Sunday, 4 September 2011


Unhappy dawn,
Morning yawn,
Perpetual motion machine madness,
A delicate balance divided,
Relentless shame succumbing to the crowd,
They all wear the same sadness.

The gentle moon sails into the night of yesterday,
While they crawl from their pits to ignore today,
Like sitcom reruns,
Devoid of surprises,
The automated Monday we are forced to believe,
This alien & man made idea,
The names we condemn our days to,
Lies to our intuition,
Like droids we believe this has happened before,
The self-fulfilling prophecy,
That Monday thing.

These seven days each have a life,
We have led ourselves to believe,
Monday, Wednesday, Friday,
Each one jumps out with a vibe of it's own,
But we made these,
Each second is new,
Never before seen,
Don't demand this conformity of me,
Don't make me believe in this is 'Monday',
It's a new day,
Fresh and true,
But they accept no other way,
You must behave and belong,
There is no choice,
It only works like this,
The boxes our little minds need to believe exist,
And we loose more than we know,
As the days just go,
Short changed,
Deranged and alone,
I want to say no,
Today is mine,
New and bold,
We just don't know,
That reality is new and continues to be born,
In us and for us,
but we live in cycles,
Conform to the synthetic reality,
And allow ourselves to be told,
This is Monday again,
Again and again,
Well is it?

Saturday, 3 September 2011

In The Garden...

Here, here, here, here...
It bounces and slides off the massive parasol in my garden,
Above me so sullen,
I Inhale the toxic fumes I once quit,
That alcohol revives in me,
Hey, hey, hey,hey,
It says as it descends and lands, 
The darkness like a blight of my eyes,
Enshrouds the scenery around me.

I don't know what it is I feel,
Whilst witnessing this natural late night scene,
But something in me feels desperate, 
Tap, tap, tappety, tap, tap,
It gets louder above,
And I shrug,
Breathe deep,
No sleep,
But wonder for why,
Again and again why,
The still garden stuck in it's place,
No movement except what nature displaces,
And the rouge in the heavens feels warm to me,
The trees lean to,
And I sink into this ikea made chair, 
Further still. 

The house beyond my wall has darkness,
That contributes to this stillness,
And I feel as of nothing and yet everything is here. 

I realise that nothing should mean all kinds of thoughts,
And it does,
As my mind races,
And my youth dissipates,
It's quiet death becoming one with all this around me,
I know it's worthless,
At least for now,
Until the song comes and makes it right again,
For if I sing of this,
It brings hope,
This pointless, yet passionate view,
Becomes something deep and real,
Unto you. 

Friday, 2 September 2011


t rolls down the window like bees on honeycomb,
The rain dancing around the glass,
It's natural drumming comforting in it's beat.

The grey beyond the swarm, distorted by the gathering,
The sudden intensity driven by the wind to a crescendo,
A song in itself.

The warmth of my old leather chair and it's familiar hug,
My tea, comforting in it's sweet and tasty slide,
And I still demand more.

Sometimes, the tiniest of exquisite divinity,
Is lost in this greed fueled, media driven insanity,
People riot to acquire what the glowing box tells them they need,
This domain of wealth pursuit, 
Never enough,
More and more,
Bigger and better than your friends,
It never ends,
You'll never be on top.

There will always be something more they say you need,
The experts planting the seed you never knew was growing,
Subliminal programming in full effect,
Driving your desires to stretch beyond natural reach,
Living beyond your means,
Ripping the fabric of your natural beauty at the seams.

Each and every day,
Filled to bursting with commands to buy,
To acquire,
Knee-jerk reactions to call up and get,
To fill your home with the pointless tat,
So much out there for free,
But we are never left to just be,
Our beauty drowning in insecurity,
Thanks be to our glossy airbrushed magazines,
The deathly thin skeletal skin and bone clothed horses,
Staring out at us in alleged bliss,
The sweatshop, third world country, penny a day created 'magnificence' shrouding their society craved backs,
The fuel to our desire,
Our pre-programmed needs on fire,
No-one is immune.

The swarm slows to a gentle patter,
and the grey gives out to a subtle white in parts,
The burning ball of life shining through. 

The array of colours decorating the sky like an arc of silk, 
It cost nothing but time and awareness,
Rain and sun,
I drink my tea and turn away. 

