2003

There was a man in PICU who didn’t say a word.
He paced around in his underwear flinching at all he heard.
He went out for a smoke with a coffee in his hand,
then marched back inside for medication on demand.

* * *

(This was about a month I spent living with a mute patient amongst others at a Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit when I was 16. He had a tattoo of a small cross on his leg and I tried to shoehorn the blaspheme ‘Jesus!’ into something I said within his earshot. He was in his own world until I did. He got up from the chair and marched around for a bit. I felt bad for deliberately offending him but I’d never seen him react to anything other than smokes and coffee. I guess I was just trying to get him to say something… It didn’t work.)

Brain stem clip (loop)

I find myself on the floor again. I kick myself one more time.
Brittle and unkind. No intent towards others just to my own expectations and desires.
I need to want the things I already have.

I’ve got to draw a line between things out of my control and my own thoughts and actions.

I’ve got part of my brain exposed to the world. It’s a strand. A cord. Red raw. Sensitive doesn’t go far enough.
There’s a clip on it. I’m feeling the pressure, hearing external noise amplified.
I need to make distinction between incoming sounds and outgoing frequencies.
Without this filter there is just unsynchronised resonant discord.

Detach the clasp. Ease the pain. It’s not my fault. I can handle this now.

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You climbed a tree and looked down at me.

You spoke with your face.

I could see. You weren’t happy at all.

I had risen my voice. It didn’t feel like my choice.

I walked away. Like this was a play.

But this was no act.

You didn’t want to know. What you already knew.

My temper had torn our bond apart. Left holes in our hearts.

So I wrote to you. ‘We can see this through.’

There was nothing to see.

You built yourself a new home. A new start.

So in the heat I lay. Wishing for a new day. By the tree where you looked down at me.

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Time makes the highs low and the lows high.

The esteemed are just the flavour of the month. Change occupies all.

Ambition at an all time low but I feel bliss sat next to a cat.

Adapt to the situation don’t try to change it to fit you.

Water dips and flows into every crevice of the rocky sea shore but is slowly shaping the hard, strong cliff wall.

If you are like that, you are life sustaining, the lowest of low, making all those around you feel high.

Feed your friends and treat them well and they will return the favour. A painted glass teardrop can mean a thousand things. It can be treasure. It can be crap. The value is not in the pieces you hold; it is inside of you.

A tic is an sudden, repetitive, voluntary response to an unwanted urge. It is our way of measuring time.

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Sitting by the lake. You are by my side. Looking at the cotton sky mirrored in the fisherman’s playground; a thought enters my head. I turn to you to whisper my idea but you are not there.

I watch the grass grow at the side of my blanket. Bees and flies pass by; secure in the summer’s plentiful bounty. I can’t help but feel powerless. Possibilities number too many and decisions too far away.

A cold breeze blows so I pack up my things. Leaving all as it was. If I could get you here would you even share this pleasure that hits my chest. Short and sharp, painful like a spasm, yet warm and reassuring. I feel better.

I thought I heard your voice but it is just a bird alarmed that I am nearby. Walking on the way back I see a kaleidoscope of colour on the graffiti mural on the side of the shop. I am steps away from you and my heart begins to pound.

Key in the door and the room lights up. Cat greetings with a purr and demand for food. Although just a roof over my head; the place smells of comfort. This is your welcome and I am back inside you once more. I am home.

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Take me away from this night sky I’ve inhabited for so long.

Withstanding wind and all kinds of atmospheric tension.

A shout from my past scars seeping works of sap into being.

I will leave a bare branch but it is in my bark my legacy lies.

Textured hope and virtue exceeding a butterfly’s beat.

Leaving the deceptive darkness let me live through the pure spring breeze.

A two fold cycle we’ll ride until we are within each other.

Laying my roots down in your garden. I’m sorry if I’m irresponsible.

I feel like I’m dreaming. Stable and still. In silence I’ll think of you.

Trying not to upset your environment. I’ll breathe oxygen if you need it.

Will I get visiting wildlife? Maybe that will change my course. Certainty is distant.

Cold comes from the North and East in these parts. Memories will come and go.

The sun can heal your trauma. I don’t want to cause you to suffer.

