An Excerpt from...

...A bunch of yellow notepads I'd carried and written in over a few years, with the intention of eventually compiling a collection. I can't say I can recall what inspired it, particularly, but I think the point's fairly clear. Here it is, as was:

   Monotony; mutiny;
theatrical dispute only
indicates a lack of
conviction: lack of certainty;
there can be no debate
where one knows the
truth. Disavowals of
concrete truths only
show a child's
inheritance of the
substance of things.
Substance is substantially
lacking in many of our
modern age; replace  person
with a contrived personality;
false laughs mask
confusion; disgust; pity...
pity there are so
many 'hopeless' cases-
but then- what's a
hopeless case to a 'head
case' and whose right
is more wrong? Would we
rather honor crippling
honesty or favour
meticulous falsities?
Truth... What a beautiful
noun. No more, but a
mystery. Life is, in
itself- forever and
always- a mystery.
Life is the truest
form of expression,
when committed without
digression. See no mirror!
Fear no eye! But live,
and live for more than
the act alone, of
living.

The Modern Man

About a decade ago I wrote a poem entitled 'Modern Man'; it was a little concise, but somewhat thoughtful, a bit naive, but also nice. Without the intentional consideration, I wrote this recently, a joke about things I'd seen, and also lived- an update in mentality, I suppose!

The modern man must economise!
First; eat that apple,
so that you may combat the noxious fumes
of the air you breathe.
Now; find relaxation in
a book you enjoy,
to fight that stress
you feel,
crushed against others
the way there
and back again.
Lastly; make sure you learn
so that you are
not wasting your mind
all that time
you spend in following
your drudgery.
The modern man of economy
knows the trick
at once
to all three.

On Innocence; (which is a ruse)

Innocence,
in a sense,
had never before
existed-
because, since
leaving heaven's
gate, original
sin was gifted.

Czech In/Out

I took two weeks off and visited a couple of places around our sweet Europe with a motley crew; Austrian, American, French, Bavarian, Greek, Ukrainian... We celebrated two birthdays together, hoisted people up on chairs, sang and drank and lost our woes, too full of the prevalent beauty, happiness and cheap booze.

Here is just a little something:

Stepped into Prague feeling less than fresh; somehow thought I'd arrived before I'd even left: still in Linz; sweetest Austria, where everything was Paradise- an easy life; unbound nature- the space, the lakes- freedom, friendship and thoughtfulness. How could I not know this place, when I had eaten its fruits, drank the juice of its grapes and supped the waters of its abundant fields of barley... and more than this. And Prague, with its beautiful, old brick, built up walls and concentric pathways around and loud, empty streets, now moves about me, and all the more, with everything, I am filled. Such were the visions of my dreams, but lo! I am awake, and so, my dreams have been made real.

   It's every part the life I envisioned for myself; in every way like the literary life that ensnared me when I read the books of the bourgeois boheme; in this fine suite and all its space- high ceiling rooms full of light and surrounded by the most beautiful company. We stroll around, at leisure, all in and out, of our drunken, loving haze. We cry, we caress, we kiss. We play music, sing and dance and support one another; I bathed in pink, fizzing, bliss then sat to a late breakfast of dark bread, pate, a fresh tomato, cheese and pickles and a tall glass of thick milk.  We prance down cobblestone streets, locking arms and in rapture. I learnt to stop looking for love, and then I woke up in it.

From Exhaustion

After a few days travelling around the South West (is that right?) of the country, I now reside back in London; wearied by my lack of sleep and lack of a few other 'creature' comforts, but otherwise quite full of zest. In the basement of a cocktail bar that felt very much like a boudoir, I had been sipping on absinthe and discussed with my friends how the spot could (and should) have been used as a cool place to exhibit art or jam to jazz and poetry. Finding none of this, I flicked through a pad that I had on hand, and read to myself a little. Here is such an example, which I was reminded of last night, as I sat on a beach and watched the rising of an orange moon:

Daylight breaks
through a docile mist,
the trees keep a vigilant grasp,
keeping ties linked like a 'finger-trap'
between sky
and soft ground; fingers
splayed like roots advancing,
raw, exposed, nerve synapse
then the bright blue
of morning explodes
into being with a
lightly falling spring
rain. To go from the
dark fuzz of an adjoining
night, into the newly
sprung glow of morning
in an instance. I put myself
towards a perpetual death
and am left lucid to see
what others may miss:
the ascent of a god
atop his throne.