Thursday, 1 September 2011

Madness In The Eighties

She smiles and I float,
She frowns and I fall,
Her brow furrows and I question myself,
Her questions ask me why and I worry deeply,
She once thought she was a healer,
Walked barefoot twelve miles,
'curing' people along the way,
Her feet, 
bloody and dirty by the time she reached her destination,
People glancing,
Internal questions,
Societal English stiff upper lip,
No-one asked,
She claimed to be magical,
She said I was the son of god,
That there were demons all around us,
That there were assassins waiting to shoot me,
Hiding around each and every corner,
In a way, she was right,
Her beautiful long black mane like silky strands of angel hair,
Her eyes like emeralds,
But her stare manic, 
Quick like a hungry protective fox in the madness of a hunt,
She was dragged from our door,
Trying to protect me as I hid upstairs,
Her voice, wild and crazy,
Screaming through her tears,
Her anger sent her arms flailing,
The policeman lost his hat to a right hook,
From my hiding place,
I continued to watch as she was taken,
Feet dragging on the cold, dirty pavement,
Bloody again,
The policeman's arms around her neck,
Dragging her backwards and away from me,
The screams fading until nothing,
But the Birds chirping, 
a dog barking in the distance,
My tears silent then popping as they land on my comic,
Alone in the house,
They'd forgotten me,
Cavelike and vast,
Dark and alone.

The hospital visits,
The walking dead,
Shuffling and dribbling,
Once proud and well kept, 
Once a beautiful lioness,
Strong, tall, happy, protective, adored,
Now lost, rambling, zombified, forgotten, drugged,
The outbursts resolved with needles,
Male 'nurses' wrestling her to the floor,
Like a crazy game of rugby,
Slamming her to the deck with a sickening thump,
Her nightie sailing above her head whilst she struggles,
There on the linoleum,
Her nakedness for all the visitors to see,
My eleven year old mind trying to take in this awful sight,
Burnt into my mind,
The needles stabbing her like nails,
The screams, the tears, the shock, the quiet sniffle,
The slowing down of her resistance,
Lock a clockwork doll,
Running out,
Winding down,
Then dragged off,
No excuses,
Just time to leave,
No apologies,
Madness does this,
No questions,
No answers except one,

The children's home,
No mother to call,
No father to know,
No hugs for bedtime,
No tears to show,
The man-boy I became,
Chest out,
Eleven and tough,
Skin like armour,
But vulnerable,
Tears only a conversation away,
The older girl,
Opening up on her lap,
Her warm bosom surrounding me,
Sealing me off from the madness,
Then away and cold.
Some days good some days bad,
Too many lessons learnt early,
The magic of my mind tainted by the cruelty of this life,
This strange and painful world of extremes,
Feelings like a violent arctic ocean,
Powerless and thrown around like a rag doll in it's surge.
I pushed on.

This world has a beauty behind all pain,
But my mother was never the same again,
No father to pick up the pieces,
No brother or sister to turn to,
Your hope and love is your saviour,
Your words and books your life raft.

The mind can snap in silence,
This world can turn quickly,
Remember your duty to love,
Don't forget inside every action is a child,
Wanting to love,
To be loved,
Behind every cruel word,
There's insecurity and a longing for understanding,
In every bad moment of your life,
There's a divine notion and a tenderness of nature's hand,
A lesson to learn and a compassion to grow,
Never cry for the bad moments,
Turn them into teachers,
Soar above the negative like a bird from the flame,
And fly in all your splendour,
Burst across the sky in your righteous love,
For all to see and share,
Love your lot and question not,
Open your mind and love,
For there's a beauty in every single part,
Share it.

Wednesday, 31 August 2011


Smell of salty air,
Pebbles, shingle underfoot,
The hazy horizon and sunlight winking at me on the water,
Delicate people sailing past,
Bikes, skates and boards,
Pushchairs, toddlers and grandpa's,
The short drive from work,
Breeze that blows the day from my mind,
The difference in people,
Willingness to understand and appreciate,
The funny accents,
The unexpectedly deep conversations,
The friends I'd gathered,
The warm hugs,
The gentle kiss of familiar faces,
The football banter,
The rare northern pride,
The walks along the coast,
The walks upon the downs,
The view down to the sea from the hills,
The flying stag beetles and crazy insects,
The sweet and clean air,
The sun setting in a tangerine sky,
The pier where my father's ashes flew,
I miss the south coast that once was my home. 
I feel you in my mind and will never forget your embrace,
My own space and time on the English coast,
I long for your peace.