Though trees bleed and leaves fall down life pushes us forward again and again.

Is it enough to share and appreciate the good things that happen?

Endings are inevitable. As the new day rolls in; I do not know what will be.

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I fear few know you. But what it is to be known? To hold faith that this dream is no dream at all. Possibly.

Your golden potential unravels day by day. An untouched block of wood being carved notch by notch. It is my melancholy pleasure to watch this process. It gives me life.

Such a gift is yours to give. But does it loosen our ties or make them stronger? That depends on my stubborn mind. My ongoing boredom and hypnotic drudge.

I want some motivation to continue my activity. You provide this. I am receptive in spurts. Like a bird flying high for a view I leave the shackles of this land momentarily. Wishing you were up here with me, you are, you are the sky.

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(I want you to tear this to shreds.)

* * *

I can be your nothing. The thing in your life that doesn’t really matter. A background feeling. An underlying thought pattern. A goose with orange striped eyelashes.

While your everything comes and goes I am there. Washing dishes on a cold day. A cooling breeze on a hot one. Repositioning things on the mantle. A horned lemon with a sweet sweet tangy syrup dressing.

With all the potential I stay still; rarely showing any form. A shadow flickering in candlelight. The feeling of ‘what shall I do now?’ An unexpected hand gesture. A silken scarf with an image of Delia Derbyshire riding a resplendent golden moose represented by colourful sequins.

My best friend

What is this chaos?
I didn’t choose to be born.
What is happening?
I see patterns that are destined to go awry.

My brain is not clear and calm.
Driven by a predetermined tick.
Pushing through the things I do and am going to do.
An addiction is holding on: Don’t stop me yet.

These stories start with a moment of intense change.
Curves flatten out and plateau.
You can be the catalyst for me to refresh.
A starting point in every moment lived.

To feel loved is to forgive yourself.
The guilt the blame the shame.
Start again and learn.
A wobbling cycle where the circles slowly get more unstable.

What is this chaos?
A dream. Nothing more.
What is happening?
Something worth experiencing.

A pleasant rant

I want to share my feelings with someone. My cat isn’t the most receptive… He was lovely this morning though. Laying next to him at night is nicer than laying next to no one. He follows me around and looks after me. He’s a good boy. Sorry this has already gone off at a tangent.

I miss holding someone. Just feeling another person’s warmth. If you were here I’d hug you as much as I could.

Life here is not idyllic. It’s grim… but the noise of burglar alarms and police cars, smashing glass and drunken kids is sporadic against the constant chirping chatter of the sparrows and the starlings. The regular sound of the passing buses is synced with my internal clock. The sound of the gears shifting down, the rumble of the engine, the hissing brakes and doors opening is like a regular tick of a clock in my head.

Not far away are rugged hills home to lizards, bees, butterflies, herds of deer and endless moorland. Once hallowed ground built upon by bronze age people, it has evolved through attempts at farming, transport, water management but now rests as wild land.

I’d love to take you on a walk around here. To have you see what I see. Smell what I smell. Feel what I feel. I hope to one day soon when we are both well and happy.

Old sayings and songs

In days of old

In days of old, when men were bold,

And paper wasn’t invented.

They wiped their arses on bits of grasses,

And went away contented.

* * *

The Birdcatchers Song

I am a fellow bright and gay

A merry fellow night and day

My name is held in great renown

throughout the land, in every town.

Where lark and linnet tunes their note

my whistle joins the warblers note

{ cant remember the next line }

For I’m the jolly birdcatcher.

* * *

The Trout

I stood beside a brooklet

That sparkled on its way

And saw beneath the wavelets

A tiny trout at play

As swiftly as an arrow it darted to and fro

The gayest of the fishes among the reeds below

An angler there was standing with his rod and line in hand

Intent upon the fishes, that sportive fearless band

‘Tis vain said my good neighbour to fish the brooklet clear

The fish will surely see you upon the bank so near

But skillful was the angler and artful too

The crystal brooklets depths defiling – he hid the fish from view

And then his skill renewing

The fishes unheeding took the bait

And I was left lamenting the tiny troutlets fate

* * *

The ballad of Lizzie Sloan

Across the loan

Went Lizze Sloan

A dueling set had she

A rifle on her shoulder, a pistol on her knee.

