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.
He’s got paper skin; peeling away, red ink and all.
The words don’t matter; he is what he feels.
He lashes out at those around him; so fragile.
Full of yesterdays news but he hasn’t read anything.
His paper skin doesn’t inform.
He won’t let you close; he’s so ashamed.
Not of himself because he’s always right.
Just ashamed of his words; it doesn’t add up in his head.
There’s a patch on his arse that once was page 3.
It’s the only bit he likes.
‘Not vulgar, this is moral instruction.’ Is it’s message.
Flesh on flesh and it just stinks.
In fact, all of his paper skin smells rather bad. Unelected and unwanted. A buffoon at 10. He’s a buffoon all day.