Tuesday, 30 August 2011

I Looked Up

Stumbling home from the pub,
I made the mistake once and looked up,
the heavens in the sky, 
Stars and comets,
Each one so amazing in it's individuality,
The mist of the Milky Way,
I'd never seen the sky so vast,
So truly unique and it struck me,
How we are blatantly not the only thing that's here,
You see, I grew up in a tough, small town,
Built for the overspill, the overcrowded city of Liverpool,
The people that surrounded me in my youth,
They were tough people,
It was hard to express yourself unless through aggression, or through sport, or through shared music,
I never looked up, not at night,
Even if by chance, 
I happened to glance,
The streetlights would shine pink on the sky,
I'd see the vague shimmer of the usual,
Big dipper or the little pan,
Nothing spectacular,
Just dots in the sky,
Shapes that meant nothing to me,
But on that cold winters night 10 years ago,
Walking back to my place of sleep,
I looked up,
I was with my friend Daffyd, 
His brother and his fiancé,
I was not in my usual place,
I was in Llanbedrog, Wales,
I looked up, 
I stumbled in the tractor tracks we were walking in,
I fell on my arse,
Daffyd and the others laughed but I just lay back in the mud,
I couldn't believe my eyes as I looked up,
Daffyd lived on a farm,
He told me the first time i asked about it that it was a field and a house,
He was frighteningly modest, a true reflection on his character,
He was a gentleman,
His family farm was huge,
Acres and acres,
We'd been out to watch the rugby at the pub,
His local pub,
Full of Welsh people, 
Beautiful and happy,
As I lay there in the mud,
The chorus of laughing around me like seagulls chasing a morsel, frantic and manic,
I looked up,
I saw so much magic,
I couldn't take it in,
"How long as that been there?"
I mumbled in the mud,
Llanbedrog is as small as a hamlet can get,
Not even a street, 
No street lights,
No light pollution,
Heavens on display for any that choose to see,
I lay there in the mud not wanting to get up,
I looked up.
Daffyd and his brother helped me to my feet, 
I couldn't walk properly,
I looked up,
I stumbled and slipped, slopped and slided,
Safe in the arms of my friends who now thought me more drunk than I was and proceeded to walk me onward,
Arm in arm in arm,
I looked up and wanted to burn this beautiful sky in my mind,
I realised it was always there,
This history on show,
Each and every night,
This unreal sci-fi scene,
This space of magic that has always been surrounding our ball of madness,
It's rare that I look up these days,
I live in another small town,
For some reason though,
This morning in bed,
Putting off my rise,
I remembered that time,
Wallowing blissful in the mud,
That day in Wales,
In awe,
When I looked up. 

Monday, 29 August 2011

To Run With The Night


My eyes try to open,
Stuck lightly with sleep,
The slumberland hug of warmth and safety,
Just too nice to leave. 

The alarm reminds me of too much,
That I am a slave with perks,
I work for others where the only benefit is money,
My true work is without pay but with sprinkles of light,
That my time is not my own,
And that my time itself is getting shorter,
It will be too late.  

My sleepy hand reaches over,
I click off the noise and feel the embrace of my bed,
Today should be full of adventure,
I should be free to run through the fields,
To walk hills and mountains,
My dog by my side,
The sun smiling down on my grateful face,
But no,
I must force my feet out into the cold space,
My body now on auto-pilot.

The working day, like some kind of sadistic jester,
Pulls me towards it with no chance of escape.

I brush my teeth slow and sure, 
My mind still clinging to the remains of the weekend,
Almost pretending I'm not awake, 
The shower,
Thundering, soothing but commanded by my day,
The towel, a cruel reminder of my womblike dream carriage,
My clothes dictated by my day, 
Not my choice, no tie around my neck like a rope would I choose,
No ridiculous plain White, sterile and soulless shirt would adorn my back under any other circumstances.

