Pittance of Troubles

Insecurity and insincerity stand side by side at the gatepost. The CD player's drawer will not open.

Another nail, in the mid life, late life, risible crisis coffin. It doesn't amount to much does it; the result of a technical fault combined with low blood sugar levels.

Does anyone really believe, or are these just words. Just how long should the endurance be measured to satisfy the title of believer, and thus to be endowed with the moniker of an altogether satisfactory chap. 

Not at all to my satisfaction, no news yet from the car insurance, a dull wet mist to look out on.

The beat from Jim Moray might beat me back to life, as equally well might reading Romantic Moderns.

from 
Elbowed Out - Love of Listening to Michelangelo

Christopher's Poetry collections can be found on iTunes and on Kindle by clicking the highlighted links

And So I Write

There is sadness, is that not one of the reasons I go there. Four down beats to every five beat bar, or five to every seven on an upbeat kind of day.

Beats and bars and sweet sorrowful music to coincide with the tides ebb and flow; compelled by what's lost and what's not to be. To tell the truth how can we be swell yet at the same time dwell on the past presented by itself.

There is hurt and pain, it is more than one half of what drives me. The coiled spring that energises the clock when otherwise all time seems spent.

There are imaginary postulations, which if revealed would for sure embarrass me. I also need to find places, to hide those moments of half-belief in ridiculous implausible situations and coincidences.

These are daydreams of indiscrete circumstances. Premeditations created with wilful invitations. Invitations which are often, in my mind, super-sensorially accepted.

All this holds at bay the clear and final closure; yes there is upset, the infinite concentration and distillation of years of personal doubt.

Yet to give this up, to give up this past, to offer it to flame is no more or no less than a partial personal cremation. It is too big an ask of this one person.

Fires rise, flames die away, embers glow until the rains come, but our embers, hey continue to glow way beyond the rainfalls.

There is the mouth’s sour taste of waste; what a place to take the case to tribunal. There to face the rights and wrongs, to sing the songs of good and bad, across pontius pilate's plate of contemplative pebbles.

One stays quiet, even with the most direct attack. Clearly more had broken down than could be in  one mind entertained. That stream of bile on the journey north, what had been done to deserve this, surely tiredness can only accept one part share of blame.

I too am tired, tired of all the unease that surrounds me. It is as though I am at the kernel of tiredness, the core of the earths negative energy.

And so I write, with coloured pens. I listen to artists in colourful conversation. I choose purple as my new seasons colour. I re-engage with paisley patterned cotton shirts, resplendent in their tones of blues and berries.

from 
Elbowed Out - Love of Listening to Michelangelo

Christopher's Poetry collections can be found on iTunes and on Kindle by clicking the highlighted links

In Transit

You call from the train

It won’t ever be the same

Again & again. We go on

Nothing’s plain, nothing’s

The same as our refrain

Again & again. We are strong

Bothering the pain, bothering

The same as playing the game

Again & again. We say so long

As you call from aboard the train

It won’t; it won’t ever be the same

from 
Parting Shots - Love Of The Status Quo

Christopher's Poetry collections can be found on iTunes and on Kindle by clicking the highlighted links

Decay & Renewal

Where now my Scorpio, as again you invade

Now that this life is so surely fading

Where are the naked bodies still craving

Whose bosoms are bared, warm & ready to clasp

From the silence of the imaginary cloisters

To the reality of the islands cliff top track

Even with the fragrant fragments of the lavender

The odds against us always were unevenly stacked

Reminders as I loiter, without hope or wealth

Long past any thoughts of simply turning back

I write then as if I write for no one, no one other 

Than the no one who shores up the inner self

So now my Scorpion, where the devil are you hiding

With which airborne sensitivities are you colliding

Is your new life, is it the one of full on providing

Or are there shares untaken, leftovers left to grasp

Beneath the rain spots, in the square of Paternoster

To the bitumen of Yorkshire’s pit top black

With the aroma of dark and dank Octobers

The enquiry is continuous & incrementally racked

from 
Parting Shots - Love Of The Status Quo

Christopher's Poetry collections can be found on iTunes and on Kindle by clicking the highlighted links

Drawn Out Affair

I read of the multiplicity

Yet it is the nothingness that engages me

The nothingness

That engulfed god's good children with their persecutors

Step by uphill snow filled step

from 
Parting Shots - Love Of The Status Quo

Christopher's Poetry collections can be found on iTunes and on Kindle by clicking the highlighted links