4/1/09 No.2
A viral buoyancy in my soul,
you rise above all thoughts
at an expense through which they can't afford to live.
A cloud above the forest of my thoughts,
you starve its leaves of sunlight.
All would be well, but
that your rains evaporate as they fall.
It's a brilliant light by which my soul's been stricken blind,
more brilliant than the sun, it's one from which
I can't equate the distance
that my mind's Earth should set a cautious,
yet indebted orbit.
4/1/09 No.4
One can climb out of their cavernous gazes
to feed upon thought
of a subtler nature, there are pockets of fresh air,
indeed oceans
to be explored beyond the focused lens of a human eye.
Light can be tremendously diffused with time.
4/1/09 No.5
I spend sleepless nights by the tracks of time,
watching my thoughts
self-importantly sliding by from no direction.
Comforted by a gentle heat,
I let my gaze permeate the star flooded sky.
13/1/09
I am a prisoner of gravity
and the impenetrable Earth,
my soul contorted
like spilt oil riding on a rough sea,
shackled in the space between pleasure and pain.
No higher freedom is known than that of
animals whose minds were spared of language,
who sing the un-fretted notes of the cello
while we, the fixed tones of the harpsichord,
those born in a long coat who need no more
convincing,
to whom fortune is still but a moment,
and necessity a bridge
over the torrent as which we know it.
28/1/09
The feeling is inherent of drowning in one's own breath,
and the pulling forces of fear and hope
that should life sound its sirens, death will stir.
Hope
both sticks in my throat, choking me,
and embraces my fear with a medicating force.
I watch
as the sun rises on the inside of one eyelid,
sets on the other.
I'm looking at something far beyond that.
It's illuminated at every sunrise but
seems to worship the vast expanses of the night.
31/1/09
Hiding in an enclosed system of caves,
I'm haunted by everything from all directions.
Feeling my way around a corner,
for an interrupted heartbeat I
catch the light of a cat's glowing eyes,
a substantial ember in the heat of a distant star.
Needless to say, I'm falling.
Landing on a choice
between a detailed map, or the general illumination of my world,
simultaneously all of my muscles contract.
A lost echo in the distance tells me...
1/2/09
I'm hard hit that time can't move horizontally.
Every unit of movement is a change in the weather,
each new light seen with a new eye.
There's so much here, that
one often may as well have started again.
9/2/09
There's more movement within me than all of that which I can't see,
I extend farther inwards than the universe does outwards,
and still my will to escape is an interminable force.
I afforded one of these suddenly brief days
to a full loop of thought.
It's a polychrome existence ruled by a colour-blind god.
Somewhere time, as the rose, works alike by any other name.
Elsewhere, on a spherical Earth,
light dims the passing continents.
18/2/09
Bathed suddenly in a warmer light,
the air breathes with a new viscosity.
Unconstrained, my blood flows
by the pulse of a discretionary thought,
and somewhere far away
there is absolutely nothing.
I still may not afford
that there be wind or rain outside, but
the windows firmly disregarded,
I am content.
11/3/09
The walls are a breeze through my field of vision.
They accelerate
behind my head, rupturing
a struggling tail of minutes.
16/3/09
Unzipping the air on my path,
I wrote my thoughts again today
in steps on the city's tangled pavements.
I'm chasing the tail of time which I drag
behind me like a ball and chain,
black snow gathering on my fetters
by new light as they roll around every corner,
by old storms as they grind along the weathered concrete.
Actions, of course, can
never dance well to the tune of a thought.
6,8&13/4/09
Drink a broad spectrum of compassion,
of the very most diverse, yet
unburdened smiles,
there's no richer water for the flower of one's health.
An eye, reflecting again the light of a
bicycle mirror comes slowly floating around
another grey, smooth-edged corner,
another star-like twinkle, and the down-turned human nose,
and a mouth that shouts "keep walking,
subject,
keep walking!"
It's known, each horizon is too far to tread
when effort strikes the settled human soul,
yet every foot has danced through forest thick with thorn,
(and every hand so been cut
to show blood's fiery lust,)
but
to smell a single rose at its centre.
