Perdita

As I woke the other day

the sky broke. Big, grey

splotches on concrete.

Each one a cocktail thrown by an ex-lover in defeat.

Dressing, dreading

resigned to a day of

unabashed antagonists,

washing, waking

this disturbing state

insistently persists.

I attempted to give the half squint that hair leaving the house demands

but could barely see the mirror for Kirby grips and hair-bands.

They had spilt off the shelf and onto the floor;

some in the bin, some in the drawer

this atoll of accessories, point of origin undisclosed

 was girt by the lagoon of lost socks and outgrown favourite clothes.

Confused, I clamour for caffeine.

Stumbling through the hallway,

bare soles bruising on abandoned ephemera

as pen lids, lip balm and bouncy balls roll away

care-slow moving like a long lost Lepidoptera.

Steaming kettle further blurring sleep clouded

eyes I turn and reach wrist deep into a tower

of teaspoons.

Withdraw.

To hullabaloo calamitous, I stir.

I slurp.

I stare,

trying to work out where I am.

Such stifling clutter!

It looks like a nutter

lives here, hoarding

all things

carelessly tossed aside.

This realization drove an elbow into my gut.

I checked the doors and windows.

Sealed shut.

Jellied legs delivered me to my cobalt velvet chair,

I sipped my tea most somberly, reflecting on my despair.

I finished, then straight-backed rinsed the cup,

head up high, jaw a-jut

then set about with mop and duster

until all of the items regained their lustre.

Gave each a home, it’s proper place,

put away pairs of briefs by the case

and learned to live through windows.

On tiptoes from upstairs

I can see a sliver of ocean.

I’ve chosen to make the best of it.

It’s orderly now. And quiet.

Some people would kill for this solitude.

I stoically abide it.

As for all the teaspoons, I’ve made myself a crown.

I accept I’m lost, for this is where I’m found

Superpowers 101

Definitions of self are elusive at best,

Perceptions formed through actions

or reactions

or inactions

that surprise.

The lies we perceive

others tell to deceive

us are just

versions of verisimilitude unverifiable

by outside sources but

of course, we get all uppity, huffing,

“Just who does he/she think they are,

you can’t pull the wool down quite that far,

I’m not as green as I am cabbage looking!”

Putting ourselves on some pedestal,

as if our version is more credible

because that was our experience, so it must be right.

Descartes said: “I think therefore I am”

Expanding this, I plan

to define my existence through my opinions.

But what of utter indifference?

If we define ourselves through preferences

we have handy little references

to remind us of who we think we are.

Like, a car; a phone; a polyphonic ring tone – ironically.

And maybe, just maybe the Old Ones knew

of the selfie-and cctv-sodden future, too.

The act of watching a thing changes the thing being watched.

That’s a law of physics, that- I didn’t make it up.

But the point is, introspection, narcissism and the rest

of the behaviors oft’encouraged by the media of the West –

Are they changing us?

Thrusting flashes in faces starts

 a chain reaction

on a microbial scale.

Colloquially named

Quantum Manipulation

it has a solemn application

in your everyday details.

But the question we want answered

is “can this power be harnessed

so we might direct our dances

and our version might prevail?”

With glee, it falls to me to be your Miyagi-San.

You can, and will master this.

The power’s in your hands.

All you need to do is believe what you perceive,

but to be aware and selective about your perceptions.

I don’t mean kidding yourself, this has to be done with conviction.

If faith can move mountains, against microbes you’ve surely a lever?

After all, what do you call a God without a believer?

Perceptions of self and the resulting definitions

are malleable at will. This has far reaching repercussions.

For if “Mans’ greatness comes from knowing he is wretched”

surely we can know we are wonderful, instead?

With great joy I brought to mind my philosophy tutor at University. I hope he is wonderfully well. Sadly, we've lost touch. Paul, if you read this, Hey! Xxxx

Recipe for Disaster

A handful of sugar.
A penny of salt.
A pinch for your thoughts,
your light and your faults.
A tight squeeze. A light squeeze.
Freshly squeezed orange
and you.
We squeezed into my single bed:
room enough for two.
But only room for one
in my heart and in my head.

06/04/04

As a teardrop I fall for you.
Melancholic. Mesmerised.
So far, so fast, so frail I fall.
Shattered before I crushed.
A stolen heartless kiss -
That thoughtless thief of trust.

