the men who passed with a yelp.
The sea calmed it’s waves and said goodbye to the days where boats would claim it’s bounty. The wind had dropped. All the corks had been popped by nature who never would die.
So goes the story of catching plaice and men snoring drunkenly into the night. Their vessel had failed because they drank too much ale. Natures debt was dealt without commotion.
And so this tale is sung as warning old and young to people at this charity. Don’t be greedy, reward the needy, and the world will find it’s own parity.
The periphery is the container where I keep all my knowledge, my memories, and my habits. Everything I can conceptualise lives here. Who I think I am, who I think you are, and my cat.
The centre is where my waking state lives. My feelings, my senses, and everyone else’s. It is nicer in the centre than the periphery.
What can I say?
Great green swamps of the East.
Nutritious algae looks unappetising.
Sniff a beaker of soil, my friend.
The smell of Earth is your base.
Surely a rainbow would brighten your day.
It’s starting to rain.
We’re all in pain.
An empty stomach is a shame.
At the start of things the Earth eats the sun. It feasts and brightness is forever tarnished.
We then retreat into our minds and feast on moonlit imagination.
With each subsequent thought the darkness grows.
Reality dims to the point of the original source.
Hopefully we can send our selves there and dissolve as brightness reigns again.
Just so the mountains can once again eat all the light and grow trees on their peak.
The cycle goes on to this day.
Forever beginning, we are helpless, as the skies and the soil do battle.
99% of humanity’s tears are yet to be shed.
99 buttons in my box but no thread on the reel.
99 reasons for ice cream still I deprive myself.
99 carved decorations but I keep looking for the blank block.
99 possible outcomes started from the same place.
99 colours would make me go blind.
99 thoughts but I have to choose which to use.
99 steps but no dance, no stairway, and no instructions.
I could lighten your misery.
Your darkness would lift.
Shower you with brightness.
But what would you see?
Blinded by light.
Untouched by night.
Howling your ignorance.
Writhing on the floor.
Guided by faith.
It is always a sign.
When it’s convenient.
Otherwise it’s sin.
A cold touch.
A withered hand.
Weight on your lower back.
You could fall at any time.
Hand of God.
Whisper on the breeze.
Schizophrenia or holy spirit?
One pious rationale.
One debilitating illness.
A smile on the street.
A laugh and a meal.
The warmth in my heart.
Inside us all.
I woke with the moon in the west, a flask of tea in my bag, and a whole day to repeat. Day in. Day out.