"Keep walking,
subject,
keep walking!"
Does one trample the rose
for it too is thorned?
A scent being but a decorative,
or apprehensive note in the chord of a moment,
that is. One knows to let it be,
and keep walking.
The sun comes
to peep over a frowning hill,
on the far side a fleeing hiker is blinded.
Budding leaves return a trusting glance, and
are caressed by an exhausted breeze.
The crackling of a cyclist on the stones gives way to silence
as the last shadow floats away in pursuit of a cloud.
21/4/09
It's the difficulty of knowing a moment.
The memory and anticipation, on the same plane,
of the same thought,
in an expression, a signal.
Isolate a moment, nothing
of the sort exists, takes place,
they might say there's
no synchronised movement,
no platonic emotion, no,
and then that there's no
"single" word.
And yet one holds it with all earthly grip,
as the more words we use...
30/4/09
My lungs, that would see air's ill-tempered substance
saturated with joy, have slept
in dismal ocean currents, known too well
the liquid substance of Earth's knotted disorder.
Heads have lain on pillows of wounded stone,
hearts, with all their might, kept time with phantoms
of pursuit,
only to conclude with giggles of palpitation
which leave one eye forever exposed to the wind,
and the other tightly shut.
9/5/09
I've felt so strongly
and so merely present,
the illuminated ochre bottle
locked inside the nocturnally toned mahogany cabinet,
eyes marching through my path of thought,
the teeth of a caged dog piercing, in its mind,
through the soul of an offending onlooker,
right foot tapping impatiently and left pointing to the door.
I've been dormant.
Put to sleep by public immobility.
20/5/09
The air gathers as behind a dam of indecision,
breathes as if retracing its steps over every moment,
yet again to turn and observe its path.
They're incomprehensible,
the dimensions suspended in the projected light of a thought.
Often one may have been better stricken blind.
21/5/09
It's a maze of soul-grating grey,
every inch more a victim of apathy than the last,
somewhere a pipe drips continuously and God
bless every dead spider like fallen troops,
bright eyed poets and a place on another planet.
It's the passage to death that's too small to get through.
5,11,12,15,16,17,18&19/6/09
I'll speak of the parasite, though it's not my art,
by which this pus oozes from a wound in my thoughts.
It perches its profound effect
first vulture-footed on my Earth-set eyes,
and with its screeching, groaning nails, denies
all reason that I may detect,
my constructed, sunlit thoughts, sculpted by an intrusive hand
to the cruel curves of yet another night.
The mask it wears depicts a man about to break
helplessly into a fearful fit of laughter,
maybe about to suffocate,
maybe hanging from a cliff's crumbling side
wondering how he ever came to hide
in such a dull and morbid state,
he that would mindlessly pass his life to another
and cast away the rest.
It's pitiful, the sickness to which I succumb,
by what is but a hormonal trick of the light.
Limbs that I myself do not miss
reflected in barren tears of desire,
my stomach forced to turn, and how I tire
of losing time to all of this,
of watching films with no ending on the inside of my eyelids,
of watching even direst enemies through a shameful lens of jealousy.
There's a darkening shade of grey upon my past
where lust's periphery has been beaten to death,
memories, veiled by charcoal clouds,
of days on which the sky seemed blue and bright,
sweet sounds that were made dissonant by light
and thoughts that became lost in crowds.
The blood being drawn from my soul by this monster
is dripping over my eyes.
I often cast my thoughts to hopeless ideals,
bare my fists at desires by which they came to be,
which distance the frown from the smile
too far to cater for the platonic
so that the ecstatic and the chronic
are left fighting for blood and bile.
I float like an unseen, transitory cloud
through dreams of freedom from beginning and end, cause and effect.
What is this futile, sickly moment of repent
compared to the years that I've lost to this disease,
running to dead ends through wide eyes,
tripping over steps I could clearly see,
wasting hope-charged breath so ignorantly,
balancing on a rope of lies?
It's a single, excruciating five second break
on the repeatedly enforced sprint between one's first and last breath.