Remembering

Stand Blazing and back
A voice is gone
Rainclouds turn again
Greens shapes lost
Eating debris
Fogged my cloudless circle
A sword will know you through parts

I am sky, in the circle
My smile rested
This mist spiral
This weave reds
Inside a watery tree
The I is awake

The sky and the saw are open
But sandwiches mostly rushed distort
Drinking before coffee
Egoless, the brooch

You Squirting men-
Ghost toy spiders who know forgetfulness
Your baskets may be mechanical,
But my broken dream remembers

.

Five Scars Left to Dawn

Gold dust spider monkey spoke to Jehovah. He got lost on the sidewalk.

I saw a poodle singing in a window ‘how much is that doggie in the window?’

Her hand felt soft and wrinkly. I asked if I could borrow some money and she said to me ‘well what about your memories? - are they not more important than money?’

The reflection in the glass was fuzzy. Like barbed wire. I had to tear myself away.

There were cut up bits of paper everywhere. They looked so amusing to me, I started jiggling them around like a collage. What’s so great about a gay heroin addict anyway?

All this talk of calenders, and astral projection, and the mayans. Well what if I just want to sit in a café and have a piece of carrot cake?

"If you have a pre-recorded universe, in which everything is pre-recorded, the only things which are not pre-recorded, are the pre-recordings themselves".

"Well that is all well and good", I replied, "but I want a coffee".

She looked back into my eyes.
An artistic void, the oppressive, controlling aspect of the mother persona.

I looked around at the café and it amazed me what could be done by the human voice and one phrase.

These people were reacting agents, who were reacting to my reaction. So I picked them up in my hands and threw them into the dream machine, through holes in thin air.

Every particle of this universe contains the whole universe

The great wind, sound and image flakes fall. Pull out his eyes. Pull them out. These colourless sheets are empty. You never existed at all.

I could hear that I killed it. It needed destroyed. No good, no bueno in the absent world. I was cold and uninterested from now on.

Explosion splits the boat, and there were five scars left to dawn. Whatever remained could give no human context.

A Spider, A Heron, A Wave Tatoo

Mind blank to what came before there was something
But nothing
White lion on wall rattles
Battlefield with reds and greens
Drinking coffee
I am awake, I am wide, I am open

Christianity blazes out from a circle
My brotherness is gone
A heron, a brooch, a fire
Symmetrical shapes like mechanical toys
Wound through the debris
Squirting watery sand in their faces
Remembering the tree and the sword
The fire and the sky

The men outside eating sandwiches
Blazing me inside to get lost and move
Rainclouds and smoke
Women weaving baskets

And then door knock who?
Just a mirror fogged with mist and a voice
But you will not know because you will turn and distort
This is pure this is egoless this is why I feel
So rested

Parts of dreams come back but mostly there is forgetfulness
The world rushed in again and I forgot
But a smile plays my ghost lips because I know what I saw even if you don’t

A spider, a heron, a wave tattoo
A circle, a spiral, a swing
A cloudless sky in a broken playground

The Prayer of Saint Francis

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury,pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.


O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

The Madman

I am black and surrounded. It seeps into me like toxic gases. Stuffed full of cotton wool, barbed wire tears at my flesh. Slowly picking it away like chicken on a bone.


I must be and move and sit in this room. Drowning in self-conscious misery my confidence has snapped. It has been borrowed, taken away by a malevolent demiurge who is howling in some cage made of black space and motion.

Faces tear at me with eyes and beaks speaking of swords. They eat me up. Breathless and gasping, my face melts and my skull protrudes

I try desperately to focus on light, magic, beautiful, mystical moments of freedom but I come into this place and it flees from me. I am at a loss. Dying, scared faces realize that I am mad. I am insane. I do not belong in this story, in this place. 

How did I get here? 

There was an interview and a purple sky and a summer. I was here in this room but I couldn’t get out because the taxi was late. Now it has arrived and I have missed my stop.

The purple room with the skylight, and the gulls, and the cat sleeping in the sunlight has gone. There is just this room with its bare walls.

Faces which used to melt of warmth in my presence are now frozen in fear, like my jaw when my eyes go mad. I hold my breath until I can’t bare it any longer


Every morning I want to die. I want to drown myself, I want blood, I want hooks, I want anything other than this boredom. Ripping myself out of the warmth and coming here over and over again in a dream which keeps repeating.

I will enter into a hole under the floor where it is black but I am not afraid because I am not there. I am here, on a beach with pebbles and fish and horses.


Round and round he wanted to stay before but now he laughs. They were holding their breath. They were holding their breath, just like I do when the panic sets in and I just want to leave, but I am rooted.

I must continue. I keep saying it is a new moment. Every moment it is renewed, and they haven’t noticed and it’s ok. But they have, they have noticed. 

