Introducing...

http://dominicjstevenson3.blogspot.com/

Joy

The final words of 'The Polish Press' are as follows...


I am lost from you. I may never return. Oh, what joy! Never could accustom yourself to my artistic pool. Perhaps it's not for swimming in, not for you. But, you never even dipped your feet in. Must I forever play witness to the universal ignorance(s)? I have been replaced by who knows what, oh, and joy. To see me gone, afar and drowning. Yes, in the very same pool. I could have been saved, maybe, but the voices went silent. The movie needed to end. They called it 'Joy.' It said everything in one word, and nothing at all. All these things must end somewhere. What a way to go...

Solitude

I wrap it around myself like a blanket for the cold months. Nobody knows at all. Some graveyard, consuming, taking the days from. I slip into poetic gloom, you say you don't understand. How fragile, tender and confusing. Demons and ghosts, all of them at us, on the back and the shoulder, memories that never give up, never rest for a second.

Should they be short little lines or just blocks of text? In my solitude I have not the answer. As long as the words swim out there, from the mouth of the computer, into the pool of your eyes.

I saw a hollow cross, hanging from around your neck. You are not what you say you will be. Not what you promised. There are many of you here, I struggle through the crowd of you. You seem to often multiply. I cannot for the life of me work that out.

I sit here alone. Nobody to hear the voice. Or to even matter to. Crippled by the silence, words, where have you been? For now we are over. All we ever had was now, to look after, to blossom in. Abandon me when I need you the most. I am lost in the maze here, all of this again. For me.

...Roger Federer Will Be Laughing Again

I don't doubt it for a second. I am a big tennis fan. I do not deny the grace and class of Federer at Wimbledon on the gorgeous green lawns. He has reason to laugh. If there is no Nadal he has every chance of winning the title, any given year. Should he meet any of the other big four he could be beaten, but the Spaniard is his nemesis, and has been for a long time. I think his grasp on the top of men's tennis is as tentaive as ever now. He still offers the game much, but the others get stronger and hungrier and if they are on form, his chances diminish, though still existing, as they always have.

The laughter to me is arrogance, and yes, of course, you could say it's fully justified. But there is a way to be humble, as graceful in both defeat and success as on the lovely courts that require a different type of tennis to the other surfaces they play on all year round. People want Nadal to go out it seems. They most likely appreciate the way Federer plays, all laughing too. Odd though, despite the lack of beauty to the game of others, a player like Nadal is as impressive if not more, as his will, his desire, his mental fortitude and commitment to battle is astonishing. If people cannot appreciate that, I question how much they really love sport. Sport and life is about so much more than grace. It's about passion and love of what you do.

The laughter makes me myself laugh. You are nothing without something to make you laugh, and to be quite frank, you can only do what you do because that man has been removed from your path. Laugh, as you will, you know you couldn't handle him.

PS- He waited for his conqueror to accompany him from the court. You would never, ever have done such a thing in defeat. One of the very few deserved of the title 'gentleman.'

Heaven's Child

It could have all been over by now. The last strum would have rung out days ago, a ghost I would have become. Those songs would have been sealed as the only ones, with no new additions to follow, which is also the case for the words and thoughts and everything else we do in the course of our lives that has meaning. It was hard not to think about it, not to feel grateful to be drawing breath. To think of the things and people that had shaped my short existence. To think about the causes of my happiness and sorrow.

My family, my natural one, the one I have little contact from, let alone ever see, would have been as far as they'd ever been. They would have heard the news of heaven's child and felt whatever they would have felt. The silent ones would have contemplated their silence and felt it had been necessary or felt true guilt and regret. Life is too short for that, but some live as though they have no sense of others around them, no sense of even understanding the simplicity of mortality. Of so many others facets of human nature. Of sharing, of loving, of not succumbing to all those temptations and selling something to the devil down at the crossroads.

I would have translated into another one of the lost bodies, soul swimming toward freedom. I could have seen the lights like never before, evolved into some haunting memory for some, casting a shadow on their days, though I doubt it would even be possible really. To think of it as over, this life as we know it, as I experience it. To ponder what lies beyond, over the fence, up those heavenly stairs. I am you and we are all the things that know no limits. I will never abandon you as you did me, I will simply carry a weight, needless and glowing. I am all the things you never could be, a heart that nearly stopped beating that would have lived long beyond your own ticking bomb.

To those who show their true selves the remaining body and soul pulsates to your names. The utterance of the nearness to tragedy reveals genuine emotion. I can only ponder what it would have been like afterwards, for now. I can only give thanks, and feel blessed. Heaven's child will arrive eventually, but for now it can wait. All those notes and words and love, it can all continue to erupt, like the volcano, for days and time to come. I can't avoid the thoughts though, the endless stream of thoughts of what might have been...

My Hungarian School

It's a far way off, and yet I hold it inside my arms. A sea of golden memories. I never had such a feast, such a wealth of happiness before. If the country is poor then it is not easy to tell from the way people unite to create a sense of community within the school. That was often transferred to me and has remained with me, hence my return here, at a key stage of the year in my current post in Poland. I made a promise to my group from last year who graduated today, back in September at the start of the academic year, that I would be present today. I did not want to break that promise, though it didn't always seem so likely. Appendicitis among other things tried to stop me, but I defied the obstacles and saw a wonderful group of kids in their smart dress on the final day of their early education. Yesterday, they had felt to include me in their presentation and given me a small gift, a year after my work at the school was theoretically finished. The gesture was fitting, surprising, and totally typical of the school, the staff and kids within and the experience and accompanying emotions I had celebrated here.

It's hard for me to judge Hungary in any way unattached to my time here at the school, quite simply the best year of my life. Everything since has been an uphill struggle, which has served to make me appreciate the things I had and in which direction I would like to progress. This school, here, in this poor part of a majestic city, with a grand heart, has been a lifeline. To return here has fuelled my fire, my passion, and inspired me yet again, as always it did. All the things I love, the music, the writers, the art, the films and comedy, the sportspeople, the other sources of profound inspiration, the wells of magic, and this school. It is one of the saving graces of my days, and so many children who are bright and alive and hopeful attend there.