Something old... About Cleaning.

In wanting to keep up with the habit of posting; in lieu of my rekindled appreciation of my previous work (apologies for narcissism), and in keeping with an opportunistic approach towards life, here's another poem, from my Blue Book, circa 2010. Much of which seems festooned with romanticist eroticism- this piece less so.  Enjoy...

I spent a while, cleaning my room

as its eventual

need to be

dawned.

I spent hours, barefoot

in my bathroom,

working tired muscles,

sinew; verged on snapping.

I scrub,

polish,

rinse.

Eroding, so slightly,

the skin from my hands,

and fingers. Probably toes.

Some stains never go.

I didn’t spend so long

changing my sheets

or the pillow cases, upon,

which I lay.

I didn’t change, at all

the dirty, rich, duvet

or it’s cover, coveted,

with sweat and memories.

I allow my heads’ collapse

upon it’s many folds

and exalted,

I breathe in

a history of which,

only I know.

Hello, Cruel World!

I kid... All I mean to say, is; 'Hello again'.

I've not been here for a while now, occupations keeping me busy; administering spiritual medication, a stint in a relationship, some light travel, work, leisure, et cetera, et cetera....

Today, I spent the large part of the morning awake, in my underwear, in bed- reading for a few hours, listening to the sound of the rain and putting my mental faculties towards the effort of the organisation of my life. Curiosity impelled me to review some of my old work- now, mostly, forgotten books of poems that I'd written during my maturation and travels across the period of my early twenties. Occasionally, I think I was a much better writer then then I will ever continue to be. Perhaps I had a much greater 'feeling' for life, or maybe I just felt more. Truth is, as I've grown, I've become a little dejected about the subject of the 'word', and it's overall futility, removed from the wider scope of the futility of all things. In thinking, I weave my way through words that never go uttered, and expressions that never find their airing; I realise all the things I think I know and understand that in my vociferating; nothing changes.

I am compelled to leave this place, for somewhere where I do not speak the language, to be forced to learn anew and find worth in all the simple things again- the successes of finding a roof for the night, of feeding and resting well; of, overall, yearning for something of the more rural pastiche. Nature learned all the hidden meanings within the world, long ago, and decided they were better kept as secrets.

In solitude, language takes a more somber turn. It becomes as a song in a mausoleum.
Here is a poem I wrote (speculatively) four years ago. Perhaps it loses its meaning without context, but the leaf, or 'Objet d'Art', was stolen from me, many years afterward.

The most excruciatingly

beautiful message

I had ever read

was passed to me

on the side of a floating leaf.

I cried because I knew;

with the age stricken Autumn,

I never could preserve that leaf

just as I never

could preserve a true love

that it spoke of.

They both would wither in time.

I will hold on to that leaf

until the day it dissipates;

it brings some solace to my grief;

knowing that once

I was loved by you

Notes in Passing

What got me to thinking about this... Thinking of sexuality; thinking sexually; thinking of you.

Hot, hard, dick
pressed against
your tits;
we're level in our revelry-
is it such a sin,
climbing in toward
debauchery?

The Unbearable Lightness of...

...Being. Or not being, dependent on how you look at it.

Encased within and looking out,
I think: how much does it really mean?
paying some attribute as a compliment
I drink
and glut myself, floating along,
allowing circumstance's swing;
not indifferent- not totally-
I hear both curses spewed and praises sing'd
and through it all, I do
just as I do.
But sometimes I feel a conscience
and then my will is vilified-
but somberly I soldier on,
not always sure if right or wrong.

Where Is My Time?

I wrote this a while back, waiting in a pub for a friend.
It has since become a musical piece.