One day I will just snap and break the book case into splinters. I will dig them into my skin and push over tables and grow my hair long and wild, and run down to the river, and I will have escaped.


I will be somewhere new. A dance floor with drugs and music. The pounding beat is me and I am it and I do not have to care or be anything because all there is is the music, and the sky, and the pigeons circling round and round above the hills, while the airplanes land and the sky is blue.

The sky is blue, it is not black, it is blue and beautiful. The sun fills up the world. I wake up and it is there. I go to bed and it is there. I am alive, and life is fun, and it works. My intentions come to fruition.

That is the agony, of course. The fact that I feel it every night. And then the panic button comes on. I feel trapped and I don’t hear. I don’t want them to see, and they do see, and it goes on.

I sleep and decide that I am a shaman. The world is a magical dream, and there are kind beings on my sofa. It is 2012 and the world is becoming something new. Everything is God and everything is pure.

I am here where I need it to be, but it does not follow me. I am a psycho and they are afraid of me and I am afraid of them and the other people, and being so tired.

The good intentions wait and then they crowd round me again when I sit on that seat and I say it again. I will be magic, I will help, I will inspire. Then it comes on me. It comes on me, over and over again. 

I end up with eyes that are holes sitting in the darkness.

But then a world without people is worse. I am going to go there because I have not been grateful and I will not be given a second chance this time.

I will just be frozen in that room asking “but what do we do - where do we go?” What do we do, where do we go over and over again. Running into the bathroom with the mirror and the flickering faces, in the virtual reality experience.

I will go back there because I have not appreciated here. I have thrown here away because it feels not part of me. 

I want to be in a darkened room where I don’t have these people in my face. But they keep appearing and then they will investigate me for being a nutcase, and I will run away again.

A room with no ceiling

Eagles scream, sore above the sky, picking at the clouds like candy floss.

 But where is that man I saw before with the hat and the stick?

 He was walking down some lost country lane through babbles of squawking rooks and creaky rusted gates, green wellington boots floating in the wind.

But the view at the top was so spacious and free like a room with no ceiling. I sat on the bench and watched the smoke float up into the blue summer sky. I was home. I was free. Only me and the view.

 Then I heard the children laughing in the field below.

 They were all dressed in pink tuxedoes, whirring round and round like spinning wheels pushed by Egyptians under a pink sun.

Two girls were holding a skipping rope and the one in the middle, a little purple girl with pig tails and an anaemic teddy bear was jumping and jumping.

A strange man with rimless glasses was watching from the sidelines. He was sweating and rubbing the condensation off the glass.

 She just went right over to him. She jumped at him and starting biting. Her teeth were like electric saws cutting through cheese.
---

Spatters of gold paint covered the grass and sparkled in the twilight.

The children had long since disappeared but I still heard their laughter.

By now the sky was pink and orange, the city spread out before me like a Roman arena. I realized that I did not have to walk, I could just fly across and look down on it all like a bee in a summer garden. So I climbed up into the sky and started moving my arms about and slower and slower I went higher and higher.

Then I was flying

----

eagles screams and sores above the sky picking at the clouds like candy floss where is that man i saw before with the hat and the stick he was walking down some lost country lane through babbles of squawking rooks and creaky rusted gates green wellington boots floating in the wind

But the view at the top was so spacious and free like a room with no ceiling and I just sat on the bench and watched the smoke float up into the blue summer sky I was home I was free only me and this view and then I heard the children laughing in the field bellow they were all dressed in pink tuxedos and they were whirring round and round like spinning wheels pushed by Egyptians under a pink sun two grils were holding a skipping rope and the one in the middle a little purple girl with pig tails and an anaemic teddy bear was jumping and jumping there was a strange man with rimless glasses watching from the sidelines and sweating rubbing the condensation of the glass but she just went right over to him and she jumped at him and starting biting her teeth were like electric saws cutting through cheese

Spatters of gold paint covered the grass and sparkled in the twilight the children had long since disappeared but I still hear their laughter by now the sky was pink and orange the city spread out before me like a roman arena and I realized that I did not have to walk that I could just fly across and look down on it all like a bee in a summer garden so i climbed up into the sky and started moving my arms about and slower and slower I went higher and higher and then I was flying 

Circles

Mediocrity is mercenary, like fog. The exhaust sputters and lurches. A snail leaves a trail of silver on a gravestone.

One hymn. One reason. To float, to shine, to fly. Buzzing in endlessly. This whisper. This silence.

I push open the window and the air rushes in. My skin is cold and fragile.

Something solid is needed.

The ordinariness is comforting. Churches and spirits are empty.

These kids, these books, this icy forest.

Just to be here on this train, discussing Hitchcock.

Analysing the opening scene of Midsomer Murders. Brewing coffee.

Hands, voices, conversations.

I don’t want to spend my life sitting in a circle.