Ghoul under my skin
Tell her my secrets
Make me question everything
Ol’ time radio 1998
Worn out side B
Digital watch never ticks
Fuck me sideways
I’ve forgotten my glasses
Lost resting on my head
I let you out
When I shout to you
I say nothing
I keep my mouth shut
Stapled; filed away
Along with the false and fragile
Agonising about the future
I feel pain in my shoulder
No sleep ever again
I slept well
Last night I sewed
Embroidering life lessons
Scarf face mask
I will not steal
Closed shop. Too much wind.
Walls and mazes
Just let me
finish licking my fur
Then feed me
Petal in a book
for future reference
Give me a smile
not mine to receive
a delicate frown
Saved from myself
the same meal
yesterday’s best moment
With a friend
quick to react
gain and loss
Playing a game
never letting go
You hold it in a dream
With a cry
A stifled supressed scream
Year of the pig
The cleverest beast
No future is clear
Even looking east
Isn’t my body
Not good enough
Feeling myself shoddy
Wait ten mins
Keep in touch
I’ll write them down
A rainbow opposite the sun as the rain patters down on my yellow coat.
As I splash through the puddles rings erupt radiating from the drop’s root.
A brown tree drinks silently in this weather its inhabitants shelter, mostly, from the damp.
The purple plastic pollution that litters the ground looks like a human horror show.
We will wake the mammoths from the permafrost. The lakes will rise from the glaciers. The oceans will grow eroding all before them. Youth will suffer. Their children will suffer more. Will we do nothing?
Let’s drown our hatred and anger.
Seeing red mist float above the ever swelling sea.
No fish left. A bluebottle flies over plastic soup.
Let’s get in the water and swim for our lives.
Equality further away. Social division. Maths ignored at school; replaced by patriotism. Debt ever increasing. The few are taking control. Support is falling apart and our health is taken for granted. Will we do nothing?
Watching the world from your white house on the hill.
We hate you and all you stand for.
Wet from your ignorant spew we can turn you green.
A change from the orange burn of your hostile heated hatred.
What will we do?
A ghost in my left hand. Air in my right.
A fight for my mind starts and lasts all night.
Why should I do this? I don’t have to do that?
A cat gently breathing. Waking up. Emergency lick of it’s leg! Back to sleep.
I’m sorry if it seemed I didn’t care.
I really did. I just didn’t know I had to lick my leg.
I have new plans but I miss you.
A boy watches silhouettes walk around the neighbour’s house.
The light’s on in the bedroom. Are they alone tonight? Or tomorrow or any given night this week?
Night windows show the post declutter calm. A sad anticlimax and an empty room. Lonely footsteps back and forth. A wait of the modern age.
They don’t care if they don’t reply. He can’t see the tears landing on their phone. Waiting for a message while they sleep. It is folly.
In the past I have been described as all these things by friends, lovers, relatives etc.
A gift to womankind
Creepy and weird
A god amongst men
The most genuine man alive
It’s a mixed bag
When noisy adoration turns to quiet respect, what can I do except try not to repeat old bad habits, accept what I have and make the best of it. I’m in a good place despite feeling loss and melancholy.
There is something to be said for being alone and happy, even if have the company of my cat, I should appreciate what I have achieved to feel this contentment. It is a great standpoint to fight any unwanted thoughts.
Emotions that were nurtured by a significant other can easily unravel when they have left. There is an argument that God has left us at the big bang or whatever happened back then. Is she dead? Is she bitter and ignorant ? It is of no consequence. Look after what we still have left of that creation and create for ourselves.
Love is from nowhere and if any potential higher power can use it so can we. Plucked from the abyss like a hair from my never ending eyebrows. What is it that smells so good. Something that satiates our satisfaction for life. Petrichor after a summer shower. Or rotting leaf mold in the crispy autumn calm. It’s all worth appreciating.
What the fuck am I talking about? I may be uttering pretentious high powered nonsense but I’m just clearing my throat.
You cannot block the flow of life.
