Self-referential #6

 I am so sick of all of it.

The corruption,  the lies, the statistics. 

I once was able to warn allegorically 

but now I state baldly, in fact; categorically 

That dystopian nightmare has crossed to our waking.

We're inside a hellscape of our own creation.

Cassandra I, scribed. The Mistress of Mince.

High on a hill girt by oceans of ink.

Foretelling it all in bouquets of verse

presented with the flourish of the under-rehearsed.

For now the flourishes will wait.

I'm overwhelmed and overweight 

and spending all my energy 

on the one who means the most to me. 

Hermitage and happiness go hand in hand. 

Watch my tail feather shake as I stick my ostrich head in the ground

It's more important to make memories.

Too late to warn of the future. 

A New Direction

 

https://on.soundcloud.com/LR83k

Some of you may have been wondering why I have been quiet recently. 

I have been busily working on a new project, which is starting to come to fruition. 

Above is a link to the first track of my forthcoming album. Check it out and let me know what you think. 

Love always. Xx

I Write To Still My Inside Songs

 

I write to still my inside songs.

But words escape, they flutter fecklessly away.

I grit my teeth and bite my tongue.

Verbal tics have possessed me lifelong.
The disguises are displaying exponential decay.
I write to still my inside songs,

to shackle them with cursive ink where they belong;
expression of ignorant impression of air from within clay.
I grit my teeth and bite my tongue.

The context is lost and meter and meaning are both wrong
But phrases form perfume and colour my spiritual bouquet.
I write to still my inside songs.

And sometimes they're dripping with venom and vengeance from forked prong
But I never claimed to be Virtue in any morality play.
I grit my teeth and bite my tongue.

It's the battle to wrestle harpy squawk into birdsong
Sit and scribe, instead of say.
I write to still my inside songs.
I grit my teeth and bite my tongue. 

I am Alpha

Every third generation
Comes a swell of population
That is heavily swayed towards the masculine breed.
Their forefathers before them
Only dreamt of time for boredom
Heavy hardships sailing on an ocean of needs.

Now over educated,
And fatally frustrated
By the search for rites of passage in this labyrinth of lies.
Force fed plastic fantasy
Of brutal masculinity.
Expectations uniform imperfectly their size.

Pain is compulsory.  Suffering is optional.
Terror unavoidable, endurance's honour irrational.
Hollow hearted heroes hand on bleak batons of bones.
Absentee role models bequeath medallions of millstones.

Shed your manacles of manhood,
Shake the shroud of conqueror.
Share your weakness to withstand it
Shine love's light as northern star.

Effervescent energy when unused turns to bile
And atrophy follows apathy, in deed, in thought, in style.
To combat putrefaction do not turn to dull distraction
Reframe homegrown heroes in your overactive mind.
You can be a man of action in your human interactions
Without staying isolated and it starts with being kind
To yourself.

DOROTHIA

Ladies and Gentlemen,
I'd like you to meet my friend.
Her name is DOROTHIA,
She lives risks and sets trends.
Her Diabetes is type 2,
through diet self-inflicted.
She's Obese, technically morbidly so
and Reclusive - isolation addicted.
She's Older now, she draws a pension,
loves her tobacco, Hedges and Benson.
She's Hypertensive,
is doing something about it,
but her Inactivity gives
her anxiety no outlet,
so Alcohol is where she turns.
And this is how DOROTHIA learned
all the risks factors for developing dementia.
After diagnosis, here is the message she sent ya:

"All of these causes are within your control,
act now and make changes.
Grow heathily old"


                                                                                                 

All of the above are the controllable risk factors available to avoid developing dementia.

Just a piece of information. I'm not lecturing.
 I wrote it to help me remember for day-job purposes.

While you're here though, please consider becoming a Dementia Friend. This requires nothing more of you other than you than to read some information, watch some videos and apply the awareness you gain to your life. It can make a huge difference to people's lives.