I stay with a family here. I consider them my second family. They are dear to me. An extension of the school, that perhaps and hopefully I shall always be affiliated to in some way. I like to keep the parts of me that mean something and hold them close. Today, the photos and music, the celebration, the small kids singing to me, sharing their moments, just having fun, wide eyed and absorbing.

Money means nothing. It has no purpose, not really. These are the richest people I have ever known. I know a secret. Nobody else seems to know. Yes, well, the kids know, even if they aren't truly aware of it. You have a shotgun childhood, gone in moments, you emerge into an adult world and lose the wonder and innocence and magic, to sell your soul for the magic beans of the real world. Except it is never what you hope. It looks so good from afar, as you step closer and closer, exiting childhood in favour of the adult world, and it can only really disappoint. Why lose the things that make children so special? What for? It makes no sense. All that matters is looking after one another. All that matters is love, the sense of nurturing those around us, having fun and being safe. Education and patience, knowledge and trust, kindness and honour.

Thank you for the good times. Who knows what is coming next. Let us be not afraid and approach the unknown with out heads held up, with hearts full of love, and ready for new challenges. These are the best days of our lives, however they may feel. We can do anything, all we have to do is believe. I know the most special school on earth. It is my Hungarian school. Nobody can take that away, from me, from us, from the blades of grass growing under children's feet outside in the playground. The way the sun beats down, the way everything was, so perfect, so precise, like a fairytale really.

God bless everyone there, and the best of luck to those who move on from one spectacular and special school.

Maciek

Always somebody there with a smile. You look like some replica of the grandpa in one of Roald Dahl's tales. Yeah, the one with a moustache and long silver hair, the one who explodes with joy when something good happens. You had a warm manner. Friendly, talkative, helpful. One of the hospital faces. Yeah, yours will burn brighter for longer, I do not doubt. You have been released by now, I should hope. I wish you well, Maciek. It's so easy to not care, when people like you appear it is like some grandiose event. It should not be so, but your beauty is evident. Thank you for loving strangers, thank you for your heart, I hope it never slips from your sleeve. There are others who are not, but you fill the holes they leave gaping. Completing each other's gaps, and even those of others.

You will never see these words, I imagine, but nevertheless they are sent to you. I hope they soar the skies and enter your home through an open window. That they then lay down beside you and embrace you, giving you some peace and love. The smallest gestures so grand. Open your heart, and be. I hope you are looked after. Thank you. That is all I have.

Salvation

There's someone there to save me. The lights. The guardian angel. The nearness of death's door. You shepherd me away, without knowing how close I came. It's hard not to consider, now that I know, for I could have transformed into a ghost. All the tears and joy that people would have cried and felt, and still be feeling, if I were to have succumbed.

Our bodies are so durable and yet fragile, utterly perplexing to ponder. I was once a baby, now I am racing (hurtling even) to the end, not knowing when, sooner or later, in the meantime just being saved. Someone there to love me, someone is there. Doing the best they know how, putting a forcefield around my body whole.

Those little butterfly thoughts, they were almost set free, for now though they flutter and vibrate, all huddled together. One day they shall be released and Heaven-bound become.

I know I was lucky. I know you saved me. Salvation comes, thank the Lord it comes.

What's Next?

The barrage, the unknown. Whatever could be riding a wave this way next. Who knows, the eternal inquisition. The answers always come, sometimes when we really don't expect. Say something of meaning rather than just any old throwaway words. Speak from the heart. Otherwise, why bother?

I don't know how I will remember you, if I ever escape. I feel sure it will not be with fondness. It will sit somewhere with invisible brothers and people who care only for money. Those who don't feel nor think their way, but simply watch others fall at their own expense, as they try to climb for a higher view. Of a bloodbath they could have helped to avoid. One day, perhaps, you will see things as they truly are. For now, it is evident you are blind. Living life in some tunnel, that consumes you, it possesses you. The city. One of the vultures now are you, seeking that on which you shall feast, to ensure your own survival.

I don't know what's coming next, but you won't be there. You never were. You were born with no heart. What a work of art.

They Brought Me Flowers

They sit beside me
In a sawn off bottle of plastic
Filling the room
A few small flowers
They look like everything
Undelivered
Finally there
They had been uprooted
Now kept me company
From love
With love

They brought me flowers
Pennies of love
Bought them for me
Unfathomably
Always I miss those petals
Now they are near
God, I love that one
Couldn't imagine such eyes
Or other walls

We tick with time
Musical passion
Songs and hurt and gongs
We are leaving here today
Tomorrow we shall see
She brought me flowers
For the road
For our journey
Darling
We never need look back

You Are Not There

I'm leaving here. I'm leaving you for good. You are not there (when I needed you). All that was wanted was magic, all you do is disappoint. Somewhere something beautiful waiting, why let it wait longer? You had other plans, so do I. I am engulfed in these tragedies, for seek them not did I. They chase me through blackened streets, snapping at my clicking feet. It was miles from here, where you were. You didn't understand. I'm better on my own. Walls are us. Around us, crashing down, letting down us.

Nothing will ever be the same as it was, especially not when we imagined it all from the start.

The Polish Thank You

Close To The Edge

How can we come so close, on so many occasions, permanently on some dangerous periphery of things, and yet not fall off? Gravity doesn't pull so hard, after all. There is some weight on shoulders. There is her force that also pulls down, and yet we stand up, we walk tall, well, as tall as we can walk, and we dabble with dark magic on the fringes.

Perhaps it is to feel far brighter and more alive than to reside many moons from here, safely tucked away in some imaginary forcefield, held in by lies, and rules, and secret dictatorships. Close to the edge, and perhaps you will fall off, but that feeling of falling, I imagine, also to be far greater than the safety that isn't even a reality.

