Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Fallen.

I was standing on a bridge
the other day
looking down at the water
below and wondering
if it was the impact
that would kill me
or if I would drown
thinking about how
nothing ever works out
and that knowing my god damn
luck I'd probably hit a boat
and it would be someone
I knew, in High School
and they'd say
what the Hell happened to you,
man, you used to be,
and I'd be lying on their boat
injured but alive
and looking at the under side
of the bridge and begging God
to let it begin
let it begin
please let that mother fucking bridge
be the first to fall
on top of me
and let it crush
my High School friend
and their Society Boat
let us pay the cost
of all the world' sins
to an out of chic
figurehead God
whose Art remains
a mystery
just as he remains
in Heaven.

I couldn't tell you
if I wanted to jump or not.

I don't know myself
these days
what goes on inside
all I can say
is that it's real quiet
each thought hidden
a needle in a barn
of cotton balls
an amputee monk in a forest
a tear
that one
which fell from my eye
over the edge
and showed me the way
down if I only had the courage
to jump
(no longer
if I only had the courage
to not).

But I never followed
that drop
just
walked on home
down tree lined streets
by mothers with prams
and fathers playing cricket
whose sons waved at me
as I waved back
a normal guy
(a rhyming word goes here)
stopping by the pub
for a couple
"not much, you?"
telling no one
and drinking heavy
of the sorrow
which came
with the 
drowning
of my tear.







Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Skywheel.

I'm not too ashamed
to wonder out loud
whether
I'm some sort
of bipolar
sociopath
confused maybe
sick
an arsehole
a coward
a ten time
loser.

Hell,

I can look back
over years
of ideas
and I see
so many close calls
almost made it
out of my control
what if
or could have been
and I wonder
what the moon
was doing
that night
Jan 5, '73
that made it all
so fucking
gut wrenching.

I look back
and nail that
moment
'85
when I came back
alive with possibility
from my first stay
in Japan
and found my family
living
with a vicious
and violent drunk
that set me
on a path
of self loathing
and sorrow.

I look back
and all I see
are dusty roads
covered in half steps
trod on chicken feet
and I don't even
have the urge
to mourn them
anymore
instead what I'll do
is sit outside
on the step
and stare at the sun
and watch the movement
of a butterfly
or a leaf
in the wind
and I'll mimic
the empty night
reflecting the passive
dark of the cold universe
in the cool blue green
windows to my soul.

That's what depression is.

It's a motherfucking
empty
soul
a bottomless gash
in the middle
of your heart

It's giving up Hope.

It's not seeing
the opportunities
which still dance as
fireflies
in the air around you
sparks of belief
in yourself
one last yard
that extra mile
don't let go
you're almost there
steel yourself
remember
remember
remember
fucking remember
you weak as piss bastard
remember those words
which made the sky
a battlefield
which sent the grey clouds
fleeing
a ghostly cavalry
tossing aside silver diamonds
as lost brothers
as the sun rose
in victory
to set the scene
alight with its own blood
its own sacrifice
remember that
remember that and stand again
and do not lay down
until they pry your weapons
Optimism and Hope
from your cold dead
hands and bury you
or burn you
left for dead
a faded charcoal mark
upon the golden
sands.

Remember that
as you stand
again
and again
and again
and again
and laugh at the past
all class
half arsed
laugh at the past as you say

actually,

I have another
idea.

Fuck it,
motheruckers.

I'm not on my feet.

Not by a
mile.

But Hell,
tonight we dance
in the firelight
of tomorrow
tonight we warm ourselves
with the passion
of chance
soar above the ridiculous
rainbow
of impossibility
let's drink the colours
of our dreams
let's
fuck
the holes in the sky
which let the starlight
shine through
and burn our curious fingers
on the desire
for a better life.

I'm alive again
tonight.

And it feels

good, friends.

Oh,baby.

This rollercoaster
can sure
feel
good.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Grounded.

All I ever wanted
was not to be considered
mediocre
and in doing so
my ambition averaged out
to be like every one else.