I head downstairs and force down breakfast,
My lunch of convenience stuffed into a bag,
Such sophistication,
These sandwiches sat underneath my books.

My only lights are lunchtime with my books,
Eating second to the reading,
Writing should my soul pop up,
And 5pm when I head home.

I only hope the day does not take my strength like it usually does,
And leave me too tired to do my real work.

Haunted by the glowing box in the corner,
Visions of corporate dictation,
Tv suicide,
Slow and unintentional,
Easy and entertaining,
Until I step into my dream carriage,
And head off into my only truly free space,
My soulful chatter,
To run with the night.

Thursday, 25 August 2011

Blinkers are good...sometimes.

Blinkers are good...sometimes.

I think I feel different,
Or at least different to most,
Or is it that I give weight to that which most don't?
I don't mean that how it sounds,
I just mean that the average Joe, 
Doesn't know or blatantly suffers in silence,
Gives themselves no chance to believe anything,
Other than the monotony, 
The magicless,
The clear facts.

I spoke to someone in public,
About the beauty of the inner self being at one with the outer self,
In retrospect I laugh,
I became aware of standard ears and raised eyebrows,
There disapproval almost tangible in it's weighty stare,
Their uncomfortable shifts in their chair,
It somehow pushed my words quicker out of my all-too-aware mouth,
The recipient, equally buoyed but unaware of the disapproval nearby,
Maybe I care too much,
Then again, I think it's cruel to shatter any illusion,
Blinkers are good if the truth is too much to carry,
If your life is too far down someone else's line to pull back, the truth, "my truth" would be too much to carry.
Or at least the truth I've found that's right for me,
and that seems to harmonise with some others I've met along my way.

The meeting of minds ended and the polite discourse of goodbye resolved the moment as it usually does,
I shuffled papers and moved onto my usual business,
The disapproval was left there, 
Scratching his head,
I had to laugh and went onto my next thing with a smile,
Maybe one day he'll ask me, 
It won't matter though, you don't find your truth unless you are ready, or rather,
your truth will find you when you want and need to find it. You could fall over your truth but ignore it if you are not looking for it as I did,
One day, the weight of the world will force your mind to react in a way you never expected my friend,
Then you might smile as I do, 
Content In the knowledge, 
I may be who I may be but my feelings are my own.

My day seems a little brighter,
I'm glad the sun can shine indoors sometimes...

Wednesday, 17 August 2011

Tears shine in the daylight

He moves as if through water,
His feet dragging invisibile chains,
His head bowed in solemn, quiet contemplation,
He stops and turns towards the handrail,
His long coat flapping wildly in the breeze like a broken umbrella,
His face acknowledges the sea like an old friend,
The Sea rushing to greet him then falling away as if tired,
His hand wipes a single tear from his cheek,
A quick glance to confirm what he already knows,
He is alone.

His memory drifts back to times of old,
Friends running and dancing in the surf,
As if the only people in the world,
The laughter,
The Sunshine,
The happy, beautiful and warm memories that haunt him,
And his hand reaches again.

This beautiful pain,
This silent anquish,
This heavy weight that he must carry,
The face in his mind,
Smiling and fading,
Waving goodbye,
Then suddenly laughing as moments sail through his mind,
The joy suddenly twisted and crushed in brutal realisation,
As his face turns again to the cold, wet tarmac pavement,
His hands both covering his red and wet eyes.

There are no surpises,
His hands now gripping the rail tight,
No shocks,
No mock disappointment,
The man admits to himself his failings,
His faults,
His lack of conviction,
His soul trapped in the prison of his past,
Screaming to the future in blind panic,
But obligation dulls the sound and the man knows his fate,
His dreams broken in his self-fullfilling prophecy,
His face rises, now unthinking,
No longer concerned with others thoughts,
He claims the rail and joins his old friend,
The surge engulfs him as if on queue,
with a sharp and high swell of foam,
And a powerful rip of the tide,
The old man becomes the sea.

Friday, 12 August 2011

It's past...

