THE MODERN INDIVIDUAL AS ANCIENT MONOLITH

Sometimes it will be just a title turning a thought into memories

that gets the heart moving. What comes next depends on the wind

blowing cobwebs hung from fragile branches.

One day it could be radio waves or something else emerging 

from darkness at the back of the shelf. 

Ran up five flights opposite an old remembered house.

Woke confused from a morning nap with 

a head like a washing machine, heart racing to figure

out, how can we be monoliths inside this culture?

What grace can we claim back from the vultures tearing at our flesh?

Up and open to ashes, we slip away into vague horizons

that require neat replicas of our full on-line persistence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

QUIET DOMESTIC LIFE IS 

Waiting for life to happen

is it

happening

not all music is special

sometimes a sound is a song

 

 WRITE WHEN IT’S HARD

When you’re most afraid

Of what it’s hard to know exactly

When the pain won’t go away write anyway

From the bottom of your anxious stomach

Acid aches heart breaks

Splits like atoms

Nuclear up through the body

But wait don’t go just yet

You still have breath in your lungs

Begin again every day

Write the pain away 

Form words of in and out breath

These are not worthless forms 

Real pain is mental anguish

You can’t move forwards

Or backwards

Or jump for joy

Everything gets clawed back to

Its lowest form

Write now keep going

Make a run for it

Don’t let the bastard’s

Claim it back

You’re not the dirt and suffering you see

Because it is not dirt and it is not suffering

That you see

But life in all its myriad wonder

That means joy and pain

Not just the broken lives ranting in the dark

But the tenderness of the afflicted

The humanity between strangers in peril

That bonds us 

As much as the hate that makes the news

To go out once more into the world

To carve another day from the weight of existence

In this moment

Which is supposed to be beautiful

Well it is 

It should be or will be

To borrow money from your children 

Feels like the ultimate dishonour

To pay them back with love and cooked meals

Perhaps does make it right

I should not have said what I said

I should not have done what I did.

 

 It was a good year.

It was a good year for music.

It was a good year for self-awareness.

It was a turning point for vitality. People helped. We helped people.

I lived and loved for others.

We made work.

Work made us. 

We laughed. A lot.

It was a good year working outside. It got hot.

We worked alongside a bee hive. Those bees got busy as it got warmer.

Nobody got stung in our world.

Good art is made out of salvation. If it gets harder we dig deeper. Because we have to.

There is no choice but to live. 

We give each other gifts every day.

There are other ways of doing things. There is always another way of looking at a situation.

Do not intoxicate yourself. You will only regret it.

Maybe you will find revelations but they are fleeting and will not last.

Real salvation comes from a place of sobriety.

But you can’t tell people what to do.

You can only find out for yourself.

The path is different for everyone. 

Real music is the sound of everyday life. If you can enjoy this then your made.

Any good music can take you out of yourself. It doesn’t matter what it is.

It’s about you as much as the sound.

Literature is something special.

It was a good year for reading and in turn learning.

Fiction is a search for truth.

The truth in fiction is what we learn about ourselves.

That is why our stories will never end.

Be humble and don’t make too much noise.

Even when they come for you.

Let them. What do they know?

Don’t fight just flow.

It’s over now.

There’s a gap in the bookshelf 

(where my heart used to be)

it opens upon a vast plain of hills 

long waving grasses

reflecting slivers of lunar glow

sun at midnight 

the way is now clear 

we never gave up 

always knowing 

it was out there 

all that time

waiting

for us to find the words to say

I am 

We are 

to be held 

to be heard

 to be understood

falling forwards tumbling through the years

ghosts of our own futures.

 

 

 When the force is strong enough to move us

we move to make our feelings heard

in a way to satisfy our breathing

to make the moment significant

after reading about it

I just want to sit in zazen all day

but I won’t today

we have work to do

and this will be our time

to move through a million thoughts

throw the waste away

build new

build now

breathing in and out

in this darkening season 

encased in sleepless joy

wake up to banish fear.

 

 And so the wind wont blow it all away 

we shoulder into it

along the sand swept coast into our unknown forever

four boys moving in and out of life

against a force stronger than us 

the sand whipped up in a smooth curve against the lip of the esplanade

we love being together 

can’t stand being apart

cluster like the grains against each other

hot coffee against dark hearts 

this trip will stay inside these words

it will help to hold them safe

which is all I ever wanted to do for you.

 

 

 Farmers’ Market

 

 

 

Writing to survive writing to stay alive to stave off intensity

 

you put a stick in the shit and sent it

 

you put up with life’s admin 

 

yes no sense because it ran off

 

you live in a

 

chaos of words 

 

in the night dance daily

 

lifting sighing breathing 

 

stalk DNA 

 

drug test countermeasures

 

the struggle is moments away

 

regional police force 

 

do not have the manpower 

 

to fight these levels of criminality

 

festering in the margins 

 

of a burnt out welfare state

 

what hooks hold us up 

 

no dynasty to connect with

 

walking the phone to work

 

a life’s worth of direct debit follows you around

 

like a magpie in the periphery

 

trying to catch those shiny moments that gleam off centre

 

make it all worth while

 

go college get knowledge

 

I’ve got ADHD and maybe Autism or a combination of the both

 

if I could rent them out I would 

 

like trestle tables at a country fayre

 

slap a massive pumpkin on the forehead

 

work the vegetables make them pay

 

pickles and punches produce for sale

 

spiced apple chutneys lined up and labelled lovingly

 

go for a run now

 

don’t look back.