Pools of blue that overflow.
Tissue peppered cheeks.
The condiments of grief.
I smile through gritted teeth.
And love love as my foe.

Hiding

Long sleeves. Long legs.
These lines are too telling.
I wish I could explain
how this pain helps that pain.
But language is limited.

14/10/13

I feel I am just waking up
from 10 years in Van Winkle dust.
Head is clearing, footsteps lighter.
Horizons wide and vision brighter.
Emotional ballast I've unburdened.
Old grievances I feel I've pardoned.
Not that I'll forget, of course,
But from that me I'm now divorced.

Is this me now growing up?
Or just a midlife crisis?
It's not too young, my half-full cup,
I'll probably die of bronchitis!
Those days we can't choose but to see,
when antibiotics don't work
because no company wants to fund
research with no glamorous perk.

I know what I want and how to get it.
All I need now is time.
And a canyon of work, of which I'm not afeared.
My life will be Reason from Rhyme.

Christmas 2002

Once there were three:
The magic number-
3 witches; 3 wishes; 3 wise men.
Maiden runs away; goes to see a crone.
The witch of the East
My, my - how she's grown.
They smile and compare notes
but will scars tell the whole story?

Then there were four.
Ugly; clunky; boxed.
4 sides. 4 corners. 4 angles.
Parallels everywhere.

There are no witches in mathematics.
Only mother's apples pi.

Mary Poppins

He Says, She Says

He says I'm not the me I was,
That I have changed irreparably.
He says we argue all the time.
Ironically, I disagree.
He says he looks at others now
And admits it's hungrily.
He says that there is nothing wrong,
then dredges fights long-dead to me.
He says he wants his favourite food;
My single staple kedgeree.

I says he spends no time with me.
I've substituted him because
we spend our evenings silently.
He is not moved by beat or rhyme
or language - aural gold to me.
I know I've changed, but badly? How?
It's all improvements I can see.
Does someone always end up wrong?
Or is it plainly sad to see
That Jude is our saint-patronly.

Lorrainespotting

Choose existence. Choose to talk to your firiends. Choose to get the fuck on with it, even if it means you'll have bad dreams. Choose to give affection to those who deserve it. Choose to tell the others to fuck off. Choose to ignore paranoia. Choose to dance. Choose laughter and 6AM eternal.Choose reality. Choose yourself. Choose to remember the choices you have made. Choose not to regret. Choose hope over nostalgia. Choose everything. Choose to be fabulous.

Choose Lorraine.

Five - Six - Thirteen

After a glorious production the sun
bows graciously behind the trees on my right
to rapturous vesperturnal applause.
To my left the bats fight their nightly battle
against the ravenous grasp of mortality.
Pheasants overrule the avian debate
ahead of me in the comfort of sakura silhouettes.
I see the detritus of a summer holiday
strewn on uncut grass. Cars. Watering cans.
The bag of wet swimming things I meant to unpack.
Tea steams in the cool air.
Behind me the warmth of love coaxes, calls, caresses my name.

I close the door to outer beauty
and open my heart.

The Mystery of the Moon

One crystal-aired and clear-skied day
I wandered pondering away,
To discover if the tales were true;
Is lunar rock just cheese of blue?
I asked the solemn cows so wise, but all they said was "Moo".

I had heard told the deep blue sea

Could answer any mystery,

So went and stood on windswept shore;

Begged and pleaded, screamed and swore.

The waves to calm me murmured "Shhhh", but gave no answer more.

I went to university,
The learn-ed folk and library,
But they were in a picket line
With angry looks and waving signs.
It seemed they had their own questions and wouldn't answer mine.

I scaled the Himalayas,

(The grass, the rocks and icy layers)

To see if I could see from there

If it were stilton or gruyere.

Altitude sickness got me first- I need much thicker air.

Atlas mountains on camel road,
With Bedouin tribes and desert code.
I saw the moon more clearly then
Than I ever will again.
I saw how silly I had been and found a peace-like zen.

It was obvious to me

The moon's not rock or cheese of green!

It's each unanswered mystery;

The "what' if"s, "what now"s and "what's to bes";

The gotten undreamed and the great-never-had:

That's why She glows and why She's sad.