And so we come to the end of the dread days.
May brings blossoms and sometimes rain.
The Cailagh cackles. Her twigs are crackling
in her hearth, dry and needless of restocking.
Endless ticks and tockings as the days hurry past.
The Sun seems anxious to grow, anxious to set,
but her days of maturity aren't even halfway over yet.
Bring fire and spin this wheel’s turn.
Wish away the memories of winter.
Let her savage kisses burn
and cover me with sacred blisters.
Laying waste to laziness this month I have ravaged the paving and surged forth purging
intentions and replacing them with actions.
Playing catch up instead of silly buggers,
crossing off those lists like Santa on speed
my need for completion is primal.
You can call it survival instinct
if it tickles you. From the inside
my visions are midnight clear and intrusive.
Externally I'm reclusive. Hardly time for food,
let alone friendships. And it's just this
time when I'm in the mood for banter.
But too burnt out to play
in the post-manic ever-after.
The aurelian ratio’s rationale
corrals all things
into patterns recognisable
for the cognisant,
rational thinker.
It is easy to be blinkered
by the beauty of her bounty
and patterns when romanticised
resemble art by Gaudi.
Fill your eyes with tangerines of gamma glow each morning.
Waltz in monochrome moonlight under celestial celebrities performing.
Petrichor perfume pervades your dreams. It’s sweetly soul transforming.
Waves continually break in sparkling kisses, sand adoring.
Fractals form like fantasies,
euphorically evolving.
But the puzzle's too big for mortal minds,
it's not for us to be solving.
So recognise the leitmotifs
that maths and physics gift us.
And let these specks of knowledge lead,
and lighten loads, and lift us.
Bifurcation, crossroads, choices.
Cacophony of conflicting voices.
This way, that way, take a step
Try not to seed a new regret.
Who are you now, and who to be
in days to come’s a mystery.
But, mark this time as turning point.
Embed the memory
of when you saw future as full
of opportunities.
Open the door.
It could be anything.
The possibilities are, if not endless,
at least more numerous than listable.
And to remain here, listless
hand on handle, participle dangling
like poorly constructed fragments
from a native’s lazy tongue
is the thief of potential.
Stealing all the positive things that might just come
And all the negatives, too!
Which are only negative when viewed too closely.
After enough time even verdigris is charming.
Open the door.
Let your eyes experience all this and more.
It could be anything.
A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.
It induces hubris.
And hubris by nature is insubstantial,
pinned to power inconsequential, like
the choice between chips
and roasties.
But when the potatoes are paths
and the peeling alone could end a life,
it's dangerous to listen to the Dauphinoise.
Creamy, smooth, rich they may be.
But unpalatable when paired with ketchup.
Even mayonnaise is too much.
The potato grows in silence.
The iron corrodes in silence.
And knowledge corrodes noisily
shouting certainty above all things.
Spiders crawl.
Their sprawling limbs deftly spinning
false narratives into unrecognisable realities.
Nets of untruths bind and gag
honest observations.
Sticky strong silk shrouds
instead of scold’s bridles
adorn whistleblowers.
No stocks for public punishment,
these juicy martyrs will be silently sucked dry.
Eventually the weight of the larder will shred that web
and the arachnids of sophistry
will be swallowed by the hooded crows of hubris.
Laundry lots and sunny spots and warmth outside our windows -
open now. New ideas, bicycle rituals and clearance.
In more ways than one.
Innocent individuals chase innocent dreams.
I would the world be with them.
I was sick of the shape of the lounge.
The windows ignored and the mess all around.
So we made a plan to move some shelves.
Well, one in particular, we could do it ourselves.
That big one, the oak one, the one full of books.
It'd been ages since we sorted them, I was on tenterhooks
For all the treasure we might find.
So we set aside some time.
Sunday morning, up at dawn.
Sort and shift, then mow the lawn.
The deal was made, alarms were set.
Boxes and bags were ready prepped.
My excitement at the prospect sowed tragedy's seed,
As whirring thoughts robbed me of the sleep that I'd need.