Now Lizzie’s eyesight wasn’t too good

Her glasses they were dim

And when she charged the bull

It shit upon her chin.

* * *

The Soldier’s Song

Arsehole, arsehole, a soldier I will be,
To piss, to piss, two pistols at my knee,
Fuck you, fuck you, for curiosity,
I’ll fight for the cunt, I’ll fight for the cunt, I’ll fight for the cunt-er-y.

A chicken cross hare across the road in the land of Americana have a sandwich and other mutterings

Gotta comb my opalescent goat hair budgerigar to get it to lay some eggs of pure wheat flour.

Then take the elevator to the goose sky hideout above the mountain top cave where I live for the summer.

Pick elderberries before the cuckoo spit rain wets my obligatory Whisk Day gingham check shirt and shorts combo.

Finally get sweet slumber in the cave with the cat bear violin player playing lullabies into the deep black.

Religious Clout

Bend the Angel’s will. Corrupt her pure heart. Steal her divinity for your creation. Oh my dear old thing; unholy perfection is at your fingertips.

Protect your processes. Nurture your weakness. Curb your strength. For once life is not absolute truth; subtlety is awakening.

God is infinite. Your lifetime is not. Nor are all words ever written. Unlearn everything you know; virtue shall lead you further than knowledge.

Everything came from nothing. The nameless empty. The unperishing void. Not bleak nor sad; for nothing is in everything.

Create something beautiful. Crude but complex. Naive but fully layered. Give your all; save the world. Go forth.

No one

Unapologetically eccentric.
Regretfully chaotic.
Tries to see good in the negative.
Whilst experiencing difficulty in the positive.

Music, painting, drawing, writing, reading.
Sport, running, walking, playing, taking part.

Often anxious. Rarely judgemental.
Sometimes happy. Sometimes sad.
Tries my best. Likes a rest.

This is me. Down to a T.
Sitting down. Drinking tea.

Tenuous links

Fear is a cruel imposter, a charlatan, a crook of the mind.

A false reaction or part of a disingenuous conversation is a recipe for a circle of tiredness.

Cookery is playing with fire unless you have a prescription for success.

Sour is a taste that is needed to feel sweet.

Mental dexterity is needed. Requirements move the mind.

Numbers can help us understand the physical world around us.

Two people trapped in love is the best and the worst.

Keep extremes conceptual. Nothing is as it seems.

Emptiness is invaluable but so is some other stuff.

What I am worth and to who does it matter?

Another spirit

She wants someone close, to hold, to love, to have.
Though she lives like a ghost, no one knows her name.
Wants a normal life but life won’t bend for her.
Feeling like a mess because her dreams aren’t coming true.

She looked in a book for words to help her out.
The book said:

“Ȝeue þi cunte to cunnig and craue affetir wedding.”

She knew what she must do, just felt lost and incapable.
So she stopped to love herself, to grow, to learn, to gain.

So did she ever change? Well, nobody did know.
She’s still wandering the town, through rain, through hail, through snow.

Breath

Grief is the bite of the wind on your cheek. Life is the brace of air against your face and your hair standing on end.

Intertwined like two strands, they stood at the bus stop hand in hand. A familiar memory stood next to you is still there years after you saw them last. Look after your mind. Reign in fear and hate because you might be alone at the bus stop one day.

The breath goes in and out. Your breath becomes someone else’s whether you are on your own or not. Keep breathing, that’s what living is.

Vague Questioning

The things of the world hold sway over us all.
To be free from this influence is an illusion.
To be aware of it is the path.

Objects, feelings, and creatures are all included.
You are part, a mixture, not all this or that.
Position your intent well, this will point things to the path.

Relative to extremes, no absolutes are real.
Happening and moving in flux.
Change is the route the path takes.

There is a place of nowhere. A realm within everything.
Where your creation exists peacefully in balance.
This is the where the path leads.

NONSENSE, I’M OVERTHINKING. EVERYTHING IS TOO MUCH. NOTHING EVER GOES RIGHT. ABSOLUTE DOOM PERSISTS. Or does it?