You can regulate it or change it’s future course.
You cannot change where it has been.
You can choose to focus on the bits you really like.
I can form ideas but cannot express them.
Conceptual secrets I want to share.
I invite you to my lair.
Absorb all my creativity.
Feed from me. Feed from me.
The crucifying pain I carry in my head.
I’d smash it against stone walls until I drop down dead.
The pulsating murder of horror in my brain.
If only it would drown; deep in never ending rain.
I cannot walk. I cannot see.
Humanity’s hatred rules do not dare blame me.
I cannot hear. I cannot pee.
I’m fit to burst with rage; unforgivingly.
I want to die.
I can’t continue.
My mind has gone.
My rotting organs, a congregated retinue.
Let me go. I cannot wait.
My hatred burns all my mates.
I ruin everything. Don’t let me go.
I need you more than you know.
What whispers do you hear in the wind?
When your mind withers and you are just a bag of meat.
An object of lust for envied eyes.
Or a welcome companion to a loved one.
Horses canter through the field.
Playful nights and days in the elements.
Cold in the outside setting sun.
Moving brings health and warmth to those who come.
Such a lovely place.
On a hill with trees, bracken and heather.
Lone cow wanders.
Such solitude is healing.
Shared adventures postponed.
Lives split and shared more thin.
A calloused finger runs down my chest.
I don’t recognise this touch.
What is darkness to those lost in the wilderness.
A habitable home full of comfort and hope.
We survive here.
A solace of familiar weather.
Home at last.
*Until we all inevitably die, alone, suffering in the tremendous agony of what feels like an wasted eternity.
*Added for a friend who prefers a sad ending.
Time falls through my hands
Sand on floor
By the door
On the scratched stone tiles.
Never coming nor going
The circular bus
Drives on a round route
Serving as many streets as possible.
Never ending or beginning
What really is space?
What is brain activity?
A switch to be flicked on or off.
A journey of recovery
Doesn’t take time
It never ends
It is time.
This is to be read in your head
Or appreciated in bed.
Like a flood of information
from every nation
For your brain to be fed.
I don’t want to move.
My situation won’t improve.
Lying here will rest my brain
not moving an inch just listening to the rain.
There’s always something out there to sooth.
*Sooth your arse as it gets rubbed with steel wool!
*Added for a friend who prefers a sad ending.
The faceless voice that follows me around.
It is the nameless power that fills everything.
An anchor that roots me to my upbringing, to the places I lived, where I survived.
I want to share it with you.
How did this story unfold, let me tell you…
A pal in Rome took me swimming, she said she liked to be afloat, gliding with the current.
Now in the depths of the river; water flows lowly and in this place it was lifting us softly.
Neither strong nor solid life’s liquid fed the luscious growth on the river bank.
As we swam, it occured to us that water is the universal solvent, wearing away at everything it meets.
How we laughed after our day; laughter bubbled up spontaneously like a hillside spring.
Ice struck hard. Cracked mirror melts. Sea levels rise. We all drown.
What could happen between us. If we could watch the tide. If waves would roll over us. If we would never die.
Some people live on stilts, knocked over by the breeze, the lapping sea gently lilts, as we fall to our knees.
Not one of us is in control. Never acting out our intent. Don’t worry for what you can’t control. Your iron will is still there hell bent.
Planted by squirrels, we march to life’s whistle
Together in mud, we tower above
Spring bulbs below and birds in our hair
We all have some bark but make no sound in the air
What goes on beneath anchors our feet
We bind the land is how we play our hand
Leave us breathing well and oxygen we will sell
For we are the trees that build your society’s deeds
Three lifetimes ago I was born.
I came from a strong nut, one of many, my mother groaned as I fell from her grip.
My name is Hazel and I am 200 years old. I live by the water’s edge, where I drink and swim, stability my pledge.
I feel my dear old Russell run his presence through my hair, day to day, a familiar face of nature’s affection.
Seasons come like a day night cycle.