Where is my time? Where is my mind?
Minutes behind, minutes pass, flapping away
in circles like bird's wings, wax wings,
one wing shorter than the other; I make my ascent,
an hour passes, then I plummet...
down... down... down... and round again. I
sit, I stand, I stare, and time, as always,
passes, but I am not aware: a loud
hubbub of pandemic noise is eclipsed in
a second- the same second that
followed the many more that went before;
the hundreds and thousands of
seconds, like little building blocks that
slowly build their way right up-
seconds; minutes; hours. Suddenly a year
has passed, seemed quicker than the
last and I'm still stuck like
quicksand, falling down the hourglass;-
'Where is my... Time?' Time went too
quick, never even saw it went, never
heard it when it left: the digital age
hides the 'tick-tock-tick' like camouflage
and suddenly, it's gone; where did it go?
And if it isn't now, maybe it never
was- can time be said to exist in the
past? Yesterday seems so far away, but
really it's not: it never was. Only what
is now is real; traumas of a bygone
age are invalidated, outdated, exaggerated,
overstated, and swept under the rug. Oh,
sweet time, 'forget-me-not'; too late,
too bad, again: already gone. The here
is now, and now is already past- a
memory of what is not. Nothing is; it
never was and today will be lost to
morrow. I see the sun rise like a
sun set- sad and sedate, lulled to
sleep by a low hanging moon that
sang its last and came too soon.
What else is there left in this? Tomorrow
never was- is never is and before
I've got my head around the concept
of a clock- alarms ring, the planet
spins and I think: Where is my...
Time?

Reflections/ Mental Masturbation

I get home late, again, to be greeted by a silent house that seems empty- but isn't. Quietly creeping up the stairs, I feel a stranger in my own home, where I've barely passed a few words in all the months I've been here with the others who reside therein. In the mornings, when I'm half asleep, I sometimes hear them talk about me; whispered words about my habits that, to them, seem so strange. With little else to do, I sit before a mirror and think. Thoughts pass easily- freely- about the events of the week proceeding; the people met, the words said, the behaviors acted out on; it all flows like an intangible mess; a weave of intersecting realities, paid out by chance. It is possible to live in thought, without substance or qualities. These are the things I think, as I sit, alone.
   Here are some other words that represent the ideas that passed through my mind, another time, as I sat, as I do now, before the mirror. In many ways, they function as the mirrored image of my prose, filtered through the glass of poesy.

I'm not even sure if I feel like what I am;
how I'm seen by a small few
at odd occasions, every so little
but an hour or two.
And what am I when I'm alone,
but a sleeping grave
or a mass web of reflections.
Before a mirror, I ask:
'is this what I look like?'
Recalling incidents and their accidents
where I happen across platonic intimacy,
retracing the words that passed,
I think, with a wondering smile,
if I see me now as they saw me then,
and then, if so-
what's the point of it anyhow?

Can I Just Say...

... That I miss you...
Can I say that, I tried to find a picture of you
to pick me up, but
all it did was put me down
and not even the emptiness
of my stomach,
that passed the past 24 hours
unaided by a meal,
is strong enough to counter-act
the way I feel, when I finally see you
and think about the look in your eye
that maybe I was once,
in some way,
responsible for-
and the blood rushes around my head
and heart like a gyroscope.
Can I say that, I woke up early
but slept in late, because
I had nothing better to do
but hibernate and hide away.
And don't you know,
that these days I give up everything
to a cause so much greater than myself
but that I can't explain.
And yet, for all I happily give,
I just can't quit holding on
to a memory of your love.

After the Journey

I had written this a little while ago; a week or two from now, after I had finally arrived at my current abode from a few days' and nights' previous 'merry-making'; making friends, eating dinners, playing cards and so on. I had slept in three beds across four nights and had felt a little more at ease in every one other than my own, singular, bed- not just for the respective company they provided, which was in itself a blessing, but because at every stage I felt I had divined a different sense of self to match.

Hadn't been 'home' in four nights and days;
ripped clothes and lost buttons along the way;
traipsing all around, working hard, busted toes
with broken nails pushed through the torn veil
of fabric socks, into cold, wet leather.
Bruised skin and aching muscles are the sum of my efforts,
along with friendships made and beds laid in.
Once I was a pessimist,
but I lost the time for narcissistic lucubration
striving to make others happy:
When one ceases to live just for themselves,
the whole world shines with wonder,
but it takes a thick skin to avoid the abrasions
that come from so often 'rubbing shoulders'
with another; shaking hands and sweaty beds;
I showered off the scent of sex,
pulled on my boots, then I was off
and out again.