Beautiful opportunity
Lost in standard retort
Unknown potential unrealised

The dance of standard greeting
Hides true intention
The sorry loss of familiar concepts affecting the reality of the situation

Damn shame how we just bumble on without worrying there and then

Without knowing it's now not then, 
But it will be then and not now,
And we will be there and not here,
Demanding compensation from our ego that set us up for the fall,
And made no attempt to save us from ourselves,
and the beautiful dream walks away,
into yesterday,
With now way of knowing if it could of been,
Or if it would of been like it felt it could of been then,
It's gone on without you, 
Without hope of recapture,
It's over,
And the night draws you away... And on...

Wednesday, 27 April 2011


It's flowing,

Rushing through us like an electric current,

It's power sometimes evident in tingles, in feelings,

Let us not forget that we live.

Let us not allow the awe we experienced as children dampen,

Drop the synthetic, mature attachment,

The mundane compulsion to be underwhelmed,

Let us remember every waking moment that we live,

The wonder is still there beneath the surface,

Hear everything in full,

Feel everything with all that you are,

Watch with eyes wide open and embrace what you used to consider normal.

Every moment has magic,

The words magically appearing as you type,

Clouds floating by like swans,

Sunshine on your face creating warmth,

A warmth that has travelled millions of miles to reach your face,

Do not forget the beauty, the love, the life, the moment,

Embrace it and don't let society convince you that tomorrow is better,

New is better,

More is better,

It is a lie,

Now, here, this second, this is where we live,

Don't fall back into the dark,

Be alive in each second,

Be you,

Love and be loved,

Smile and share it,

You are here,

Know it, don't just say it,

Experience every second,

Remove the chance to regret,
This is your chance,

Take it.

Thursday, 7 April 2011


Fat old man baking like a plucked and stuffed bird, basted and oven bound, Laid back and english in this mild sun.

The shingle "Shhhhhhhhh!" like a young and fresh librarian.

My blanket out of place, green tartan as it is, laid out and comfortable.

My book untouched, hyponotised by the waves as I am and why not These days pass in a blur so let me enjoy this haze as it dances on the water

Tuesday, 29 March 2011

The Crunch Chorus

The hall was dimly lit and had an air of comfort about it, The velvet drapes, Ruffled and dusty like auntie Jean's cushions back in the day. I sit alone. The crunching around me is a chorus of it's own, Punctuated with couple's laughter here and there and for some reason, It irks me although I really should expect it and be used to it in this place. The awkward chit-chat before I entered this place, The 'Yeah I need to grow another hand' titter titter small talk, The balancing act of three items and only two hands, The single american man also taking the brave step of making this night alone. Trying to be polite in the mute acknowledgement. The place is one more suited to dating couples, Like some kind of step up from car seat fumbles, Riverside embraces, Maybe that is why I feel so alien, As if a light is above my head, A neon sign saying 'Look at me, I am alone here'. I shouldn't care but I do. The crunching chorus continues, Now growing louder and I pray for interuption, I hope for some kind of break, The crunching is getting like manic horror film laughter and I find that I am joining in now, I am suddenly aware how quickly my Jaw is moving, My crunch seems to be obvious and louder still, My own unwanted crunch Aria!!! Suddenly, The place smashes into light and we are no longer in our world like a high speed car crash into some Hollywood hills, We are taken up and into the silver screen. The music of the prelude is a welcome, deafening snap and I thank their God for it's banality, My popcorn now cast aside, Nerves no longer need soothing with the crunch, I just hope the flick is one that takes me off. It does. I forget I am alone in this traditonal place of beginners luck. I am there for the film and the film is there for me as it takes me off into it's dream and I relax, Slipping into that familiar grip of escapism masquerading as entertainment. I am grateful & willing. Hail to the screen! I do not mourn these moments passing, I don't even see them leave, I am away in the waking dream, Ignorant, blissful and beautifully immune... Halleluliah!

Tuesday, 15 March 2011

Feeling Spring?

The sun shines so my lunch hour just gets better. Can't beat sitting by the sea under a clear blue sky on the south coast. It really is a big part of the reason I moved down to Hove. That and the music scene is just buzzing. People seem to want acoustic music and actually listen when you play. That in itself is so inspiring. Sometimes, you can bury all sorts in your song, safe in the knowledge that most people will not actually listen to your lyrics. None of that here. People coming up to me after a show and actually quoting my words back to me... Man! That is quality. People actually understanding that I am not just playing a track, not just entertaining but actually getting a point accross.

