Floating Things

We human beings can imagine that we understand where someone else is coming from, be convinced we know their motives and then find it difficult not to opine thereupon.

——————————————————————

On the wind,

Carried by the wings of perception,

It comes.

 

The words of another,

Telling of how you feel.

Convinced and convicted in the beginning.

 

Tenuous and stretching,

Well meaning but wrong,

Painting themselves in impressionist points.

 

The message and the shield,

To massage and deflect,

Holding that point in sea of the floating things.

 

Formed in the rust of trust,

Sewn into the fledgling in the nest,

And rewarded by the worm of the early bird.

 

The clamour of the glamour of it all.

Life is too short to be right.

 

Dressed in dead-letter logic,

And the twelve-bar blues of again and again,

The so-called facts question.

 

But hidden beneath and,

In different clothes,

The sound echoes an empty tone, going through the motions.

 

Under the carpet,

Where all the fears lie,

Are brushed the fragile bones that hold the tissue intact.

 

The cabbage patch dolls,

Huddle to write their play, to have their say,

Performing to conform and looking at their cake.

 

Consent and compromise,

Coerce and corrupt, rob the spirit,

And drive the man from the parapet.

 

The courage of silence is not.

Life is too short to be rite.

 

In the clay cup he puts the Tea,

Pours water and takes the brush,

Deftly he stirs.

 

In the swirled of the floating things,

Searching inside for:

The meaning of it.

 

The raft of bubbles breaks,

And foams in the Maya of it all,

Yet another storm in a teacup?

 

Words like tiny purses,

Score double top, as sharply,

As the dart players take chalk in hand.

 

Five hundred and one,

Itches under his skin like mosquito bites,

On a summer’s night.

 

He never liked the Joneses anyway,

Their white picket fence and pet crocodile,

Were Saatchi and Saatchi.

 

The salt of the Ganges is ours.

Life is too short not to write.

 

What is a truth,

And how does it taste?

Clear on the palate and fresh on the tongue.

 

Far from the pre-packed and processed,

Wrapped in cling film

And sold at Sainsbury’s on Saturdays.

 

Personal and specific,

Not agreed by committee,

A feeling of feelings and a knowing of knowledge.

 

No less than a flame,

Kindled inside and singular,

An island in the floating things.

 

Seen in a dream as in the dream,

Watched in the circus,

Without puppeteers’ strings.

 

There is more to life than process,

Immeasurable and imprecise,

No key performance indicators here.

 

The air that we breathe is free.

Life is too short not to read.

 

The pages of Kells,

Illuminated with love

And decorated with care on the journey of the Dove.

 

Set free from the Ark,

The un-caged bird in search of the olive branch,

Comes back in sea of floating things.

 

Soaring in gentleness,

White with vulnerable beauty,

To tell of its travels and share of its fare.

 

The memory of before,

And the sense of the divine in each,

And the eyes of a child, awestruck and in awe.

 

The warnings are there,

The cloying sterility of the Vulcan mind

Overpowers the beating passion of the heart.

 

I re-member Martin,

And the Christ in each of us.

I have a dream and it dreams me now.

 

Brave heart be strong and beat on.

Life is too short not to see red.

 

My Ferric Justifications

People can talk themselves into and out of pretty much anything.

The trouble is regret is as slippery as an eel and can sneak through the bars, the bastions, of reason.

—————————————————————–

With the rusting bars

of those ferric justifications

my dreams they rot away

so reasonably confined to cower

 

Each nail bashed home

with the Mjölnir mind

resounding thunderous home

to pin my hopes to the page

 

Each slant, every twist

slams prison door shut

to echo along death-row

and no reprieve from the guv’nor

 

All that alleged sensibility

cuts razor blade the skin

whilst my heart bleeds

unnoticed tears, into a bucket

 

And when the bell tolls

I shall empty the slops

of all my reasonable reasons

which did treason to my love

 

The painted corner of my cell

surrounds me so perfect tight

as all my gaveled demi-truths;

my Soul does forever swallow and choke

 

Would that I could vomit

most visceral up

all this heinous bile

I feed myself and to others

 

Within the rusting bars

of all my ferric justifications

my dreams they rot away

reasonably confined to cower and decay

Soft Waves of Regret

If I let one tiny wavelet

past the bastions of reasons

the ramparts of justification

‘t would set me all a shiver

 

My vigilance must be supreme

for to allow such a heady thing

might shake my core

to litter the ground with tears

 

That pregnant tumult

with its full quiver of feelings

will overwhelm the keep

and battering ram the heart’s portcullis

 

To feel its orgasmic climax

shaking, shuddering through me

must I myself forbid

for to taste such fruit….

 

My frail hidden vulnerability

stripped harsh, naked, human

all that I tend to pretend

shattered into shards of glass

 

Each feather tickles enticing

soft undulating waves of regret

surreptitious at the harbor’s edge

resist you fool, resist…

 

Must fend of that tender melancholy

till dawn’s alarm beckons me busy

I can make it through one more night

I can, I can…

all het up {I am fine}

deep in my gums

emotions teething

simmering

seething

 

those little bubbles rising in the pan

my three second egg is on to boil

I won’t let them out

I’ll burn them in oil

 

If I scrunch up my face

all paper balls in the bin

no-one will know

I am holding them in

 

I’ll cut up the soldiers

and chop off its head

soon there’ll be yoke

on each piece of bread 

 

fourteen billion years since

they last made me wince

I am hiding it well

my pretense doth convince

 

a Cathar’s release

how I yearn for a valve

a mere morsel of love

might yet prove my salve

 

the bottling plant whirrs

all ducks in a row

so much explosion

is pregnant and stirs

 

my pugilist’s jaw

clenched tighter than fists

if only I could dissolve

this reddest of mists

 

repressed am I no

most certain am I

can’t you tell from that look

here in my eye?