Roots Are Screaming

Life ticks on. I hear your call, but it doesn't quite make sense. There is much on this mind, sharply feeling the brunt from all directions. Time marches. It is coming for us all. I think of a dream, or did it really happen...

I watch her bend down, tear a beautiful little weed from between the paving stones on the driveway, and I think to myself 'roots are screaming.' I can feel the agony of that living organism. The small things, they just seem so grand at times. All the corners we turn and yet backwards are we. Magnificent we are. Lost in a multitude of things. 

Perhaps it was real, it certainly seems vivid. Like some polished stone, carefully attended. It was an odd day, yeah, even by the usual frame. I guess we only get deeper and further, no let up, just let downs. The sky, so grey, and somehow it moves us to other quarters. I try to think about what is behind the clouds, not what they make me feel, as they attempt to shroud my spirit.

From here I can see it all happening. The carnivores are coming...

When God Conducts the Thunder and Lightning

Snails and slugs crawling across the pavement. God, I hope they make it in one piece, shell still there or not. He's up there, with what looks like a wand, conducting some magical sound crashing it's way around the entire sky, filling everything with noise. There is gonna be lightning too. It has all been planned beautifully. The rain comes in faint drops, then as the thunder crashes the rain erupts from the clouds overhead and soaks the land, the plants and trees having never looked so green. Nature in all its majesty.

It's like some classical piece created by nature, God leading the way. Suddenly all around us is an instrument making a unique sound in the rain, drops slapping on the ground, in gutters and puddles. The storm goes away, takes itself elsewhere, but later another round appears, and all the instruments play a new song. It's amazing, the wind comes in through my open door, I let the song wash over my chilled bones. We kill nature and then ask questions. It would seem to be the most beautiful force on all earth, and I am not sure whether we even deserve it.

Here is to the snails and slugs making their way, just making their way. I hope they get across alright.

She Devil

She looked like one of those. The ones who swam here on some red river. I didn't want to cross paths with such creatures, didn't want to get the wires tangled, but I still refused to play the oh-so-popular-these-days 'ignorance card.' In fact, it was people like this woman who made me even more adamant to hold my head up and conduct myself differently and with some manners and respect. The world could be turned by their horrors and those bitter pills could be everywhere, but it wasn't for me.

She was a devil, simple as that. Looked kinda vicious, cruel, flame haired, ready to devour a man, a woman, anyone who stood in her way. There were many like her, but for today she owned the shadows. Get me out of here, on the wing of a dove. Take me to the angels, for they still await. For every devil...

Pixies Are Blind

These ones at least. Many of them, pixies are blind. Perhaps here, maybe even most everywhere. They see nothing, think they absorb it, comprehend it all. Such pixies, unfathomably growing from branches, born to these trees, doesn't mean they bear gorgeous fruits and things. Some poisonous parcel has fallen to the ground. They scatter the green grass here, like hiding vipers, they almost take the area over.

Intelligent and thoughtful you are. One was, one is, one will be, for each abattoir of cruel hearts. You don't know what you take no time to understand. It's a daily shower, in which you stand there and just expect the water to remove the grime and dirt. The actions and contemplation and the stars about the heads. Mostly those who have learnt nothing. Pixie blindness. What would you expect of me, not to be inspired by your tragic, wasted eyes?

You pixies, you put yourselves out there and then complain about it all. You expect things only one way - yours. Like broken city walls you will crumble over time. Eyes, be opened, see, take in and grow. Expand before the very eyes of others. It is potentially so fulfilling, how sad to deny the wealth that awaits. All those who simply open the eyes.

For Loving You

For loving you
For coming so close
I could never have known
What nobody knows

So I dived in
Swallowed and swam there
Drowning at times
We watch how each other tear

For loving you
In shards of time
We discovered shadows of souls
That used to be whole

Bring me in
Save me for now
I can do the same for you
Somehow
Take me out
With a forcefield for the days
To be a flower in the sun
Cathing golden rays

For loving you
At times and turns
These days are forever
Just the ashes in an urn

When we are washed from here
When we are memories in bottles
When we disappear
For loving each other
We were just the foetus soul
Of the earth, of the mother

Perplexed

I have all those things but nothing for you. And yet nothing for you. Somehow. I want to share warmth with numerous vessels, but it isn't meant to happen. The body doesn't know how to contain things at times. The pain and glory of the football yesterday, and the boxing, and the winners and losers and how somehow it seems to contain all life in those there moments. There is ugliness, absolute beauty, passion, heartbreak, love, skill, grace and just about everything you could ask for.

I am in a state of confusion. The way people are controlled by their desire for money, the fakest rich on earth, the way they are manipulated into doing things, like they are programmed, and living their entire lives out this way is totally perplexing to me. I watch the TV take complete control of the viewers, like it were using the remote on them. It certainly seems far more fascinating to watch a person watching the TV and their utter possession by this modern tool. It consumes them, feasts on their brains, controls their pea-sized minds. Probably shrinks them down. Alas, the freedom to decide, to breathe in the air (perhaps even fresh air some time) and not be intoxicated by the fumes of the money giants. They can't smoke me out!

I am plotting and planning and scheming and trying to build a time machine. This place, this time, it really makes me think. I got trapped here, in the wrong place and wrong time. I gave so many things a chance and they didn't reciprocate. I feel like humanity doesn't generally become more open minded, it just has more options, which in the end means there are more doors that can be viciously slammed in one's face.

I could keep writing. I'll probably do it until my last breath. I will do it beyond my arms dropping off. I could be like something that just falls apart, some badly made toy, after so little time. I will receive my last thought, from wherever they come from, and it will be simple - what total and inexplicable madness, how very perplexing.

Siblings

May I introduce to you the siblings of this here blog, in case you thought it was an only child? They are slightly older. If you often wondered if my small audience could read any further work I have done then the answer is 'yes' and here are the links...

http://www.dominicjstevenson.blogspot.com/

http://www.dominicjstevenson2.blogspot.com/

I hope this satisfies your curiosity and lasts a little while. Any feedback is welcome. If we cannot take both praise and criticism in this life then we will indeed struggle.