Anyway, my trip to the states is looming and I am working towards that in a very disciplined and dedicated way. Gonna be insane...

Saturday, 12 March 2011


The uneventful last few days have resulted in this rather dull post...

Tuesday, 8 March 2011

The Blizzard Of Instruction...

Another valid attempt at creation falls short...before it begins
So I stare
out of the window and see still
no dance of the breeze just the odd sway
no sun
just clouds and the reflection of my light on the window

A thought moves my mind to other pastures
Days I lay in the sun
clinging to my dream of freedom while
surrounded by mans failures
mans pathetic attempt at creating communities...
As the sky above me floats by like a feather
but never falling
never repeating
It seems i am the only one who sees the sky today
What horrible lives we suffer
lost in the blizzard of instruction
to continue on the path
Believing the capitalist dream and discovering
the nightmare
one by one
we will realise its a joke
a very bad & cruel joke that just keeps on getting played
and i am here
looking at that same sky while others sleep
little wonder
my creation
falls short

Saturday, 5 March 2011

These Things We Give Names

Honky Tonk? No, it just needs tuning...

Just wrote this on my old 1930's Burling & Mansfield upright. Yeah, she is in need of a little tune but I think its got character (!). It's called 'These Things We Give Names. You can find the video of it by going here (from about 3pm UK time today after it uploads), Lyrics are as follows...

These Things We Give Names.

It's one thing to know,
Just how you feel,
& another to work out,
Which way is up.

It's one thing to know,
How to say your name,
& another to find your way,
out of here.

All these things we give names,
& crown our mistakes like kings,
& Ignore what we feel & sigh.

It's one thing just to know,
Without ever tasting it,
& another to choke,
On your heart as you're living it.

So forgive me if I seem,
Seem a little vague,
But it's hard to speak out,
When society crowns it's shame.

Al these things we give names,
& crown our mistakes like kings,
We dance as though we know,
How to live and breathe and grow,
But our shoelaces are tied,
& our flaw is living blind,
& Ignoring what we feel...

Our arrogance,
knows no bounds,
We think we know,
We think we've found out.
But ignore what we feel inside.

Friday, 4 March 2011

Vertical Ascent

Vertical Ascent

Vertical ascent,
Widow's Lament,
A dying cold Shoulder,
On a mountain of obsession.

Rivers of blinkered Goretex,
& duck down shrouds,
Masks like ape's mouths,
Set in stone,
Cast no doubt,
Still onward,
Upward, no reprieve,
No outpouring of emotion,
Just continual, controlled, laboured speed,
Until the pinnacle is crushed,
& the descent comes gold,

The dying cold shoulder,
Now shrouded in snow,
As the self- centered, some say brave,
Lower themselves by will,
While base brings emotions,
& powerful lament,
Hastely veiled reason,
To hell and down again,
All shielded vision around,
Leaving humanity mistaken,
About this,
Vertical ascent,
& mankind left struggling,
To understand the moral code,
Of those who choose this worlds ceiling,
Over all other goals.

Mixed emotions in disguise,
Of truth, hope, bravery & pride,
But who will ever know,
The beauty of the night,
In Vertical ascent,
Beneath the heavens on show,
No wonder pride blinds,
No wonder people try,
No wonder without trying,
No wonder in dying.
No wonder without,
The beauty of the morning,
Within this Vertical Ascent.

in loving memory of all those who have lost their lives, witnessed the loss of life & summitted, in the name of achievement.

Wednesday, 2 March 2011

One from last winter...

Feeling Winter

limitless nothingness but
to me

Rolling above
gentle flow
cold outside
just right
for me

I look again
to focus
but not sickly
enjoying the motion
as the clouds sail
like autumn's decree
floating down the river
they flow
and i watch
its beauty
and feel it
in me

Tuesday, 1 March 2011

Wild Minds

No pre-determined course
just coincidental moments colliding
like the nail in wood struck by the workers hammer
the moment pushes you through to the other side of the event
and you pass through the change to renew
but the past has strings that need to be cut
as they cling to the moment with an emotional tack
and the only scissors you have seem blunt
and the strings much too long
too tough
and almost vital
but more like a blanket or a thumb

so you must work to cut
but no back and forth like a carpenters tenon
but straight and true
forward into the blue