Noise

I'd been working with a friend on a project of his; an EP involving the varied included work or influence of other artists, mostly with the intention of combining poetry and music to convey an auditory journey or experience. His having an active and practical interest in field recording and music production; both to a talented degree, as well as a background in classical music; his being a multi-instrumentalist, and so on and so forth, but moreover a friend, as stated... I was appreciative of the proposal he'd made to help and accepted to write some poetry to fit with the motifs he wanted to translate. Here is a blueprint in the form of a poem.

I float on an ocean of noise that vibrates like a tremolo;
all pervading, from everywhere;
sound creeps in like a transparent gas:
all things in motion, all around.
Hear the bells? Wheels in motion;
people passing;
feet stomping.
Life roars;
the cry is carried on by the wind;
the beautiful disharmony of everything,
cast within the slumberous shell
of smog.

So Much More for The Cull!

It started as a thought, as I sifted through my belongings and came across an article of clothing to be discarded in whatever way, but then I sat down and quickly compiled this little, silly, rhyme.
Tongue-in-cheek-against-closed-teeth.

'More for The Cull,'
'so much more',
I think-
as I chuck a black jacket,
all of its two buttons
displaced,
to the side; to be thrown away;
given to charity,
or some passerby
who, just as I fancy,
I seem to espy
and of what I have left
there isn't so much
that I'd rather not dislocate,
than soon again touch.
But I do care for my artworks
and then some: my books
and with a near remorseless pride,
I do treasure my looks.

An Aphorism

I had been flicking through the pages of an old journal, heavily laden with words, during my procedural typing up of the novel I'd been working on. As I turned the page, I spotted a pulled out note from a waiter's pad with just this message written on. I forget the context of it now, but can say that the intended inflection on 'is' carries a double meaning; the piece becomes like a simple teaching.

Never forget the
reason you breathe.
It is to live
and love
and die.

The Cat

I'd been working on a series of paintings, photographs and written pieces in conjunction of a certain theme... A lot of drink addled, late nights, 'junky' like behavior, and 'debauched', surrealist literature. Along with the reading and running around, I spent some time thinking about the way my work would relate these things to the sense of attainment that these experiences and exercises can also contain- a touch of the connectedness of all things, or the way that things happened or looked with a resonating poignancy in the early morning light. One night out, in an old abandoned house turned gallery, a friend had surreptitiously pointed out the accidental resemblance to a cat in the shape of some chipped paint and wallpaper on a concrete wall, as I'd just about come to the same conclusion and happened to be looking at the same thing.
   Sadly, the picture was a lot harder to capture due to the rocking of the boat I'd been embarked on.

 

Tenet on Love

After a brief review of this blog, one thing, among many, particularly struck me, which was the breadth of context I originally employed as ways of an introduction. Laziness or other things must have obviously proceeded to slacken my attention to that. In vein of an old, forgotten habit, then, I'll simply further explain: A while ago, before the end of last year, after reading various books, having a few occasions for thought, a few chance meetings, so on and so forth, I had struck upon a focus on the nature of growth, sharing, cohabitation, love and other vague nouns. I was keenly led by a 'Jodorowskian' sense of mysticism and wrote a 'quasi-religious' sermon on love and loving each other.

We must create our paradise,
first within the mind,
for, if we do not know it,
how will we know
when we see or stumble upon it?
We must first think, then act
so the world around us can be made
to fit our image-
as we are all made of this.
We must learn to sing aloud
and learn to give freely;
which is to renounce
the fraternity of vengeance,
and learn to share in happiness
so the  happiness of one
can become one and all's.-
Love one and all and love alike;
never forget the fervor through which love should exist,
and learn to live for this-
for life is short
but all the sweeter for it.
Give generously, without expectation of seeing
your gift returned; as hands are washed
to cleanse them, know no wrong
can come from opened hands-
to give is to be free
and its virtue is its own reward.
Flow, not through, but with all things
and you will overflow with happiness.

Observation from a window

Rain fell in petulant drops like
a flurry of snow; the leaves of
trees, in textured, patterned veils
rippled like the waves amidst the glimmering,
dancing light that weaved through all
the while; the jubilant moon that
stood still.