Best wishes, from wherever you want me to be.

That Sinking Feeling

All of you pointing your weapons this way. What do you expect, that I take to my computer and write you loving words? I should pity you, but would it not be wasted time to do so? Anyway, I have to believe in things and that somewhere you will come unstuck. The people who are evil, will shatter into a million pieces, the good ones will be left standing, wondering why such torment and pain is ever necessary in the first place.

Maybe I am a gloomy one. I do not go out in search of pain but it doesn't find it difficult to hunt me down and haunt me, hug me, never leave me be. The artistic mechanism functions better when motivated by sadness, far greater than by any other emotion, I would say. It's hard to believe that most of the finest art is created through darker emotions, but the spectrum of feelings it inspires has never been anything but obviously far wider to me. So, the sinking feeling isn't fun, it lasts for far too long, but it harvests some of the most astonishing works, in both my own mind and beyond. Sometimes, I wish things were easier, wish that my route weren't so lined with turmoil and heartbreak.

Nobody gets what they deserve. You can't measure it, but somehow I just know. Nobody gets what they deserve. What an odd thought to reflect on. Nobody gets what they deserve.

Moon of Ours

We sat outside in the lovely early night time. We looked up at the moon and discussed her, she mentioned the theories that nobody had ever actually landed there, and I said we had to believe in something. With everything that mankind was capable of it had surely happened and perhaps this wasn't one of the great manipulations of our mind. I wanted to romantically believe that such a wonderful event had occurred, regardless of whoever needed to force their country's flag into the terrain and claim the moon almost as their own. We talked about my now very possible imminent departure and tears filled her eyes. We could see each other's eyes with the sunlight echoing in the moon and then into each other's eyes, and it shone in her tears.

It was a lovely night. It was beautiful.

You Are Not What I Thought You Would Be

I guess if you're going to wake up with expectations or even hopes then the day could blow you away. Everything could take the opposite direction to the path you wanted. I could love and in return you would turn your shoulder. I could harbour such passion and magical sparks for you, keep them in my pocket, ready to just pull them out and sprinkle all over the place, but it doesn't mean you want that too.

It wouldn't be right to call it a mistake, living is the only true way to learn, and I feel I have keys from such choices that others can never own. Maybe all doors cannot be unlocked, but it's more about how you unlock yourself, untangle your limbs from the webs we get caught up in, and use the expanding template of knowledge we attain, as we move ever forwards. There is no other direction, not really. 

I walk the streets, I can sense that Wonderland isn't so far, yet at the same time it is consumed by some nightmare. I didn't pick the wrong time or place, I elected another life lesson, and they are not easy things to participate in, but yes, they allow me to ensure I am alive, in ways some folk could never even contemplate. I am no different to others in many of my desires, perhaps, it is just that I am unable to follow the well-carved route to reach the same ends, the destination marked 'Paradise.' In fact, I must carve out totally new ways, which isn't easy at all. Alas, I must cease to ever have expectations and hopes, but is this not simply human nature? In that, we also know we come from the same egg. I love, and leave, and lose, myself, and you, and I evolve. One day we will all get there, but the journey is so divine that if you genuinely watch it, and carefully take it in, perhaps it can only ever really hurt us. And in exactly that we can find some peace and joy and love.

Battlescars

My darling, oh! you appear just in the nick of time. All of this was haunting I, leaving marks that force the night. Upon me, from such angles, as to never feel safe. We wear battlescars, they never let us forget, the shadows that dwell here, the love that is effortless, medicinal, a salvation. I wonder how much the body and mind can take, more than I have felt for sure, someone always living in a darker place. The weight of passion, the solitude of strange creatures. I'd rather misunderstand you, she thinks, than spend those ticking seconds attempting to fathom some unfathomable spell. A wind blows here, a storm invites itself upon us. The symbol of its passing will remain, the broken ones in the wake.

So, here I am, still standing. I didn't find my pen for two and a half weeks. I am sorry to those eyes who fall upon this page, and these words herein. I remain for you, alas! it is not always possible to reach you, to manifest myself in the ways I so desire. I want to talk to you about your pain, open up that envelope, find another one, loosely left lying around, and put our shared agony for things inside, stamp it, in the old fashioned way and send it far away from here, from us, release the tiger from its cage. Let us go together, rather than be stranded. I know, I know, it doesn't quite work. All we can is but try. We leave marks on each other, without even trying, perhaps not the sore kind. The world and the battlescars, until we leave these mortal bodies. Oh, the body, so fragile and yet durable. The shell, the love it holds, the way it moves, the light it brings, glowing, ever for those we hold dear. I know, I know this too, I lose my way, I trip into monologues, I reveal too much, somehow nothing at all.

The battlefield never lets us go. It really does hold us tight, closer than comfort would allow. One day poppies will grow here, one day all will be gone and forgotten and some other place will be the scene of such tragedy. For nobody learns, the lessons of history, the love and loss of yesteryear. My darling, all we have is now, whatever the scars the moments cause, we must embrace the beauty of all these things, for life is now, we are trapped in the present continuous. There is no planning, there is no future, there is only us, this, all we can bear.

I wear the scars, for you and my soul, for I know what is true and I know what is right, and I know who are you and what you are. Both of us born perfect and whole, both of us now bearing battlescars.

The Acid Tongue Trilogy (A Medley)

Dreamers

Dreamers are all it takes. They kind of pop up unexpectedly. The rest don't know how to deal with them (they haven't got the faintest idea, in fact), yet somehow they keep everyone's dreams alive. The tulip fountain, in it's finest moment. Lasting far beyond it's decline. Dreamers made us all, from every angle possible.

_________________________________________________________________________________

...well, i was wrong

I put my hope out there, from the start of it all. Shadows of you, creeping in dreams. I soon saw it, I admit I was wrong. Well, what else can I do? You leave me no choice. How your tongue must be burning, glowing in the chasm.