But how the immature and erratic clinging nature of the mind to its moments
and it's attachment
to the inanimate
frustrates me
annoys me
forces upon me conformity
and fear
and the sense of loss
how its blind desire to remind you of moments
its wild ramblings and inappropriate associations
flashbacks triggered and lived again inspired by nothing
or something vague
something familiar
something fleeting
something dead

For what
and for who

It's a painful warmth

The meditators gain is silence
when they take that mental bull by the horns
but their loss is chaos
and chaos is better than nothing
''some people never go crazy,
what truly horrible lives they must lead''
wrote king Buk
and yes
how true

Just give me the wild free stallion of thought and all it's pro's and cons
rather than
old penned up cob

Let me witness the thoughts of the free
allow me to loose myself in natural moments

You can keep that
orderly reminiscence
anchored moment attachment to yourself

Let me ramble though the wilderness like Mcandless
feast upon reaction and sense
stumble upon moments that are beyond my influence
and settle down
to eternity
Train from London

Moving at last,
Going back to my new home.

London was a little more personal this time,
A little more familiar,
The apartment made it seem friendly,
The work, not done but drink,
Drink with my friend was fun.

Sometimes you have an idea of how things should go,
But mostly,
People like us let things go.
I think that is best.
Let the tide of circumstance just guide you,
After all, we are just passengers on this one great natural oraganic gesture,
Why let our jealous, selfish, egotistical will dictate over natures perfection?

A window to a Kitchen smuggled into a loft,
Only on this London leaving train,
Can I see these habitat secrets in such a light.


Grey sky,
Dark clouds,
Smallest hint of sun breaking through,
But that hint comes accross in these lines,
As far more than that,
It is not.
It is practically dark,
yet only 4.28pm, a cold late February afternoon.

White painted brick,
Tracks overlap,
Another Train speeds past like a startled flock of roosting birds.

All these bodies and their lives,
Like HGV trucks on a busy motorway,
Destination unknown,
Noisy and bold,
Contents secret,
These people, heavy in unspoken lifetimes of emotion,
Regret, Intention, Vieled & Secret.

Oh, the blind dance of social conformity,
All it's pointless fears,
Like spies,
We secretly eye each other in the carriage,
Eyes catching glimpses & repel like poles,
Unable to hold a glance lest we acknowledge our natural curiousity,
What a social crime to commit!

Tie squewhiff Book reader,
Mother dragging daughter,
Baby Cryer,
Well-dressed, young, single mother,
Singing Kids,
& Suddenly,
A stranger beside me sits,
I lift my bag and move along,
Now resting my book atop my bag,
Growing more conscious of inquisitive eyes,
Does he know he is now locked forever in these lines?

The train jolts on,
Long, cold, green moss-ridden brick,
Lonely, out in the air,
We draw onward.

Pidgeons roost on a roof,
"The next station is East Croydon" booms the voice like a slammed door in church,
& I run out of steam as someone's armrest squeels & I take a sip,
Minds deep in thought,
Of others, and moments past of intense wholeness,
Love & history,
Future and the wealth of inevitability,
As this train draws on.

Until Martyn Reminded Me...

Completely forgot I had even set this up, my initial whim failing to actually get passed the point of setting up an account...

So, by way of an apology to no-one, here is one of my latest ramblings...

Bike Man

Bike man,
His strange,
glazed & red eyed look,
Kids in tow - oblivious to all except the proud ice cream reward they devour.

Teapot cosy wooly heads with denim & oversized lensed camera over shoulder.

Then nothing,
Just hiss, crash & 'Wahhh! Come on Betsy" in the distance,
As the breeze dances with my free page.

Trio of people, lady with keys,
Windlessly jangling,
Curious glances in my direction.

Kids on scooters collide,
No tears,
Biggest kid leads the way,
Then more hiss, crash and the breeze asks my hair
"Shall we?"

The horizon seems so far,
A ship,
A hulk of a ship in the distance,
Unaware of my interest,
As my eyes fall on it's twin,
Further back still.

"We gotta walk back don't forget"
A grandpa advises newly mobile scooter-grandaughter.
The years straining on his ruddy map of a face.

Then I stand,
My day has to be given back to my work,
So I join the fleshy tide,
All the way back to my car.