Go here to learn more and become a Dementia Friend.

Thanks. Xxxx

Winter Solstice

History's hurts burst gracelessly and blur
the polished edges of responses
sponsored by maturity.
Blurting half-burped mutterings of
defensive small-talk offerings
in place of confident honesty.
The maw of malicious memories yawns
and looses vapours venomous,
vines around voice until it leaves a croak.
Crone-dry and bladder-wracked,
hoarse retorts crack
thoughtless reports across the
hectares of unspoken battles fought.

Token offerings to false idols prove the dedication to deceit.
Conceit conceals tears long since congealed
into crevasses carved by rictus grin.
Spinning stories cobweb thin
from which a larder fully stocked with
melancholy memories of mockeries suspends,
an endless supply of abuse.

Cogitations crank and the wheel, it turns.
Burn the lights on the longest night,
for tonight we learn and sacrifice
a sorrow
in exchange for wisdom.
Flames devour, smoke billows,
sour tongue converted to
icing sugar ash,
cinnamon cynicism
and not-in-my-name nutmeg.

Feast upon your fears and you will never feel them again.

Yule Be Back

A portal opened in my lounge

sometime in mid-November.

A velvet wrinkle overlapped and

time’s quilt was oddly angled.

Up went the tree!

Up went the lights!

The glorious windows

dressed in party clothes.

Stair rods and banisters

festoons and fragrances

that speak of feasts and warming spices.

Inviting glows and cosy stories

by torchlight.

Outside

conker battles finalise into

en of season skirmishes.

Guys succumbed to elemental distress

and the stench of rotting pumpkin corpses

rang from the town in

jubilant and guttural rowdy shouts

as cold breath caught in

over confident throats.

As a penalty for this

badly ironed chronological coverlet

a fine was set

and the time was taken back.

With bated breath in stasis

the presents waited.

The house waited.

In the missing time a place was found for everything

and having no time to dally in,

everything went to its place.

Reset for rambunctious rabble’s return.

For music and pictures and stories and tea.

For dinosaurs and Harryhausen, Nick Cave and walks by the sea.

Longing for the normal passage of time.

Smooth, wrinkle.

The house waits.

Anti-Shanty

We all sing the songs of souls lost at sea

and preserve in musical amber memories.

But what of the land-bound in fishermen’s towns,

Now the fish are all dead and the industry’s down?

These boatmen more solid on liquid than land

on coal-littered beach front at sunset they stand.

Watch while their mistress is tossing her waves.

Greying and gloomy. She resents what she gave.

Now she casts off the covenant and keeps all the catch

and the sails in the harbour are folded or slack.

Lobster pots line up, empty in the sun,

while their salted-faced owner silently burn.

For it’s pints they are downing

to tribute the drowning

of another in whiskey not sea.

For they know where they’re going,

it’s their own path he’s showing

a way out of their own misery.

The swallows that flit through the cherry blossom trees

know the sea demands her tithe ev’ry fifteen years.

She lowers the pressure and hitches her skirt.

Swishing them wildly unbuttons her shirt,

booming with laughter she rolls on the shore

and demands that more businesses pay her, and more.

Her revenge for her rape is undeniable and savage

for hell hath no fury like an ecosystem ravaged

The touch of the hull on her skin is well met

but behind these caresses is an anchor of debt.

She gives life and takes life; some later, some soon

changeable as wind direction, reliable as moon.

People flocked to pay homage in sunny days gone by

but they’ve mostly stopped coming since the monkeys learned to fly

and now the town relies on hand outs and the landing stage is closed

and they’ve paved over history with a red brick road.

The people left land locked pay their dues in installments

of barometric infirmity and camphor-based liniment.

Crippled by ozone and scattered by squall.

They yearn when they hear the Wind Maidens call.

It’s a lifetime of hardship and internal fights

when the wind’s from the West and the bells ring at night.

But the Goddess takes all, every bit in the end.

Either swallows with love, or starves and contends.