I admit it, I was wrong about you. You and yours. I like to see the aforementioned hope in everyone, believe people are consumed by goodness even if something altogether different often transpires. What emerges isn't because I held hope it is because people are inherently selfish, they show this, and they rarely seem to attempt to understand those around them if they do not meet their specific limited criteria for what folk should be like. Then they swing their hurtful weapon words and it inspires me to waste little further energy, in that area, perhaps I can write though. I was wrong, though to someone else you could be utterly divine. All of us a puzzle that can only fit together some place, in some right time, with the right hands moving the pieces, trying everything on.

The acid tongue, flapping wildly. You know not how to use it with any control or compassion, how to make moves informed with love and intelligence, and i was wrong. About you, about many things. I was wrong. It's almost music, a song, I can hear it now, coming on the wind, in some birdlike envelope, something sublime. So, I'll sing to you. You'll be there, I too, only one of us will ever truly care though. I was wrong, happy that the room isn't full, for there is always space to move in, to breathe. Infinite space.

_______________________________________________________________________

You Are Missing A Vital Ingredient

I still want to love you. It could be from so far away you won't ever know. I believe in setting that peace, that sentiment, into the ether. Maybe somewhere it gathers you and wraps you in some warmth, teaches you everything is possible, real even. You are lacking some desperate core, not just seasoning. This is wholly amiss.

You, my dear, you startle me. If I were in hibernation, well, such words would shake me out of it. They would pound around my ears, in my little humble hole, and awaken me, not so much glistening in my senses as destroying them. Something isn't right here, I've told you before. Once, twice, poetry, they couldn't comprehend. Swings, and merri-go-rounds, and honey wings, my dear. I love you like you left me always five minutes before, painfully. Memories. You are missing something, beating and brave, blue instead. Everybody thinks they are what they are not. Just wait for that...

How Did I Manage To Slip a Hallucinogenic Into a Visual Feast (Yes, I Mean My Blog)?

So, it has finally happened, my blog has had more then 1000 views in a single calendar month. Okay, so only 800 of those views were made myself (meaning 200 were actually real people!!?!), I really worked hard at reading this month, not just writing the pieces. You believe me? Oh, honestly! 'Don't count own page views' Click. Clicked. Anyway, it can prove only one thing, that surely I have somehow drugged you and managed to maintain your readership of my possible madness. On the verge of all things, all the time, it feels like a powerful gift. Writer sits down and creates, some intense and towering magic, and reader takes it for his or herself and turns it into their own translation, or reading of the words, of the events within. I have managed to suck you in, slip you something delicious and beautiful and made you feast on my every quarter. Parts of my soul. Welcome into those sections, I hope you enjoy the time there.

To steal you away from your days with words. God, I hope I can get inside, just to force the door, make a thought run into something else, cup runneth over, all of it there again. Keep going, never stop, even when the clock does. Transform, blossom, vibrate like tongues of lovers. Trap you, butterfly in jar. Steal your wings, sing to you, give you things. Set you free then, with more than you knew before. We keep growing, becoming each other. How did I manage to reach you? I can feel you there. I can sense the impact, words on eyeballs, underneath eyelids, sleeping, dreaming, taking me with you. We slip inside each other, sharing the warmth. See you soon, for we won't ever leave each other.

Thank you to all those who are inside this very blog.

Stitches

Holding it all together. Sewing up my body. The holes in it. Like some ageing teddy bear, with the stuffing spilling from a wound. I don't even know how many of them. Another fragility, another scar, another part of me to shower with love. We break each other so well, what about the fixing? The tenderness. She put them there, took them away, in some flurry of mad words. Pieces of some puzzle. If you ever took the time. You could solve it. You could corner me in the stratosphere, love me there forever. I am your puzzle. Once upon a time, there lived a puzzle of a man. He would wear scars and have stitches of all kinds holding his body together, just like that beautiful teddy bear, destined to be held and loved by some little child. Where is the mind? and what holds that creature together? The greatest thing of all. Forget the body, what we are supposed to look like, what we are told to be. The books, the forest of art, the music, the life, upstairs, in the mind. The places, the people, the songs and dances, the sunshine and the cold. Heaven forbid you should put anything first ahead of the mind and what it can achieve. It is the most beautiful weapon a person owns, and wielded well can show imagination and passion and so much love. Never give up on things. All there for a reason. Stitches and sorrow. Broken kisses. Sail out to sea and never look back.

Passing Storms

I can feel it coming, I just don't know where from. Perhaps it is one of those moments to just shut the eyes, tilt back the head, as if silently saying to the Heavens 'whatever is next, send it to me!' and taking it, allowing the magic to envelop oneself. I can only be all that I am, growing, inside those eyes careful enough to watch closely, to observe the days, of love and other things. The storms, passing, warming our chances, leaving us behind; Sorrow, the army, always at the side. Tempting forces, always with love. You are the arms of the one who holds you dearest.

Ticking

Oh, I can't hear it
But I know it's there
Shepherding us forth
Pushing us into
Making us hurry
And embrace the echoes

Oh, I can't see it
It's ever present though
Never leaving us
To solitude
To peace and quiet
Ticking
Just ticking
and ticking
and...

The Idea Machine

So, it somehow seems easy. Watch what goes on around, on advertising boards, in people's behaviour, their sweet gestures, their ignorance and bad manners, their love and other qualities. Then absorb the world around, the way the sky moves, oh, I see, those are the clouds. Yes, observe their colourful movements, the way they romance the sky behind and the earth beneath. Marvel at nature, soak up the art and passion and emotions on show everywhere you take your steps, with every footstep a new angle, a different shade of everything. What happens? ideas come. A neverending stream of them. Some monologue, consciousness, out on its own, sometime compatible with another, rarely, oh, rarely so.

They come all the time. It isn't something that has a switch, at times overwhelming, sometimes colossal, majestic, unfathomable. I am not going to say all the ideas are good, maybe that would only be a small portion of them, and lots of ideas are never followed through or completed, but they come at such a pace it would be impossible to transform them all into living and breathing figures of strength and power and fragility and grace.