Polly rides past on her bike and stops by me for some shade, deserved mind, she just isn’t fabulous yet, dahrling.
I will feed and shelter until my day is done, be it lightning or blight, my day will come.
Observing the woodland is a hobby of mine, we tend to it’s upkeep, bird’s homes combined.
When I was young I didn’t know myself but was full of potential. When I was mature I peaked with doubt but was rash to show my strength. Now I am old I know all that matters and what happens, happens.
You are the Lily in the pond and I am Hazel in your reflection. Treat me well and I will reward you.
Amid pandemics, corrupt governments, mass inequality, mass poverty, mass fear, unprecedented climate change and ecological damage. There is still hope and there is still love…
That’s what I’m living for
The cow stood alone, crunching on the cud, one field away from beach.
Dividing the field from the beach were wind carved dunes; obscuring the sea from view.
The sound was immense. Crash after crash.
The cow didn’t know what it was. It came again and again. Like the never ending tide of love between two lovers exploring what they could be.
The grass was long enough to rasp a quiet rustle in the breeze. The cattle’s table spread. Yet there was only the cow around. Night rolled in. Thunder struck.
As the rain fell the cow sought refuge in a rocky cave by the lake at the top of the field. Only to discover an inhabitant was already there. A weight was lifted from the cow’s heart at the site of a bull.
The bull was neither young or old, he was in his prime, not extraordinary, not plain, he was unremarkable. The bull stood next to the cow in silence for some time until the rain stopped.
An almighty torrent came from the back of the cave. Both the cow and the bull were swept up in the water. The lake had burst its banks. They clung to each other for dear life, carried along towards the dunes and the beach, they were dropped, wet to the bone, to the sands of the beach.
The cow mooed at the sight of the waves, seeing what caused crashing sound for the first time was a revelation. It felt like her brain was alive with discovery. The bull stood and gently put his head next to the cow’s as they watched the sun come up over the roaring sea.
Water fills every empty gap. It is the universal solvent. It always seeks the lowest places to lift us up. Natures bounty bringing the cattle together.
Flexing my self worth to my friend showing off 15 years of momentos.
I’ve never had a time when inspiration don’t stop the flows.
When I walk down the street, I don’t turn heads, I turn hearts.
So polite and so kind you’ll never to smell the odour of my farts.
I laugh and I joke but am real when you want me to listen.
And if you look me in the face you’ll notice my eyes always glisten.
Be real to me, I’ll reward you with your dreams, that’s a given.
When we touch and you go; you’ll always wonder what you are missin’.
Ok, so maybe I don’t believe this but you can fill the emptiness inside.
So, be true to yourself and live your best life on the outside.
Does the sun make a noise?
I can only but wonder as her silence speaks volumes.
Broken promises and a broken mind.
There is no fixing but we continue living.
Hush. I hear rain. I hear the onset of autumnal hope.
A cool breeze makes a warm hum on the window pane.
Traffic planing on lying water on the road.
A whoosh of joy as memories warm my heart.
The same horizon; the same place.
Things are somehow different.
A catalogue of comfort is no help.
Too different. Too unknown.
A carrot can be a treat for a hungry deer.
What I’d give to hear from the trees.
Living a slow life, perfectly still.
I can only be ponder what life has in store.
Living young is full of strength and unknowns.
Maturity brings adventure and misplaced confidence.
Old age brings acceptance and certainty.
I feel old before my time.
Sleeping aged 15 in a room full of heroin addicts.
I can appreciate the kindness of the inn keeper.
The night before in the cells did me no good.
A life of deserved mistrust for those in authority.
Fast forward eighteen years and I walk past the shops.
Police racially profile black children for a stop and search.
I walk slowly so they know I’ll be their witness.
We cannot let our friends live with this injustice.
Gathering bilberries on the moors is therapeutic.
A small handful may take five minutes to pick.
A five second chew, an explosion of juice and flavour, they are gone.
Time well spent.
Why did her words mean so much to me?
– Were they empty?
How do I fall out of love?
– Do I really want to?
