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Tuesday 10 March 2015

23

What is it that troubles me
No I know I haven't told you
And though I take the time to hold you
We haven't yet managed to second guess

To prevent distress I don't ask that you unfold me
No I know you are happy that I hold you
And rather pleased that no, I do not scold you
Yet perhaps it's time to probe and not just impress

Don't let them fuck you about, it is not compassionate
To be brutal, it is not clever to tear that frail
Paper when what it needs is a firm frame to wrap around

It is a tree which speaks well to me of frailty and indecision
With the precision of bonsai the branches point neither
In the way of the road less travelled, or any other road

It is a different tree, more wilful and wild of nature
With the precociousness of a night-after hairdo, which says
More about a night on then town rather than a night on the tiles

They are the real deal (and I know some people their equal)
I am the faithless pretender (and you know some people my equal)

If you don't want to be alone with me should I be on my own
If you don't want to share thatch and stone with me should I moan
Or just get on and do something about it; my purpose, to roam

I find people, I lose people, I hope one day that it may slow down


Monday 9 March 2015

22

We are doing all of those things that we didn't have time to do
We are fulfilling all of those promises that we didn't have time to fulfil

Yet still I retreat
Into that silent solace shell
That quiet place where I love to dwell
Yet knowing that for others it is their living hell

I am escaping from those who are close to those who are close to me
I am indicating my displeasure yet achieving less than nought you'll see

Yet still I repeat
Once again the same mistake
My inherent stubbornness it is no fake
Jealousy is always the fiend I choose to rake

We are all having fun, we are all going places, days on the beach, days at the races
We did have fun, we did follow our traces, days on the beach, those old familiar chases

Yet still in deceit
I hide deep behind the word
Driving along nudging the highway kerb
Always doing what I do, intending to disturb

We are building rooms, fireplaces and floors, we are replacing windows; drawing plans, buying wooden doors
We did construct; wardrobes, bathrooms, kitchen shelves; only then to destruct; gardens, pathways, your living hell

Yet still my mind is fleet
Always unfulfilled, inside out
Hard to whisper, harder to shout
Never committing, fearing the doubt

We are going away, to an isolated cottage in the dales, with friends, with family, with wine, with real ale
We went away, to an island hotel by the sail, taking the children, to a place where all they did was wail


Sunday 8 March 2015

21

So many comparisons that pass me by
So many similar inferences where I am oblivious
Is this how the older sisters see their younger brother
Are his unfathomable abilities on the same plain

It is that time, at the end of the day, after an evening of reading, writing, eating and watching television; chasing opportunities for self-reflection, chasing ideas for onwards extrapolation, searching out what isn't there anymore, what most likely was neither there before. But it doesn't hurt to dream does it, and these are the thoughts that precede the dreams; these are the my self becoming aware of my most inner and intimate self. When I do go back to what might have happened, what might have been meant by those soft sensual words and tender embraces, what might I have implied from those passionate looks and the accompanying physical progressions.

So many illustrations that I can use for illusion
So many commentaries that one day I might replicate
Is this how the young boy overwhelmed his family
As his indeterminate talents exceeded all expectations

It is that time, in the clear light of day, after a morning of working and buying presents; losing, or leaving behind any detritus from the former, any joy from the latter. Such that now we one might think of oneself as a writer; not a Colm Toibin or anyone heavyweight, but as a lightweight who lets the words drop onto the page as snow might fall, without story or setting, without hook or strap line. Not even time for my self to to engage with my inner or my intimate self, for now all I do is to look forwards, towards the next virgin page, to the next empty notebook of a life yet to be lived, of actions yet to be determined, of loves and lusts yet to be chased, or reinforced or discarded.


Saturday 7 March 2015

20

We all lose our way sometimes don't we
I know I've lost mine once or twice

With head in hands
Wondering what's gone wrong
Pray don't let anyone see me like this

She calls me in the sad times
In the bad times of the morning
She sways me as the dust might
As the devil in disguise, soaring

And with my head I my hands
Stone cold and wondering
Pray don't let anyone see me like this

If all I ever did was write
Record songs and make movies
If all I ever did was fight
Bang on relentless drinking smoothies

So few words one to the other
Call out into the silence
See what it shall freely uncover

Under the rainbow
Still feeling blue
Always in the search
Of that beauty what's true

It's all of a fashion
To trespass on the other self
To remember nights of passion
Sat here in fading health


Friday 6 March 2015

19

The toys are the toys are the toys that we lose
A light goes out each time we choose
The loss is the loss is the loss that turns to bruise
Darkness is the shadow of the parting news

Some dreams don't matter anymore
Yet still the catkins emerge in December
Some thoughts forever surge and pour
Yet still the difficulty is to remember

The noise is the noise is the noise that we lose
A lamp flickers each time we choose
The eyes are the eyes are the eyes to see the bruise
Sorrow is the meadow of the parting news

Some pleasures don't hit the higher score
Yet still the snow settles in December
Some scents say bonjour mon amour
Yet harder dwell the words to send her

The boys are the boys are the boys that we lose
A candle quenched each time we choose
The sense is the sense is the sense to feel the bruise
Hurtful is the emotion of the parting news

Some hopes wait behind the closing door
Yet the dustbowl still blows in December
Some images fall beneath the boarded floor
Yet don't doubt yourself, you're the defender

Darkness is the shadow of the parting news
Yet still the catkins emerge in December
Sorrow is the meadow of the parting news
Yet still the show settles in December

Hurtful is the emotion of the parting news
Yet the dustbowl still blows in December
Some dreams don't matter anymore
Yet the difficulty is to remember

Some pleasures don't hit the score
Yet harder dwell the words to send her
Some hopes wait behind the closing door
Yet don't doubt yourself you're the defender