And if

you ask if in this contract they willingly took part

They’d say

They’d give it all again. Body, soul and heart.

Lyrical Living

So I’ve been to all these gigs

and listened to the bands

and heard how nobody understands

the loss they feel,

the heartbreak, the pain.

It’s the same old story Sam,

sing it again.

I’ve heard all the fills, like

“Oh, baby, yeah”

Did you run out of words to fill that space there?

Am I getting old?

Or just getting pickier?

Or perhaps, with experience, cynical and bitterer?

It’s just that all this monotonous crap

as about as profound as clickbait video soundtrack.

Calculatedly sentimental,

as irrelevant as Blockbuster video rental

to the age we are living in and the way I experience

emotional ambush and unspoken inference.

Blandy McBlanderson.

Selected generic

when we lives in such interesting times.

LED screens on with lightshows mesmeric

to distract from the mundane straight rhyme.

That’s not to say I don’t love it.

Dancing is pure bliss.

Eyes-closed-bass-pounding-through-my-chest-my-arms-a-twist.

Exchange of energies intense,

connection of rhythm and chord and cadence.

Dance for sorrow.

Dance for rage.

Dance for anxiety.

Dance for tomorrow

belongs to those that can see it coming.

Dance because knowing what’s going to happen isn’t always a blessing.

Dance when you feel powerless. In

some small way you’ll feel better.

And whether you know it or not

the shot of joy I feel,

knees buckling after a night on the tiles

is the same depth of smile

I get

from poetry.

And so, although I seem

ungrateful

I’m really not.

I’ve had a summer of music never to be forgot.

And from my depths, thank you

for you’ve all heartily moved me.

It’s just that if I’m honest

I’d rather be at poetry.

                                                                                                                    

This was one of my entries for the Manx Lit Fest Poetry Slam this year. One young man mistook my friend for me. He asked her at the interval what her problem with modern music was. To him, I say two things: 1) Wrong tall dark-haired girl. and 2) You've totally missed the point of the poem. 

Much love. X

Devon to Stafford

Brace for re-entry.

We are on the journey back

from days of beautiful denomination.

Microcosm Utopian of idealistic civilization.

On this Monday there’s a lack

of colour and common consciousness.

A frustrating thrust of others’

sense of self in faces

gladly grubby,

creased, greased, glittered, refitted

with natural smiles.

Hold on to that happiness a while.

Block out the brash blast tablets

of the crass consumer classes.

Transport yourself with memories of

Redwood morning walks.

Swaddle cloaks invisible

protective and permissible

with expectations reasonable

and feet at one with earth.

Blessing for All

May all the marks you leave on this world be positive

(and not in only a footnote kind of way).

May all the hearts that are touched you remember it

and recall you most fondly and often, day by day.

May kindness to strangers be commonplace to you and normal.

May all that you work for succeed in a way that’s unique.

May you recognise treasure in everything.

And find every truth that you seek.

Romero

Romero was a romantic.

Voluntary Zombification

wasn’t included in his epic.

Nor was informational monetisation .

We are the mumbling, stumbling masses.

We’re the brain dead, GM fed, disposable classes.

Deafened by the rumbling malice used to reassure us.

It’s the somnambulists’ sonorous psalm-like chorus:

It’s their fault – COMPLY

It’s their fault – OBEY

It’s their fault – ACCEPT

Above us holographic promises projected

onto roiling clouds of discontent

seem concrete.

Below, the mire sucks to ankles, feet

rotting in perpetual effluent, deep

and cloying as corruption is cheap.

Malaise molests our mucous membranes,

remaining even after exhaling this weighty air.

With fuzzy focus, our brows furrowed

we attempt to see clearly in ever-long shadows:

the projections.

Mirages of meaning

heinously inspiring  false hope

through eye burning vapours  

and looking glass lies.

Fingers outstretched we strive

to grasp

then gasp

surprised

when hands pass

through

banisters on stairs

that were never really there

at all.