So now I just want
to learn humility
and to be okay
with being just okay
to understand
that the weapons
I got
ain't any sharper, duller, shinier
than any of the other soldiers
who stand here in the shadows
with me
terrified of unsheathing
for fear of spilling
our own blood.

That's what I tell myself
anyway
at night
when the ghosts
don't
let
go
relentess phantoms
crossroads and demons
that choice
this choice
red eyes
blue voice
cigarette skin
and whisky decisions
I tell myself
how I just want to be okay
I even pull myself out of bed
to come here
and tell
you
but
I don't know

maybe I'm fucking
lying.

Maybe okay
will never
be
enough.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Horizon.



The heat is oppressive enough without the white hot depression which always kicks this time of year. Too hot to even open a window and look out over the sky, blue as the eyes of yesterday's movie stars. So I'm trapped. Stuck in my own fucking analogy and trying to remember the philosophy that always gets me through. Something about - we're all just spinning on an empty rock in a cold lonely universe so smile, fucko, because everyone else is just as dead as you, as lost as you, they just hide it better under all the toys, or they have something more to focus on, like survival amongst the ruins of a piece of fucking land. My land, your land. That war makes me sick. I've got to stop watching the news. I need to focus on the light. To move towards the light which dances every night in my dreams, a tantalising, teasing temptation, so close, but so far away.

How long can you hold a dream? From deep in the night through the day and beyond. For years, for a lifetime, can you hold gentle and protected a single wisp of dream, a single cotton thread of what might be? I can. I can feel the white butterfly skipping in my heart. I can resign myself to the fact, that I am here for different reasons. That there are lessons to be learned that do not involve flights of fiscal fantasia, but rather the continual search within the soul for the door to the next stage. Whereby we might wake every day with a smile, no matter what this fucked up capitalist society decides to throw at us. No matter which way the arrows point, or what the anchor man tells us, the indicators, the seperators, the columns and charts and graphs, the concrete teeth of the sleeping Devil which rise in every city across the world. Death from below, graveyards of our own making, constructed of silver to forever distract us from the sad, sad truth. That we have murdered our earth and our souls to pursue pieces of paper. That we have lost all freedom of movement to pieces of paper. A sad, sorrowful, grubby, greedy, destructive sty full of pigs at the trough. The world is spinning to its doom, and we all deserve to go to Hell with it.

So smile then fucko, just like you said. What's depression, when the whole town is dead. That's almost worth a grin, knowing that one day beneath your feet will be a memory, knowing that in a billion, billion years, this will be dust and you will be inside an honest to God, real life fucking star. Just have to be patient. Play the game until you die. Eat some cheese, drive with the window down, touch that skin, milk that cock, write it all down, which house you want, which drink you'll have. Never, ever, forget to stop and scratch a pooch, those little guys don't understand, and they need some love. Make lists, make love, make one person understand you, and maybe they'll do the same to someone else, and maybe it will flow on, maybe it's a dream, but maybe it will flow on. A river of understanding to drown the world of pain.

The heat is oppressive. I sit in a darkened room. The sky is as blue and unforgiving as the eyes of an angry father. But there is today. And maybe we are all spinning toward our deserved doom, but we are not there yet. So I pick up a pen, and I start to draw. I take up my paint brush and paint. I write a song. I read recipes. I open the door and spy an angel and breathe upon her. I talk to the chickens in the language of the birds and have no idea what I am saying. I take a cold bath and laugh at my own body. I tell myself, if doom is coming, then baby, let's have a little fun. I light the light behind my eyes. I set free the butterfly within my heart. I keep the Hope fires burning.

And I make them burn bright, baby
that you might see them
from over your horizon.

Monday, January 12, 2009

3. Resignation.

So there you go
Mule
back to the bottom
of the hill
which you were almost
over
what a surprise
that Hope was just that
another one of life's
many lies.

There you go
Ass
back behind the bar
killing yourself
in order to survive
and covered in shots
of irony
that you cannot even
be yourself
without sounding like
fucking
Hank Chinaski.