 

I am fine……..

 

Ice Dagger of Reason

It is possible to be so stuck up in our heads or with our heads so far up our own arses that we forget. We can be so fixated on being “right” that we become artic frozen beings, fragile and hostile.

——————————————————————-

This cold artic world

Now murdered

Run through

With ice daggers

 

The stakes of justification

Banish the hope

Of resurrection

Hearts, pierced silent

 

Bang on urgent target

Devoid of love

Brutal and

Pregnant with blame

 

Each frozen scalpel finger

Excises precise

Any quivering warmth

To extinguish

 

Artificial intelligence

Full of artifice

Is already here

With a deafening profit

 

Power, money

Death, destruction

The human iceberg

Now inured

 

On the blade

Is writ

Me and mine

So fuck you

 

Each stabbing reason

The serial killer

Again and again

And again

 

No need for love

Nor caring

Bullseye blind

Stiletto sure

 

Tell me precisely

What exactly

do you mean

by feeling?

Tender Blue

Softly, it moves through the heart,
Fingers, delicate yet heavy in their touch.
It draws and pulls,
That lake before the sea.

Echoes ebb and flood,
Through.
Ghosts that walk the veil,
Each step evokes a different shade.

With tiny feet they climb
The ladder of the soul.
Those feelings
Long forgotten.

Weight is there, and
It hangs heavy on the string.

The tip-tap-tip of life moves on.
The colour lives,
Still.
Holding the depths, where memory lies.

Tender blue, tender blue.

that which we love

and beyond the veneer

truly, madly, deeply

a direct resonance in Soul

in a place

where no one else can see

 

so private, so secret

 

this is what we

push away

because we cannot control

feelings,

such as these

 

so scary, so real

 

the bastions of pride

makes ramparts high

to repel

that which we love,

and, with burning oil

 

so unsure, so trembling

 

and the ache of it

a chasm in being

for want of fingers

touching across

a void

 

so yearning, to be touched deep within

 

to spark electricity

shocking as thunder

barbed wire beyond

all the minefields

on a Christmas day

 

a denied hint of promise

 

soon the varnish

paints itself

a corner in,

as icy cold

as winter’s reason

 

so safe, so nothing

 

that which we love

must always be

stranger unto us

because it is

safer that way … …

Convergence?

Over the last few days or so I have had a feeling of something “incoming”  from off world.  There are two events upcoming there which may trigger this incoming. It is extraordinarily difficult to capture this feeling with words.

 

 

Tendrils of fate

Floating in the aether

Start to coalesce

To a single point

 

A singular dimension

With a potency sublime

Unthinkable, unplanned

Unforeseen

 

At this nexus

This node

A binary

 

It might

Or might not

 

Radical

Unpaired

A converging

Of divergence

 

And after that

Nothing will

Ever

Be the same

 

Or a nascence

Aborted

By reason

And excuse

 

A pivot

In space-time

A crunch

Or a squib

Difficult to Put into Words..

I had a very nice feeling this morning when I checked the blog stats. My number one country for visits is India. Thank you!  A Welshman in France is being read by people in India, nice.

When I first started learning French at the age of nine, at night school, it was with some young Indian adults, at a Catholic convent, in Zambia and we were taught by a man from the Congo. They told me their grisly family stories concerning the partition, which left a lasting mark on my mind. I was very impressionable. They were good raconteurs and stories told against the backdrop of an African night are all the more entrancing.  A few months later I was shipped off to boarding school in the UK where they took the piss out of me for my strange French accent!

Over the last week or so I have been getting things at the periphery of my consciousness. They keep “breaking through”. It pertains to my old life back in London and to people there. Quite what is going on, I do not know. There is a feeling that something is afoot, and it threatens to break through into our rustic oasis somehow. The doings of that other world may get visited upon us in some manner. There is a kind of subjective juxtaposition of high technology and tractors pulling trailers brimming with potatoes. Just behind my left shoulder is a pile of patents and academic papers, they are gathering dust, nicely. To my right is Ganesh.

There is an outside possibility that things may change, the likelihood is that they remain the same. It is a weird feeling that, on the breeze, something may blow in which starts to alter this trajectory of retirement. I don’t know if my suit fits anymore. I lost about 12 kilos thanks to my accident. I even had to buy a smaller size in Levi’s so as to stop showing my “Calvin” labels, like a rapper.

Whatever it is, which may or may not actually be going on, is out of my control and there is nothing that I can do about it. There is this sense of an approach, pending somehow, getting closer even.

Next month my “vanity” patent application will get published. Hmnn, does all this “stuff” pertain to that?

The “break through” causes faces to appear in my consciousness, they are of people as they used to be over a decade ago, not as they are likely to be now, more aged. It is strong and it happens when I am in no way thinking of them. I might be looking at the trout in the river and it happens. Whatever it is it has been intensifying over the last few days. It doesn’t happen early morning, it seems to start at the time when people may be waking up in the UK. It is happening now as I write as if some conflab is on.

Difficult to put into words, more than a little intrusive, bizarre…