When will I feel like this about someone again?
– How will I trust them?
When will this pain ease?
Is she in any pain?
Let’s forgive each other and forgive ourselves and live our best lives.
I feel like a Nissan Micra with a Ferrari engine stuck on a 20mph road.
If I start I’ll be stopped and if I stop no one will notice.
Playing with the constraints of my mind.
I can keep hope but it seems only of use to spread.
I hold on to cords of my dream.
Fraying fabric felt through my fingers.
I’m holding tight but gently to the memories.
As to not to sever the bonds.
But they cannot compete with reality.
A dream is a dream. Nothing more.
Yes, dreams can be real, and it was.
I need to repair and make new cords.
Healing my connections to the outside.
You’ve never been loved like that.
I’ve heard that before, somewhere.
A refrain after every disappointed verse.
I loved you, does that make it better or worse?
I’m a lesson you needed to learn.
The well-worn silver lining of mine
That won’t keep me warm as I walk all alone
Through the storm that I summoned to never get home.
I will fly my kite atop the heather filled heath. The wind will blow my fear across continents. And turn it to love. The thrill of suspending reality in the sky.
My home is where I am happiest but I get lost here. I know the moors like the lines on my hand, yet the wilderness is no home for love.
Transformation exists in every element. Change in every concept. Doubt cannot trap truths that might tear us apart but it keeps us safe. Safe in our homes where nothing can be permanently wrong.
Everything gets better when you’re 30
You can stop worrying about things out of your control
Anxiety is less when you’re 30
You’ll feel like things are easier to accept
Now that you’re 30 you don’t have to be ‘cool’ anymore
No one will care if you don’t know the score, for sure
Your friends will still love you when you’re 30
You can stop worrying about things out of your control
Pain will subside when you’re 30
You’ll find everything easier. That’s all.
Now that you’re 30 you don’t have to be ‘cool’ anymore
No one will care if you don’t know the score, for sure
Everything is particles and waves: Energy. Dust.
A conscious thrust. A conscious thrust.
The dust hare kicks its legs and forces are transferred.
The pull between us is what it preferred.
Thank you Dust Hare for working in mysterious ways.
You keep the sun burning, even at night.
If anyone sees you they are in for a fright.
For you are beyond comprehension, these words not enough, to describe your beauty, to talk about your dust.
I need to adjust how I see you.
You came to me with love.
I’ve never been loved like that.
Now it’s gone, or on hold, or changing.
I hope this is just act two.
There are things I haven’t said.
Things I haven’t done.
Maybe I should look for someone else too. It will not be the same. That scares me.
C’mon! Why do you keep sparing my life?
None of you are that bad. Let me live for once!
Don’t you fucking hurt me. Don’t you fucking dare. What threat am I to you?
I’m powered by tea.
Fallen dreams and new realities.
Corruption and lies is not exclusive to governments.
I hold my head high.
A new caffeine start.
Self care is my priority now.
This fleshy husk on a rock in space needs a shower and a walk.
I will always take a new leaf over the ending of the book.
The slow burn of a heartbreak injection
Injected first thing this morning
Fight or flight was truly tested
A heavy weight of pain hangs around my chest
I must let myself love again
Rebel against the fear and doubt
I’ll choke up getting ready for bed
Using help to shut my eyes
Closed doors in an empty house
A fresh breeze awakens my face
A few days sleep needed for self care
I may have administered it myself in her shoes
Alas, a healthy dose of pain may just be what I needed
I looked down at his cold dead face. It was tilted slightly to one side; up against a lumpy plain white pillow. It was not the first time I had seen him in make up but this blushing powder pink was not his style. I didn’t want to stop looking at him knowing this would be the last time I could see him with my eyes. Thinking about the last time I saw him alive I felt a prolonged pang settling in my gut. Tears welled up in the corners of my eyes causing me to blink. A long, slow, heavy blink. For a moment he was gone. It hadn’t dawned on at that point that this would be the norm. As darkness set in with clouds blocking the little light that was seeping into the room; my consciousness returned to the moment, hearing a sudden muffled shriek from a relative, I turned quickly, not really knowing what to do, I looked back me at the queue of mourners waiting behind me and uttered a gentle “F” under my breath and walked onwards towards my seat.