And I heard the street life come and go,
Then witnessed the gamma light tangerine glow
Of the unwelcome sunrise that cruelly seeped
in through the window, and sent me to sleep.
At twenty to twelve my phone shrilly rang
Thrown into a panic, awake with a bang,
I fell out of bed and onto a shoe
(Which explains at least one of the mystery bruises)
Staggered to stand and opened the door,
Aghast at the time lost and vaguely sore.
Shouting “Good morning!” to Gio (still in bed)
while the homicidal feline winds his way through my legs
and I try to get down the stairs.
Just there, through the 8 ft windowpane
Are Esmeralda and Jonathan, they're back again
For the summer. They're our resident herring gulls.
The cat is enraged, awkward placed and my lulls
did not seem to be having the desired effect.
He was ready to kill me, his tail erect
And bristled to easily three times the width
of his normally slinky marinko tail-whip.
I stepped. He swiped then yowled down the stairs
and I followed, bleary haste tripping and scared.
There was so much to do! Cup of tea!
Teeth and shoes!
We hadn't a singular moment to lose.
Gio emerged, in the same state as me.
“We were going to move the bookshelves, weren't we?”
Another one gone.
Another three songs
poisoned by emotional association.
It's a strange wave that breaks when they shoulder that box.
Raw, real and final.
The ritual is primal.
Elegies and eulogies hang
as a forlorn fog, a longing
we would call nostalgia
if it weren't so immediate.
So overwhelming.
It's fascinating to watch the transformations,
the faces changing, shapes and shading
molding the old into the new.
Glued to metamorphoses
my eyes eat the emergent futures.
Time lapse footage of homes refurbished,
swimming pools built in forests.
Inanely observing character arcs of
of inanimate objects and costume art.
It's a digital dollshouse, an Arcadia of artifice.
The opiate of ordinary while you live life vicarious.
Because the darkness remains, despite action to the contrary.
Because the dampness pervades, despite the open windowed remedy.
Rani ranidae, amphibious amphora,
Vessel for all the spores that ever lived before her.
Mouldering and smoldering, restricted to the attic.
No yellow wallpaper, just a wheezing asthmatic.
Rhizaria in darkness lies, waiting to be fed
While her cousin Actinomycetota
Chivvies along the nearly dead.
Dehumidifier, anyone?
Stoicism in the face of Caprice
is a skill
that still
evades more than it is exercised.
Long term goals require long term planning
and I'll be damned if anything more than the now exists for me.
(Toxic) mindfulness (a problematic paradigm that leaves me powerless in the face of troubling times) is pushed by gurus and gym bunnies alike.
All reaching for a blissful blank.
I recommend a floatation tank.
Counting down the days and ways that I have missed you.
The moments that we haven't shared.
The times I know that I was scared
but to others it looked like anger.
To others it looked like idiocy,
like flippant avoidance of serious thought.
The objects and experiences I bought
after you bought the farm.
It took years
and it's only now,
drowning in the hourglass
that I realise how much time has passed.
And how much
I have left.
The swoop of this pendulum gives me vertigo.
Up I go!
And down.
And how far down depends on things entirely outwith my control.
Slower in the midsection,
feel those little swings like antipodean inflections;
teasings of an inverted world.
There must be equilibrium.
What we lose on the objects we gain on the experiences
or so they tell me
but the distance between stuck and free
is light years.
And I'm in darkness,
still searching for a light.
It’s heady times we’re living in!
Full pelt, high tilt, heading for oblivion,
watching the numbers on labels go up and
pounds in pockets go down.
See the same all over town;
Three pints and a game of pool is now
One pint nursed over an evening.
Only there ‘cause it’s cheaper than the heating.
Choice between bus fare and eating.
Fancy portmanteaus to hide reality of meaning.
They call it Shrinkflation.
I call it profit-motivated, cronyist complicity in mass starvation.
Theirs is catchier.
Whatever.
Have you eaten jelly babies recently?
When I opened my packet last night,
The fright!
The horror! The drama! The scene!
