What I am (to you)

An old vinyl full of sublime sound, never put on

An oil painting from the renaissance, gathering dust in the cellar

A cerulean, sun-soaked sky behind heavy, drawn curtains

A beautiful wandering cat, seeking love from strangers

The words of power that unmake spells of hate, never uttered

A drawer full of field beans, never planted in the garden

A book of depth and colour, you refuse to read

 

You do not need to say the sun is gold and resplendent

For the sun to be gold and resplendent

And if you say the sun is bleak, squat, grey and ugly

That does not make the sun bleak, squat, grey and ugly

 

This is why your words have no power; they speak untruth.

The magick of words is their ability to say what is

For magick is power, and magick is just truth, thus truth is power

 

A proud otter swimming through a running river, whose strength you cannot comprehend

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The inevitable beautiful, the ocean’s will

All of the beautiful things I will make

Cannot be destroyed

Only delayed.

You cannot stop one who knows

That to move forward is their choice

For the will of mortals is like that

Of the ocean

Forever beating against the shores of eternity

Driven on, on, wailing at mother moon.

I am a copse of brambles

Cut at me, I return

Thorned, clutching, birds nest in my bosom

I am ivy upon the oak

I am the course of the river

Slowly I wend through the world

Always I triumph

For there is no going back

To go back now is to die, to die

And I want to live

And I can always choose to live

Until Nature takes me back…

A madman or a visionary…

Now I am a note of chaos

In the symphony of order

A madman and an idealist.

In less than a decade

I will be a visionary

And a hero of mankind.

They know this

The corpses who hold on to power

Yet til the bitter end

They will waste the lives of their vassals

And tear the land apart.

Power knows not past, present, future

It is timeless, like the depths of the mind

Irrational, lost, desperate, screaming at the void

Like a child, for more, more, greater hoard

For fame, and followers, golden things, nations at its clawed feet.

Power knows no reverence for life

And has no love for the beauty of the galaxy.

But the tyrant always falls

For ‘mad-folk’ like me are always born,

And the people always triumph,

The only question is when.

 

They hate me, for I am change-bringer

I am truth-wielder, I am death-howl,

I am game-ender, I am a note of chaos

In the symphony of order.

Refugee

Seven hundred thousand refugee

Sail across the distant sea

I want dem come for company

For my own land, me refugee

No passport many years

No job twenty years

No home a lifetime

Come and join me refugee

In my own country.

Dis your country too

What done to you, by colony

Accept dis apology

Come settle, make me glad with glee

My new friend, no more a refugee.

This many

This many killed, this many injured

Here at this time

Framed on a page

Of cheap pulp

This many saw it, this many wept

In our nation

Framed on a page

Of cheap pulp

 

And how many died today

Around the world?

How many starved

How many strangled

How many in their own homes

How many exploited

How many ignored

How many dehumanized

To stitch your new shirt

 

This many of my brain cells died today

From the fear you tried to evoke

Insulting my intelligence

Trying my patience

This much of my hope was extinguished

From the pain you tried to peddle

Trivializing the truth

On cheap pulp

 

But I will not despair

For

I learnt how to slay you long ago;

The beast dies when you behold it not.

 


 

I know it is stating blindingly obvious, but the mass media is full of fear. It creates a narrative of fear, exaggerating the dangers of the world, framing it as a place of violent chaos. Like gazing into a train wreck, the smouldering ruins it presents have an instinctual draw.

But turn away! Turn away from the distortion of truth! Life is not some land of rainbows and butterflies, but it is safer than the Hades the papers make it out to be.

Craft your own narrative, inspired by a balanced appraisal of events. Think not that your life is insignificant just because, on a grand scale, you are a drop in the ocean. Just as the distances between ehre and the stars are vast, so the distances between the atoms in your body are vast.

You are all things, as much as they are you. The importance of the mass-media machine diminishes when you start to value those around you, and seek a more balanced diet of news and events.

What is truly signficant? Anything that is not in an irreverent tabloid.

Cracks in the pavement

'The city is expanding
 

All-pervading
 
Devouring everything into itself.
 