Petals fall. Seeds drop. Leaves loosen.
New growth is still some way off.
A forgotten celebration of life in the distance, springing forth like laughter from the diaphragm. Until then, winds rise.
Discomfort. Aching muscles and tired eyes dried by the breeze. Columns of light cascade through the window, occasionally, when the sun manages to poke through.
A fireplace stoked while music plays. Folks well fed and drinks flowing free. There is still cheer in the air where there is water and warmth, where the memory of new lives is fresh.
A roof over our head, we clothe ourselves in autumn colours, waiting for the next thing to break and be fixed. Creature comforts from little routines keep us going. And listening.
Staring into space somewhere in front of your eyes I give an extinguished sigh. A stifled noise. One moment in time. Forgotten.
This happened but won’t be remembered. Following the glazed look was a spark of life. Face muscles contracting commitment to a smile.
An out of place hair on your brow brushed away by a fingertip’s gentle touch. I looked at the strand and placed it alone in your palm. I learned forward. Silence. Before I received a kiss so pleasant it will stay with me forever.
This hasn’t happened yet, but when it does, I’ll remind you that I love you.
I take my old boat ‘Ася’ down the Serpentine River. She’s a glorious craft. She’ll do for a lifetime.
The water laps and whirls around her freshly oiled rear. I duck a branch to live another day.
Safe surrounded by her streamlines. A temple on holy ground. Security.
The ebbs and flows as we stay the night in the estuary. Bobbing up and down. A lifetime at sea awaits.
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.
The wind howls through my head
Shaking the edges of my vision
Taking shelter in a garden shed
Just doing jobs there is no decision
The dark and the light. Stories written of land made of cheese, of a man in solitude, of scars and holes.
The full moon just gone, see you again soon, cloud permitting.
The new stars are primed on their rockets. Set to be speeding across the sky. An awful musk lingers.
The moon will always be the moon. Until it becomes the property of few. They might one day own the moon but they will never have what we have. Tales and song. Food in our bellies and drinks flowing free. A cheer and a smile.
To the moon. To the moon. To the moon and back.
Pounce, cat, pounce
Catch a beam of light
Through fields and trees
You will win every fight
The smells you encounter
Wrap round your memories
You are loved completely
So do anything you please
The warmth of your coat
Will keep you feeling cozy
So I accept that mouse
In place of a posey
Every night I close my eyes and flirt with death.
I lose my choice, my identity, my name.
I see things that do not exist.
And occasionally scream in pain.
Every night I close my eyes and flirt with death.
But I’m loyal to life in the morning.
I look, I feel, I taste my food.
And smile at the day that is dawning.
We will all die.
Money will become meaningless.
We will regret not doing nice things more often.
Nothing is more valuable than a smile on a loved one’s face.
Sliding down a valley.
Falling through a hole.
Tumbling over and over.
Lower and lower.
Next to my broken ankles.
Sleeping on green sheets, under two warm duvets, and a thick woollen blanket.
Me and my cat are mutual hot water bottles.
Serenity is in my body but my mind is distracted by the muffled radio sounds through the wall.
A double is fine but a bigger bed is an aspiration; indeed.
Heat trapped radiating in and around us.
The day’s gone contents being chewed up gently in my head.
Fleeced of a rest by some fool shouting next door.
He turns up the radio to drown himself out.
There’s always someone else but you can be settled where you are.
Until the next trawler dredges up old bedded muck.
I’ve never been as certain although at a distance is it both easy and hard.
Letting myself drift into fantasy I notice a change.
Voices cease; a radio off.
The greatest slumber will be here soon.