We fall

for this repeatedly,

our gullibility

rivaled only by the virility

of our envy.

Gaudy baubles.

Tawdry tell-alls.

Scandals based on media morals.

Distract, deny

debase, decry,

berate, then buy

into this

mis-in-

formation.

Visions of similar vexatious veracity

we are force-fed emphatically

until this aspirational claptrap

is snapped up

by strapped up

facsimiles of fashionable pretence.

(In their defence,

all face paint is war paint

and all clothing is fancy dress.)

And yes, I too

am subsumed

by this murky world.

Cursing at cloud forms

coughing at coarse fumes

finding comfort in costume.

Is this

security?

The Mafia style Protectorate

we live under with Protocol Three?

The perverted version of protection

offered by the Panopticon

promotes

extreme proposals

perfect

for pitting us

one on one

and on and on

we go ‘til we turn on

ourselves.

Belly-flames long gone cold,

we’re dejected, cut price, wholly sold.

Raised on debt and dreams of gold,

forget ever owning anything.

Political correctness causes steroid- thin skins

to equal the pages of the books we binned

and burnt

never having learnt

to critically think

our way out

of the mess we’re in.

Overused superlative responses

out-stretch soaked and underrated nuances

to polarization purpose.

Once we are accustomed to unreason at this rate

 we lose our slippy grip on the power of debate.

Reduced to frothing opinions,

forthright remonstrations

forceful demonstrations

and farcical deliberations

over arbitrary -isms and -ists.

“No I’m sorry, you must choose from this list

of things we have determined are suitable for you.”

When the decision is between

 being thrown to the hounds,

or buried under the ground,

still breathing

it’s no wonder folk are

keeping their heads down,

silencing dissenting sounds,

numbing their sense of feeling.

With enough bodies under the mire

the heap might just be high enough

to lift us up beyond this stuff.

That’s the logic, right?

Except that fetid foundations

build putrid palaces

and subsidence is simply

impossible to fight.

Sooner or later we are all sucked under,

fucked over

by a state that places emphasis

on cronyism and nepotists.

What makes you think you can win?

It’s not a case of sink or swim.

We need to invert the way we think

to even have a chance.

They aren’t world leaders,

they are world servants

And the sooner we remind them

the sooner we end this macabre dance.

Annie Ziyah Attacks

Annie Ziyah would drink tea

but wrings her hands incessantly.

Hunched and bunched and bundled in her cardigan

she is the plague of panicked whispers behind pleasant conversation.

She is “what if?”; “what then?”; “this could go wrong!”

She is the worst conclusion jumped to

with a wheedle extra strong.

Eyebrows arcing over horn-rimmed lenses

Salt and pepper ‘do resembling avian garden fences

This sorceress of scandal wields her spells with devastating zeal:

Raising pulses, stealing breath,

 clothing stained by seeping sweat,

memories wiped, voices silenced

over-ridden by ‘boom-boom-boom’.

her gristly grip gets hold.

You feel the suffocating room

close in around you and as the blackness swells-

you’re overwhelmed

Annie Ziyah sips her tea,

dips eyebrows momentarily

then raises them, a new disaster hatched.

She’s ready to fight the next match.

A Shout Out To My Online Stalkers

Shen yn aggle t’orrym writing lines

Nar ta lane yss ayd t’ou data mined.

Jean eh my shegin dyt.

Lig dhou ginsh yn irriney dhit:

I don’t really give a shit.

Er lhait dy vel eh feeu?

Sure you’ve better things to do.

As, ny smessey, dobbyr dou tuittym

hannee mee my host.

Gyn fockle y ghra

laa lurg laa.

Vaa me my hassoo

while upward climbed my views.

Cha nel mee mastey’n sleih chredys ooilley chluinnys ad

but I reckon you probably are and that makes me sad.

Foddee oo jannoo dty red hene

watching, reading, misunderstanding my page.