Half the kids had been kidnapped!
I reached for my phone,
I had to call the police!
But then I remembered - they’d already know.
It’s been happening for decades at least.
We can talk about Freddos, too,
or car parts, or diesel, or booze
but my first glimpse of this dastardly practice
was mightily unsavoury -
you’ll have to forgive me for this.
How do I put this without getting banned?
Do you know what an eight of an ounce is in grams?
It’s 3 and a bit.
An eighth of an ounce once cost twenty quid!
And pound for pound we’re weaker than ever,
Tenuously taking steps while the tensions tighten in our tethers.
More debt, more struggle, less hope,
no matter how you rearrange it.
Recognising failures in the system doesn’t change it.
Standing idly by,
blithely buying into blindfolds
blinged beyond belief
Offering ornamental oblivious relief
from all the
actions and inactions and reactions
and rot.
What’s it all for anyway?
We are sinking in the mire of our own making.
Taking too long to make choices,
fry replaced the song in our voices
long ago. It’s starting to show.
The foundations of civil edifice begin to splinter.
Yet to arrive are the fuel privations in the midst of bitterest Winter.
Still Summer,
still sunshine and clammy.
No bees, no insect bites from midges this year.
Just pollen dusted lashes and cheeks streaked with allergic tears.
Instability of emotion,
plankton massacres in oceans,
death cult levels of devotion
to illogical half baked notions
and the over saturation of fear.
One in 6 adults here are on medicines for depression.
When will we admit there’s nothing wrong with us,
but this path is cobblers
and we’ve broken heels.
It’s time to fix it.
Here’s the deal.
Leave the drama to the actors.
Consider the possibility of favourable factors.
Candles give both warmth and light.
Emulate them. Stop this simulation
of projected self and merely
hold your own.
Solidify you source of ignition,
find truth lies in your intuition.
Be forthright,
Try, try, try, try again.
Offer help to strangers and friends.
We’re going to need it.
Another one gone!
Brothers left without brothers
and mother's with hands so wrung
they become the bell that tolls for grief.
Rare and not so rare
their share of hard won wisdom
is gone.
Vanished. Lost.
And what a loss it is,
The lessons they shared with us
lessen the din of
disharmonious hum into
sympathetic resonance.
This year is brought to you by the word Marvellous.
The more I use it the truer this becomes.
It's funny the way things go, sometimes
it feels the rain will never end.
And yet the brief kisses of sunshine leave ghosts of sensations
you can almost taste.
It's marvellous.
And so it is! Despite the rain,
despite the Teran's rage,
despite the pain of losing another of us,
we're choosing to be just as much of us
and keep our humour high.
The days fly by, unfettered,
ever bettered
by the promises of flowers planted
in the hours nothing was granted
gracefully, but striven after,
relentlessly.
The crown effect guarantees ends don’t quite meet in the folio dome of this cathedral.
Timorous squeaks and piercing pleas out of reach to uncaring ears.
As atheistic as I am, I recognise the prayers of the prey,
the pleasures of the predator.
Withheld warmth brings my uncaressed flesh to shiver.
Croaking, he hops. Eyes sharp, beak sharper; unobscured intelligence.
He’s come for my liver.
Head dips, gore drips and I am reminded of life’s
carbon carousel.
Scream if you wanna go faster.
I had screamed, but what came after was not speed.
What came after was
dilated
time.
I aligned myself with the smallest of beasts.
Ants. Watchmen beetles. Dispassionate and industrious.
Clouding eyes fixated on them; skittering, chittering.
Unmindful of the violence above.
Dry twigs and my bones were indistinguishable
snapping beneath brutal boots.
Roots remodelled cheeks
deep lividity carving the caved contours into violets
blooming in darkness.
Ragged jagged breath and nails, too, tear
for any available oxygen.
Desperation transforming
grunts to glossolalia;
debutante to cooling cadaver.
In the post-orgasmic vacuum, psithurism roared.
I seeped through dank earth
and releasing claim on physicality,
observed from without.
