Bliss

Don't disconnect
Brother,
Sister,
Mother,
Father.

Don't disintegrate
Because it's easier
To be dependent than pro-active
And involved.

Why are you buying
Tuna fish in a can
When the rivers are Grey
And your heart is heavy
With an unpronounced sadness?

Whilst you laugh so joyously
At the life you have,
Bouncing, intoxicated
In the illuminated streets
Of your cities ambiguously
Beautiful darkness?

A Blank Piece Of Paper

You're square,
Pinned up on the board
But far from innocent,
Miles from meaning,
Beautiful beyond words,
Dead waiting
For the first frowning mark.

Mare Street

Coming back from Mare Street,
Returning home through blazing sun,
Through the pedestrian flurry of Hackney,
Great bodies abundantly veiled and motionful,
Ambling, gliding, dancing, pacing
The pavement slabs
With an ancient rhythm like rain.

Suspended

Suspended in a jar of viscous fluid, like egg white, like my life. Paused for a moment or simply just beginning, it can be so hard to tell. Unlike the conveniently structured narrative of a book, a life has an infinity of evolving threads, the majority of which are invisible, undetectable like a piece of lint perhaps, invisible to the naked eye, unless discernible for an instant caught in a ray of sunlight.

Living, life happens around us when the door is open; reaches into us, where we can either decide to push it away or look after it. Ideals rarely exist. Rather, they make manifest impossible obstacles to the profoundly challenging morphologies of the unexpected far greater than a picture. We live in constant uncertainty.

Sundays

Sundays.
Baths poured and left to go cold,
endless cups of Coffee and tea,
thoughts of visits to the pub, free Vodaphone weekend calls.
The whole screaming lot of us
(for the most part) indoors.

During the afternoon the rain fell
And I had a flashback, those damned things I said last week,
Slipped in through the gap in alcoholic haze.

A photograph of a little boy bouncing on a trampoline
And a voice inside uncontrollably rings out apology to mother.

Is it true, the only truth left is hatred
and love is all just lies?

Sundays.
Baths poored and left to grow cold.
One week more on raging.

About time

It's about time that I added some note to this blog that I'd once so lovingly dedicated to the cause of poetry, sliced into meaning uttered out of need, images of beasts that sting and so on to keep them back and invisible amongst the dark parameters that surround the safety of fire.

Well I've not written a word for some time. Anyone whose ever been here and read, and I know that those of you responsible for such an act of graciousness are less than the word 'minority', would have gathered that my token words, brandished against the agonies such as they are when one falls in love in a field of stones, are what they are. I am now however currently poor of muse and living life without that screaming fertile soil, bouncing along a fresh road, lined with the buds of early summers bright drifting blossoms and have an old friend back instead (or so it seemed; note in hindsight).

I might as well, I considered, here in the depths of East London and soaking in a bath write something to keep the wheels a little busy. It's not poetry is it, this? (As for the rest?) I need to write somewhere and this small plinth of oratory is it. No point in being too precious. And so it is.