I plan on enjoying it while I can swim in such mystical and strange waters. It is to be an artist, to wallow in something impossible to understand, and then endeavour to complete some of the ideas, the warm ones, the dark ones, the ones that stand out. It all makes sense, even if nothing really does. Like all machines, it is going to become old, work less fluidly and break down. It will then be replaced by something other, modern, less capable perhaps, and then be forgotten. I hope I can milk the machine in the meantime. Give you something. That I hope for, if nothing more.

YYY (Control)

Everything is different and nothing is ever the same. Again. I have been bitten by a three-headed mosquito. Why control (?), when we can explore the unknown and release? I love it when you challenge me and never replicate but transform into some other beast, a creature of adventure. Those notes are beautiful, consuming me like I am a feast. Devour me, start at the ear. You've had your tongue in my ears for a long time now, we still grow. Apart, in different places, though I take you with me. You give me lullabies, scream at me, show me the passion all of the way. These paths, we choose, so beautiful and full of love. The wild side, the sexuality and charisma of which you speak. Oh, if only you knew how well it hides, sadly, while so many others are under spotlights, and offering nothing to the beating hearts and the ticking brains. Alas, the times we live in, perhaps. We find our way, sometimes. Let that mosquito feed on me, let it suck me good. Real clean fun. Like all of this. I will wait for nothing, because it's all here. All of the time. There is nothing here to miss, because it's whatever we want it to be. Love and rock 'n' roll, hand in hand at times.

To the 'Mosquito'-makers

Dead Animals

Let the feast begin. Like games. Everything is lost in the act, an act of fascination. I see dead animals. There they lay. Peaceful creatures, nothing left to fear, if fear they ever felt. Birds and a small tiger cat and The Ant Brigade. I didn't have anything to do with most of it, maybe they were hit by cars, or maybe they fell from the sky somehow. Think about it. How do these things happen, and what were the last thoughts or feelings of these creatures? They look so calm and gentle and utterly beautiful, just there, motionless. Exquisite. Until the carcasses attract the attention of other animals, fit to burst, to feast on the rotting body. The whole story, from start to finish, sublime as it is.

And what of us? Snip snip, cutting the body, that bloody world inside, and the bleeding outside. One day we will all die. For now apreciate the body, appreciate the love we can shower one another with, appreciate the stars, because we do not know that they sparkle for any reason other than us.

The Ant Brigade

They march on. Little legged warriors. The buddhist within recoils at the necessity for the body to destroy their lives, so it mustn't share living space with them. I know not how else it could have ended. If only they had marched on different ground, not tunneled into my small artist's home. The invasion, the plan to combat the attack, the subsequent fatal sweep and aftermath. The silence, the solitude, the loss of life. The emptiness. The tragedy. The funeral mind. And then... it is over, for now, at least.

In memory of The Ant Brigade.

The Last Snowball

There it sits, the last snow. It's all blackened around the edges. I could fashion one final, good, sizeable snowball from that last reminder of a long and torturous winter. I could pick somebody, yeah, I know loads of them, somebodies, nobodies, ones that deserve it, and really launch that snowball at them. I wouldn't do it, not really, not in more than mind. It's funny to plot it though, to make a plan for what will never happen. A snowball attack. Winter gone, he said. It took it out of us. It is sunny and warm outside now. There is a full blue sky, clear and crisp. It took me days to realise that really winter had passed. I didn't trust it. That snow on the driveway. It should have vanished by tonight really. Don't expect. Then never disappointed can we be. The last snowball, fading fast... and then gone.

Subterraneans

Let's go underground. Like rats we maze our way through the tunnels, they even take us places. Months without light, hibernation, whether we wanted it or not. Some disco child, sucking on the corner of the room. We all come to find each other here, licking the lollipop of doom. We go about our business, we shine our souls in all the wrong ways, we move and shadows never leave us alone, though I know not where the light to make them really comes from.

Lost in the tunnels, passing other bodies, all of us vibrating like stars in the sky. Ah, the sky, when will we ever stand beneath her again? Some of us are further down, there are levels here. Like everything in life, people live in groups, separated, far from sharing souls. Boxes. Stages. Bitter bitter lemons.

We go back to our holes, we hide, we hibernate, we only come out to see something, though we know not what. Take me out from here, my subterranean home.

Isolation

At times an island. Swimming ever further away, toward some abyss. Oh, maybe said abyss is gorgeous, a friend forever once we meet. Tangle me up with her, let me lose myself in her darkness.

Have you ever been surrounded by people and loneliness is beating its fists on your chest, breaking it's way into your ribcage, heading straight for the heart? Shallow waters are nothing but a reminder of the beauty of the ocean. That endless ocean moving all around me. It's not about people, it's about the inner warrior. How much can you cope with silence and love and emptiness and the sound of your own ticking brain? You don't have? Really? Alas, some have an abundance of thoughts, perhaps it balances out somewhere.

Beautiful isolation. I feel unsure as to why some permanently need voices fingering their earholes. Listen to the silence, like a sky waiting for a solitary bird to glide through it. A medicine for the madness of the city, for the way we live our lives. Speed. Turn it all off. The switches. The motions. Slow it down, see it all go by, whizzing, lifeless in its passing. Sometimes choose the quiet way. Sometimes it is filled with the busiest moments of inspiration.

At times an island.

Monologue 1

To write like you think. To just do it. To breathe. To be. To ignore the parasites who permanently try to feast on you, like a baby suckling on it's mother's breast, a teat, it's lifeline. So here it comes. Some kind of overflowing pot, bubbling, spoiling the peace and tranquility. Who knows where they go?  Kto wie. Monologue. Don't stop. Let it all out. The people, swimming, drowning, throwing vicious words and weapons, acid tongues wagging. They know nothing. Of the heart. Nothing at all. They never remove a mask. No fresh soul water. No drinking here. The toxins the body must cope with, the mind must fight off. A constant war. No end in sight.

