Friday, October 4, 2013

A blank page, like a sheet of snow, perfect, it covers everything, all the dirt and debris beneath and you've just got to get the size 9 wellos onto it, into it, steal a Subaru Impreza and donut the world back into reality, fragility, ugly isolation, vituperative vicissitudinous machinations preparations delegations and procrastinations,well? Maybe. Later on.
Such temptations, such freedoms to speak, what holds back, tugs the coattails, don't push this to the abyss, just look in, from the edge,don't do, see what looks back from the black. Take words out, let lies, lie, truth dares,multitude of sins in us, pulchritudinous , paltry chewed in us, fortune fooled in us, life wasted by us, weighted bias, nighttime google vision, starlit monotheism , sotto crescendo, fresco, duodenum, step ladder. Words. People saying words doing deeds picking up stones throwing voices shoutly louding, deadpan eyes, windows, curtains replaced by blinds. How was this path trod, how many bootmarks in the white, this snowy landscape, this beautiful escape, why, how is it, how do they, dare they, how say they, who says they can say, where this is where where is this is this where is this where are we, going? Do we leave any trace in the snow after the snow has gone? And does it matter. Anti matter.The grave it e of the sit you a shun.Transcend mental medication. Letters pray.

Monday, September 23, 2013

Getting Back To My Roots!

I miss Totalfeckineejit, you know where you are with an Eejit. I think I miss blogging too.Comparing it to FB is like comparing the first world war to a Friday Night punch-up in the pub car park. No, I'm not really sure what that means either, but I'm sure it means...something. A hate,  a love, a mood, a feeling, that is always preferable to, more beneficial than, ...nothing.
Nothing is (paradoxically) the 'thing' we must avoid at all costs.

'Tis better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all'  Alfred Lord Tennyson

'Ever tried. Ever failed.No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.' Samuel Beckett
'He who dares wins, Rodney' William Shakespeare

You get the gist. I've tried the Barcelona style, very fancy, very expensive, very...irritating. I want to go back to Wimbledon, route one, I want the crazy gang, I want it to be...emotional.

Being a fish out of water is ok for a while, but then you get a bit panicky, specially when size nines are squeezing down on your gills. Deep down I know what this is all about, deep down I have no clue what it is all about.A Dickensian paradox.The best of times; the worst of times. Paradoxes galore this night, brother,sister.

But really we do know it is the worst, we are the lucky ones, which is why we must pluck the best from the gutter, the swamp, the greed, the ego, the abyss.I have stared into the eyes of the poetry Tyger; It is beautiful (I'm lying for the sake of balance), it is ugly, it is ruthless, it sees the world, it promises salvation, it is cold, red hot, knows of everything but cares for no-one but itself. Fuck fearful symmetry.

What does it all mean, dear reader? Unfortunately I have only questions. And the people who have the answers, who stick by them, cast them in concrete, do not like questions. Questions lead to change, nobody wants that?

I don't know what this is. All I know is it feels GOOD!

The weekly prompt is back. It would be the best of times if people joined in. Tell your friends, inform your enemies

Saturday, March 9, 2013

New Poem

One Scream

There’s  two screens
One watching us watching you
The other a blank
We should have a gun for melody
As we sink this ship as we
Throw life lines
Like caution, to the wind
Keep it simple
Follow your instinct
We are extinct
Before we know
Go with the flow like dead fish
And the latest a tax
Distracted from the dream degrees from the ideal home
Exhibition stuff
The land's cabin 13
Room for one ‘o‘ one
Tug ‘o’ war man ‘o’ war
There’s a harsh edge to this taste
A machine gunfire the latest light. 

Friday, January 11, 2013

What fresh hell?

Helicopters threatening hope,
blades flashing, twirling,
the knaves are out.
New school is Old school is all,
but twisted, twisted.
And I have to raise my head
to blue skies
above bullshit,
heart above hypocrisy
This new regime that uses the same old machine
and the things we resisted
are now insisted clench-fisted,
blandly or blindly followed.
It breaks my hollowed heart
Fills me with anger
and despair.
Where do we go from here?
Who are ‘we’ at all anyway?
I’ll stick to the lonesome 'I'
The lyrical confession
in hope for a less bitter vision,
a better version of new.