Profess

What is a Profess – ionale like?
Such as one becomes amongst others,
Those who, too, come entitled,
Quietly or not,
As Profess – ionals.
With:
A certain uniform
As requirement
Gestures
Code
Quali – fi - cations
All of those.
What am I?
Now,
Here,
Upon this ledge,
Standing as I do,
Bending with the wind,
Unfit to snap,
But so profoundly bowed,
Like an Olive limb bearing fruit
And pissing sap.
Where is my Pro – fess – ionale?
Confess – ionale more like.
A constant unburdening,
The opposite, in effect,
But just the same as donning a
Hair shirt.
“Ridiculous stuff!” I think,
Begins running through my mind.
Or is that the judgement of the uneven effect,
Of the voices, hauling me, always,
Hard up against,
The hot coals of social order and keeping me in check.
I’d run around naked on stage,
Foolish without my flag code
Preserving the embarrassment of skin.
I’d spell out the title:
‘AA - AA - AA - RG - H!’
AND SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAM.
Keeping me Profess - ional.

Wail

Life is short.
Filled with bursts of ferocious intensity,
Swimming in sorrow,
Illuminated with gnosis,
Kindness,
And time spent in a queue.

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.