...and the city loves but the country doesn't. Me and my things. You love it or hate it and you throw it all here. At the wall, at the mask, at the feeding mouths, and the suffering thoughts. Like devil clockwork, liquid perfection. Out there somewhere they wait. For a death, perhaps mine. I can already see how they feed on the carcass. Oh, it wouldn't last long. Your newfound hunger would consume you completely. Vulture vulture you. I know peace is greater, beautiful and white. Delightful. Ecstasy and bliss. For us. There are no acts, just ill thought out acts. I commiserate your shadow, having to follow you around all day. Poor dear!

All these crazy cats, infestations of the streets. Some kind of demented plague. Oh, they make the other end of the spectrum so compellingly charming. No one without the other. They light it all up. The monologue. The monologue. Release them there blues. That there menace. God, I will never give you up.

I'm dying. I'm dying here. Faster than you know. Yeah, you damage me too. You take great joy. Take her. take her with you. Everywhere you go. If that is satisfaction to you I must congratulate you. I hope, simply, one day you will be filled with love, and able to share it. To abandon your destructive words and selfish behaviour, child, and communicate.

Oh, rabbits. Ones with red eyes, soft fur, gentle hearts, beating inside my hands, scurrying across the floor, wanting something, even nothing.

The songs we are singing. It makes me wonder about the ones we aren't singing, writing, creating. Well, where are they exactly? And love, shouldn't we put it into everything, all we do? I can't see it everywhere. I am unsure how to do anything without it though. Passion, flexibility, growth, constant fire and golden evolution. Beckon me.

The doctor doesn't know. The book is waiting for my attention. It's never happy. It craves being collected up in my arms, opened by hands and feasted on my eyes. It received all that attention in being thought up, written, accepted, published, praised, and still it wants more. Just like a person. A fluttering human being.

The light bulb syndrome, the derelict ones, the perforated hearts, irreparably damaged.

...and there is only one kind of person who would reach the end of this blog - one who loves me (and that is one who loves me).

You are one who loves.

Derelict

People like buildings, designed to fall down. Some are just destined to be abandoned, to collect the dust, to rot, to be admired for their skeletons, their bare souls. To be forgotten in time. I see men and women, like war torn houses and towns, crumbling to the ground. There are ruins everywhere. People lost and afraid, letting the air around them fray the edges. Moonlight parade of madness, climbing from shadow to shadow. The wicked ones cackling, the wind howling, the broken city and all of its wanderers. It is derelict. So much of these ways. Once it all worked, like a fluid machine, now it is the remains of something, perhaps beautiful, perhaps not. But it still stands, in whatever fragmented form, a part of the days.

Strange Days Indeed

I am listening to Björk. She is a different universe altogether. Completely perfect listening for this blog, which is live as it spills out from my head onto the keypad. What a soundtrack for the strange ones. So, I know this...

My parents are watching my football team play back in England, where also my older brother is celebrating another birthday. Must we collect them so quickly? Ever more, my darlings. My younger brother and others, well, who knows? Women keep whizzing by, fleetingly, for a moment, never coming coming close, climbing inside. One is in my head, nowhere on the horizon though. I worked, fell into an eye with a specialist and climb out with hope, he says, he always says the same. I also know that Rubik is swimming while I am at his side drowning. He in his water, me in my gripping air. Many things, too many to fit on this page. God, the mind cannot hold it all, what is the solution? Rhetoric, dreams, save me, somehow.

I have had odd days. Dreams, lyrics, writing, people who come and go, some act in a very weird manner to say the least, others are rocks of stability when sometimes it feels like the ground is moving. Music too, holds me down, whilst also helping me to fly. I was in Budapest for Easter. The weather here and there is a true story of winter spilling out into spring, and if we don't all receive some sunshine soon then we could lose our minds.

There she is. It gets stranger by the minute.

There she is.

Wigwam

The artist's paintbrushes
I watch them dance upon the canvas
And a woman waltzes in the painter's eyes
And a child is weeping

The warrior's footsteps
I see them marking their way along the land
And the women have wings
And that's why I keep reaching out to grab them

Late Night Musings

It is late now. I see faces, maybe via delirium. No, I embellish, I see a face. One face. It gets ever hazier. Such is my desire to see it, to have it close, it slips ever further from me. It is the face of someone I predict has a soul to swallow completely. A lady of the hours, a woman of one of a kind. Rubik swims at the side of me. He has secrets. He keeps them from me, maybe if I watch him enough I will see them all. Maybe he is singing too. He could even know about the woman. I feel a little cold. Music is playing though I know it is only in my imagination, dancing away, into the night. Bed is calling, why do I neglect her so? Even when she holds me she doesn't fill me with sleep. I have to battle, to shift, to swing and to emerge ever stronger, for some great war that lies ahead. I do not doubt it. We are all at once, ever together.

The woman, she is out there somewhere. She is worth my time, my words, my love, even if she only ever slips further from me. She is what I write for. She is why I breathe.

The Specialist

We walked passed women called The Skirt, The Legs, The Boots and The Lips during our brief morning escapade to see a specialist. Specialist of what!?!! I collect medical appointments and experiences. I don't mean to. They hunt me down like wolves their prey. I thought I was the wolf. Always so mistaken am I. It was the 3rd of April and the snow was crashing down around us, yet again. It was astonishing, blowing in at us from all sides, like the sky was around us and it was battling the concept of gravity. A month ago I had written a blog called 'The First Day of Spring,' (not because it was the official first day of spring, more because it felt that way) and ever since spring had been wholly pulverised by what started to seem like an interminable winter. If it had been a boxing bout the fight would had been stopped long ago, such was the damage Winter had done to Spring.

Anyway, we were heading in the opposite direction now, in a tram, to where we'd been going over an hour ago. Backwards and forwards, up and down, yo-yo snow, the soul is swimming.