The system is absolute
 
Dominating
 
Chaining everything inside itself...'

Is it?

Look at the cracks in the pavement
Where moss and lichen grows
Green through the grey

Look at the cops joking around
On duty
Look at the council worker staring

At their reflection in a monitor

Realizing their futility.

 


Authority is in our minds
Projected outwards
The feelings of defeat
Are conjured in our heads;
The swell of over-thinking.

Left for ten years
This city would become a forest;
Plants feed off concrete
Trees tear it apart.
We are always only
A few years away from victory.

London Syndrome

London you have torn me in two

An abusive lover, indifferent to my pain

But I still want you.

I hate the pace you set on life

The rushing, anonymous crowds

But I want their recognition.

You lock me out of your plazas

And price me out of the culture I helped create

But I still come knockin’.

 

What are you promising, exactly?

Anything at all? Or nothing.

For I never found my way

Along your busy streets

You never sheltered me or held me

In your deep bosom.

 

Our traumatic bond, London

It is all I have known, London

I am afraid to go, London

But I am more afraid to stay.

 

So fuck you, London. We’re finished!

 

(But you’ll take me back if I wanna come home right?)

Always Impossible

Always somewhere else

Always someone else

Always a different horizon

Always a greener pasture

Always a safer haven

Always a better answer

Always a happier day

Always a prettier maiden

Always somewhere else

But never here

Always something unseen

But nothing felt

Always something impossible

Always someone impossible

Always impossible

The essence of anxiety is a lack of security. The self, seeking to separate itself from the  the dance of birth and death and rebirth that is the flux of all-things, isolates itself from nature. In a messy metaphycial divorce, it tears itself away from its earthly mother.

Once out of its natural being, the ego must fortify itself from its “vantage” position. But the more it fortifies, the more it needs to fortify, for there is always a gap in the castle walls. And the more you get, the more you have to worry about.

This burden of conscience builds and builds upon the back of the separated ego. Given our limited nature as fallible and vulnerable beings, eventually something will give, and the whole facade will fall. This is inevitable, but the separated ego does not want to face this reality.

So it looks forward to an imagined future. One it can never reach, but that is not a problem. To stop would be for it to reveal its futility. Something must keep it going.

I am a creature of this ego. Although I am aware of it, it still holds sway over me. Conditioning must be undone, but I imagine this takes time, and society does not make it easy to be a free, enlightened being interconnected with nature.

Still we must try.

Old Friends

Old friends restoring parts of me

Holding the glowing stones of memory

Who I was, who I could be

Bringing kindling to gently warm me

Cups full of my blood, to pour to my lips

And let my heart pump boldly again

Remembering how I used to be

In those fangled days of innocence

Beneath the clinging ivy of nature

Leaving the lonely path home

To a place the dark cannot reach

Nor trickle through the ring of love

Hovering like a bright sphere around me

Fighters against the grey machine

Brandishing banners of truth and light

Forged of the same ideas as me

Seers of the forces know the great enemy

Words in the book of an anguished life

Turned by eager young hands on cold nights

As multi-coloured lights dance on the ceiling

Remembering the old games we used to play

And knew so well, laughing

At some obscure node of consciousness

Only we share, and so prize the more dearly

Egoless sharing and little care for money

Or the roof and walls called property

Like mice in a nest climbing over each other

Old friends, carry my shield and sword

Squires in a saga, greying my brow

Heeding what little wisdom I speak

Admiring the things I built, and forgot

Mirrors framed in gold, gem-encrusted

Beautiful things of the earth

Who will hold my left hand when I lie

Upon my final place, to smile and then die.

 

 

Nations

‘I belong to this

And you belong to that

Here is a line in the grass

That you may not pass

 

You stay on that side

I stay on this

Here is a lamented card

Without it life is hard

 

You talk in that way

I talk in this

Those similar I hold dear

But you cannot come here

 

I have this symbol

You have your own

Three colours on a rag

You have an uglier flag

 

I am one type of person

You are a different kind

Our kind cannot be mixed

For our categories are fixed.’

 

Nations – what a load of old bollocks.