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