You've been done before
Donkey
your own survival
isn't even original
anymore
so there's nothing left
to do
but cry
tears which you can bottle
reserved for when the thirst
comes - if it does -
a river to guide you up
on yet
another
on yet another
on yet
another
fucking
climb.

Thursday, January 8, 2009

1. Sleep

We always talk
in my dreams
you and I
always go over
old ground
the how and
the why
it's like
it can only be done
at night
when Time's
not around
but in the dreams
it still matters
I don't know what
that means
it seems
odd it seems strange
because you are so gay
as you talk
to me
too
I hear your voice
inside me
electric alive
and we are fine
we are fine
just two people
passing time
and
chatting with candour
about the things
that led
to our death.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

Majestic.

Tonight I drank
a good mood
like
a fine wine
savoured
its zest and fancy
until
my toes talked
of different tears
diamonds
dancing down my grinning face
white light to colours
the bright side
of the moon
where alien feelings
content and serene
turned sadness green
beneath a sky
smothered in rare memories
of when we were innocent
and hopeful
running through the dusty corridors
of yesterday's yesterday
and further along still
to an old green door
where we sang songs
that yet evoke
the touching excitement
melodies and lyrics
which lifted us out
of dreary poverty
violence and despair
into bright summer mornings
posters on the wall
twenty in my pocket
a brand new cassette
or weekends away
with smiles on our faces
or even
brand new laces
on brand new shoes
a sigh
a cry!
oh god we can fly
still, I promise
I do
that those things
we lose
can always
always
always
be found again.

I promise.
I do.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Burn after reading.

I used to live
in a city of blood
of wine and fuck
and to Hell
with you
all.

I remember
the way it kept
me warm
the fire that
lust and anger
happily igniting
myself in an orgy
of rebellion.

I used to live
in the bottom
of a bottle
amongst the sentimental
flotsam which collected
together in a protective
shell.

I used to need
to write about it
I used to want to smash
the page the words your face
my heart this world this lack of
revolution this skull drugdery and
drugged old me and slugs we'll be for
eternity if I don't start to curse our comfort
our luxurious malaise our destructive ambition
our ugly dreams of how rich or how beautiful or
even how loved we'll be - I hated that and myself
for wanting it even more than I wrote that the world
around me did - God, I wanted it. And I was never afraid
to ask you in silence in my heart in the dark of the night sads
when the creaks and cracks appeared at the window a pale face
and white eyes and tomorrow's terror and a green backed monster
a broken heart no hope for a house no way forward never going to make it
I can't see the light I fumble for it but instead I grasp a black and velvet nothing
which illuminates by the glow that still lives behind your eyes, my eyes, the eyes of
the monster which cannot finish what it begins.

What I did was
I stood and murdered that
fire at the crashing end of last year
lost the anger amongst the sad and pitiful
slashed the wrists of a common enemy
drowned the fucker in remorse and laid
alone on the grass in mortal repose to wait
and see the shape of today rather than moulding
the clay of tomorrow into yet another worthless urn
of daydreams and hope but all it did that day upon the grass
all it did was rain.

And the brain kept on
never stopping the relentless
analysis and pushing and pushing
its savage critique and never allowing
for error or bliss or chi or tao or Now unless
the fire you see the fire the way to silence the
damnation which The Self flagellates upon my back
the fire the fuck the fall on my feet luck of the Irish the
twinkle the grin the hiding within the never letting you see
the wrong move in a wrong situation which always somehow
becomes alighted excited all fucking righted
in
The End.

Friday, January 2, 2009

Give Me One More Blues.

Drinking
is the sword
that's been hanging
down
over the sad, sad
clown
I've become.

Sitting

alone

in a bar
outside of town
red carpet burning
my mind was turning

oh
but what's the use
in dying
when all my dreams
are yearning
for
you.

So

I'll
down all the
yesterday
in a cold, green
bottle
of melody
the melody
of a drinking song
we sung
when we were
young.

And
now those
photos
on the wall
of me
hang
pallid like a memory
and memories
are just
whispers
that fade
in the

dusk.