Trying to assess how I am
I frame a snapshot of my mind
Cropping out bits to make a good scene
This is how my sanity will unwind
An overreaching attempt to grasp a hot mug
Spillage and pain
A needed drink wasted
I put my head above a burst water main
A sea of movement
An elaborate dance
Feeling between us
Keep us entranced
I work to some trance
In vogue so I vogue
I take my chance
Next to a holly tree
The silver fox sat on the forest floor
Hungrily thinking about visiting the chicken farm nearby
For there worked the raven haired girl
The woods were on a hillside
So the fox skulked down to the low field where the farm belonged
Roosting crows flew from the canopy branches as he rustled past below
He made his way to the field verge
It was winter and all the girls were glowing in the biting cold
By the damp wooden shelter he saw the Little Soph with the midnight hair
Soph of the field would smuggle eggs for her silver furred friend
Just as he came to collect his treat there was a colossal bang!
Down by the small piers at the side of the river
There was a pompous buffoon shooting at the birds in the sky
He wanted their shiny things hidden away in their nests
Neither he nor they had the generosity of Little Soph
At the sound of the calamity Soph and the fox made their way down
The blustering fool by the piers was so involved in himself he didn’t hear them
The silver fox barked and growled and so shook was the man
That his feet fell before him into the air above the slippy water’s edge
Splash! He had blundered in a massive way
Wet and cold from head to toe in icy mire
Soph laughed and fed the silver fox some eggs
So the fox went back to the holly tree where he spent the morning content and well fed
My hyper sensitivity and extreme resilience are two sides of the same coin.
I have a lot of those coins.
I should learn to flip on demand.
Instead I want to spend them all on you.
As all my constituent parts condense into one.
As all memories of myself are gone and forgotten.
I learn the best days were the worst days
And the hardest days were the easiest.
Everything speeds up
There is no one who deserves to live forever
Through better thoughts and deeds
We can all become no one
So live well
Until you die
So we shall all become no one
Everything is burning
A spark in the darkest mind
He should have kept it in the ground
Now it’s nearly gone
The children won’t be able to pay
Trapped in his grip of debt
Created thanks to his greed
Castles of gluttony
Belong to families few
Their defences of riches
Will one day burn too
For times longer than I have known.
They predate on our emotions.
Feeding, gorging upon our fear.
Confusion they spread.
Misinformation is read.
They want us to believe in them.
We cannot. We have our sense, logic, and hope.
With that we fight back against it all.
We’re left alone with our books
Alone with our music
Our art. Our reality.
Alone with ourselves
Alone with the truth
Of all we can do.
So we listen and we listen.
Putting mind over mood.
Living every second.
Helping as many as we can.
I listen to the whispers from the rocks. “Don’t step on me. Step on the soil; it is silent.” The soil cannot speak but would it complain if it could?
The grass here grows long. Thick and dense. Stems snap and screams; more screams fill my head.
Should your voice be different? Of course, but it isn’t, at least, not always. You say “hi”. I can’t hear myself think which is just as well. I’m scared of what I might be saying.
The cars go past my window far too fast. “Honk honk honk” someone toots. I cannot see out but it has been raining. I can hear the tyres slice up the water with a harsh crescendo that diminishes into the distance.
Leaves are falling. That’s nice.
I am writing nonsense again. Good. What to say? What to do?
Why I am breathing so loud? I sleep still. All but for the bellows squeezing back and forth. Until I turn and turn and turn.
She dances like dust in a beam of light.
Entranced, I’m a rabbit in the headlights.
I want to sing to her but I have the smallest voice. No one can hear me whether I whisper or scream. So I delight in my silence.
So today I wrote, quietly and alone, a message within a message, for once, without my phone.
The air is cool. No wind to speak of. Feeling my heart beating away in my chest.
Bright blue skies and fluffy white clouds. Every tree, every leaf, perfectly still.
My mind is buzzing with everything I’ve ever learnt. Not all at once but it’s all in there somewhere.
My cat is mellow today. Affection is going a long way. Thinking about last week’s confusion seems a long way off.
My flat is a mess but the speakers are singing to me and I have a cup of tea in my hand.