Mish, er son dy bragh foshlit

choud as veeym bio.

Cha nod fer dy kinjagh tannaght  ny host

cha jean shen jannoo.

Comprehensive Revelation

They’ve worked out I’m a cyclist, but not a pedaled clown.

I don’t take ‘roids to speed me up, I use yellows to slow me down

and I need stabilizers still, or I can’t get ‘round corners

without gaining either enemies or self-destructive fawners.

I sashay a land of sinkholes, of glorious gushing geysers;

of embarrassment and excellence in equally enormous sizes.

Every other diag-nonsense has appeared to be just that

but this one fits as snugly as sub-cutaneous fat.

Visceral rage throttles rational thought.

No focus. Too many ideas cavorting.

Spitting out flows to fight my fate.

Racing up and down with no baseline break.

I know it’s medicatable, I know that there is therapy

but redefining thought processes doesn’t seem to work for me.

All this linguistic trickery is far too far innate to me

for all their forms of CBT to make a difference you can see.

I’ll give it another go, you know?

God knows, since the closure of the floatation tank

I’m irrationally rankle-able at an elevated pace.

I’ll go back to star jumps, routines and early starts

to fight off the fidgets, the doldrums and broken hearts.

The mechanics of coping shook their heads in despair

when they saw my brakes in such disrepair

but what state would you be turning up to work in

if your life felt like bungee jumping in a whirlwind?

Nihilistic hedonist, life and soul;

or following the wind up bird into the endless hole.

Kate

When discussing women who can change the world

I would be remiss not to mention this girl.

She is witty, bold and beautiful. She loves debates.

You can keep your Catherine, it’s Kate that’s great.

Optimistic to the point of rebelliousness,

she brings out the best in the worst of us.

She is naughty and notorious, not B.I.G at all;

a pocket-sized and perfectly formed know-it-all.

She puts effort in the details, so you’d better pay attention

or you’ll miss the little touches that betray strength of affection.

We went for a quick coffee the first time we met

which stretched into hours, days, months and a set

of brand new wrinkles for my happy-creased face

which deepen every time we talk, ‘cause she’s ace.

Some people have suggested she has bats in her belfry

But I reckon she should be on Made in Chelsea.

Is that it, Kate? Is your secret out?

Is that what moving away’s all about?

Are you trading in Alex, Chris, Ed, Beth and Jo

for Binky, afternoon tea and prosecco?

All joking aside, I know we all wish you the best

and support your decision ‘bout what to do with the rest

of your life. You’ve adventures ahead

and you can always come back, when all’s said

and done. This island has open arms.

We’ve all fallen under the spell of your charms;

of your perfect diction, your painful puns,

and your clues for quizzes that leave people stumped.

You stand five foot eight (in your seven inch heels)

but we’re eye to eye on the issues that are real.

Shine your light in dark places, start the conversation.

Don’t accept pauses, repetition, deviation.

In the game of life you’ll find that no one has a clue

so you just have to do what’s right for you.

As a mark of respect from the Empire of Whimsy

I hereby grant right of indefinite entry.

(I’m hoping she’ll reciprocate, I must confess.

Her micronation’s spelled: [are you ready?]

N E T H E R L A N D S)

One last thing, Kate, you’d better keep a blog

so I can keep up to date with you and Frank the Dog.

Destined for greatness and determined to achieve,

I will shed my tears privately when you leave.

You’re not just cool, you’re cool-cool-cool.

You’re a credit to your parents, your island and your school.

You’re a treasured-ever friend of the rarest sort,

so go – explore – conquer – and report.

                                                                                                                                                   

I was lucky enough to meet award-winning journalist and all round wondrous soul Kate Holland through poetry work, friend connections and the general magic of the island around about this time last year.

 She has been working at Manx Radio presenting the Women Today program along with Beth Espey and Jo Pack for the last year. She has now decided to fly this little island nest. Today was her last day and as a surprise, a secret show was planned. I wrote and performed the above for her.  

Love you Kate. Have a magnificent time. 

Xxxx

Bis Illustrated

The Other Man in the Photograph

I got to the scene and wouldn’t you know,

there were people about, watching the show.

Squinting eyes under clammy palm,

I can just about see it.

A swallow.

A circle clears around me,

tainted by people’s realization of the role I am to play.

Unclean.

A hush.

Mine are the legs of a broken man.

The first step on the sand is a half-trip.

Drill Sergeant Duty barks in my ear:

“Get on with it son!”

While Compassion is left dry-heaving,

haunted eyes on the shore.

When I reached him, he was

half floating

hair fanning, like

hopeful fingers reaching for a

honeyed future.

I squat.

My shoes sink in sympathy and sodden sand.

My hands reach

Uniform baptized

I cradle him.

Skin puffy with salt

my teeth grit as my throat is assaulted

by the sickly coating of stench.

For him, I stand.

Valkyries do not ride for children who drown at sea,

but I carried him with professionalism and dignity.

Later, I went home, kissed my wife,

put my uniform in the wash.

Kissed my kids good night.

I stood under the shower for an hour and a half

scrubbing and soaping, but still got a waft

of wasted life every now and then.

Went to bed and tried to sleep knowing

tomorrow

I’ll do it all over again

Perseid Nights

The gift of a science celestial.

It’s the atmosphere’s firework festival.

The night is a warm one, breath-catchingly clear

with the galaxy’s profile an ethereal smear.

Cricked necks and curses at errant headlights

as space detritus burns up in the heights.

But,

beware, beware

adoringly gawping,

star-strickenly fawning

ignoring the floor

and where you’re walking

‘cause you’re outside, right?

And on these humid Summer nights

your every step is beset by

slugs.

These slithy gherkins

lurking; determinedly

mucously marking their paths

Those hobos hopefully hunting

sustenance

by the garden fence

are often tragically reduced

to a smear

less ethereal and more entrails.

When we noticed all our potential victims

of heavy footed murder, we picked, toe-tipping

across the pitch-dark path, therein

turning eyes to earth and star-sights missing.

It occurred to me the verse of learning is hidden in everyday things.

For if we live for the spectacular

we risk that sickening crack you hear

when crushing Sluggy’s cousin

to oblivious oblivion.

Similarly,

if we diligently

avoid this genocidal killing spree

we miss all the good stuff.

With eyes for the earth

and cricked necks and curses at the errant soles’ hurt.

There must be equilibrium.

At the hem of the horizon

the cleaving beam of the valiant beacon,

halfway between there and back again.

This suffocating compromise blinds us

to both wonder and loss.

When faced with this decision

I find I’d rather play

a game of sluggish hopscotch

and watch meteors when I may.

I’ll give you back your even keel,

your solid, dependable lighthouse deal

I’ll reel

with my nadirs and zeniths instead.

For as long as I’m feeling

I know I’m not dead.

Avowed Renewal

Trust

rusts

When taken for granted.

We’d started

not to see each other.

Another role to fulfill.

Being responsible against our will.

This irresistible metamorphosis

re-imagined our existence from

blissful arts-based subsistence to

long term goals, earnestness, contentment

projects, rejections, expectations.

You know, it’s hard

to wear ill-fitting skin

just to get protection from the life that you’re in.

We’re both as bad;

I and he, he and me.

From our balls to our chains

we have shared difficulties.

We have our own little ways of getting through these days

that might seem odd

from an outsiders view

but you know, they work for us

and we’re not about pleasing you.

Our fights and compromises

have brought lessons and surprises.

Sleepless nights from anger teach as much as nights of joy

and one without the other is just noodles with no sauce soy.

So polish off those gloves, love.

Ding! Ding! Seconds out!

Let’s find out together what tomorrow’s all about.

I don’t promise to be gracious.

The best I can do is kind.

But if you promise to tell me your truth

I will promise to tell you my mind.