We were like every other body, heading nowhere, trying to avoid our own ending. Doom lay all around us, love fighting forever, God with the conductor's wand orchestrating every single movement. Beautifully. Just beautifully.

K

Ah, just to see your face again
Just to see your face
I belong to space
To your arms
It's been weeks
You on my eyes
You in my thought stream
In a boat, beautifully making your way down the river

Neverending
Waterfall
Don't fall
I come for you
To save
To hold
Ginger leaves
Pieces of you, dear
I hope there are not tears

I could wrap you in words
Each a little flame
And they glow amongst the snowflakes
In our white city walls
Take it all
The music, the warrior words
All for you

Flattery Will Get You Nowhere, My Dear

The storm
The teacup
I love you both completely
I drink you up
Let you destroy me from the inside
Just to feel something
All just to feel something

Bless your blindness
Oh, that could be bliss
You want to say something
You line up the words
I feel empty now
You hollow out the goodness
Take away the love
Just to feel something
To be
What would you like to be today?

A storm for a friend
It ends here
Flattery will get you nowhere, my dear



Note- if we can't do things with intelligence and love, then why bother?

The Strokes

12 years ago five good-looking young men from New York released a classic rock 'n' roll album, kickstarting a whole new wave of guitar bands, along with fellow Americans, The White Stripes. Guitar music was as exciting as it had been for some time once more. It was the band's debut long player, leaving the immediate question - 'what next?' How do you follow such brilliance? Well, obviously, more often than not the only way is down, and sometimes it is an horrific spiral downwards.

It isn't possible to fluke such a great record, so talent is certainly present, even if peaking early does occur at times. This band, however, has something that fascinates me. I would say despite all the guitars it has an extremely pop heart behind its ribcage. In fact, the catchy songs, wonderfully melodic fleeting guitar solos and mixture of lazy, aggressive and beautifully sung vocals are all trademarks of one of the bands of the age. So their second album, hot on the heels of the debut did try to replicate its sound with a somewhat weaker repertoire of songs, but everything since has shown the band to be troubled, human, and inspiring in its battle and search. Who cares about the word 'cool' anyway, it has nothing to do with good music?

Yesterday, after many trials and tribulations, and long after the stage where many bands would have succumbed to the pantheon of musical memories, this band released its fifth album, 'Comedown Machine.' I want to write about these guys because they have clearly fought past the problems that such success caused and a possible loss of direction and they have overcome their demons to become a positive fully functioning unit again.They share a love of music. That is why they stay together, that is why they release new music and nothing else seems to matter. That is what this new record says to me. Also, it sounds like a hell of a lot of fun went into it. Music. The thing that makes so many of us draw breath.

So, nothing else matters. Not how much money their families had when they were growing up, nor the story of their personal lives. We will only be left with the music, that echoes in our headphones, that fills the halls of university campuses and homes in all different places. Maybe the way we listen to music has changed a lot in recent times, but the excitement, sheer pleasure and love for it is as ever, and no it shall not be dimmed, it shall remain.

These five guys should be proud for sticking to their guns, for emerging from the tunnel into the light and for making music that continues to show their talent, their evolution and their will to experiement. Thanks guys, glad to have you back!

Dedicated to The Strokes.

Riddles

It's so easy to let it happen. Chasing answers, solutions, getting lost in mazes. The waves come slowly, rolling over us. Peace. At last. It's all going to come. In the end. It all fits, like a puzzle, but sometimes the pieces are not put in place by us. The art of patience, the dynamic images. I show you my all. You turn a back. Riddles of the night. Darkness, I unfathomably pretend you are not present. Love, an eternal quest. I cannot even end it...

You (The Unexpected)

There you are, some beacon of hope when all is okay but nothing quite feels so powerful and glowing. In the night, the radiating warmth of light and potential love. Once more everything I least expect falling at my feet, and can I genuinely collect it up, all for myself, or should I accept it will never be close enough to me? The wind comes along and carries it from me, like leaves in autumn sorrow. Just to lay my eyes on you, upon you, for how lucky they have been, and the thoughts that linger behind the eyes, that orchestrate the way the heart can feel, ah, well I thank you and all for those. I lose myself in the words, in writing, in thoughts of you and you and you, and it never ends. Sleep come for me, sleep wrap me up. Take me to her, take me to you. Standing out, as you do, nothing will ever be the same. Not ever again.

The Cobbled Streets of Yore

I live in a place called Wonderland. Of course, it is not so wonderful to all, and throws horrific memories to some, who were torn from this beloved city and feel totally rejected by her. We all look to blame something or some force when rejected, especially when cast into a land of horrors the human mind can scarcely conceive.

This place is magical, but as in other beautiful places, tragedy has been witnessed by some of the buildings here, by some of the streets, and if the walls could talk then too dark would their mutterings be for our softened ears (so protected from the past we seem at times, and so incredibly well guided have many of us been since). For we live in a prosperous age, at least it feels like there is freedom that our recent ancestors did not have the fortune to experience, and regardless of other riches this would seem to be the true key to understanding and enjoying our time on earth.

The cobbled streets of yore, have not only seen these things, they have held them in their hands. The same streets that had dead bodies just left to rot there, that had the sound of lonely feet, searching, looking for family, that had voices and torment and agony echo off them. For what the streets have seen they shall never forget.

Those who related their personal horrors from these times clearly lived with the ghost inside them, there was no acting here, the torture and sadness in their eyes was clear to see, but we could never truly fathom what they live with each day, what they genuinely had to experience.

I feel like it is the easiest thing in the world to need to acknowledge, and the hardest one to ever bring any justice to with my words. Perhaps it is simply about being aware and taking in some of these stories, these horrors and helping me to appreciate my existence, to treat others with care and love, and be happy that I have a peaceful soul, which unfortunately, still, is not the case the world over. Only through tragedy do we truly see the beauty, only can we find what is hidden if we open our eyes.

So, to tie it all back in, Wonderland is my home. I love this place dearly, but to see the harrowing events that this place and others have brought to people simply makes me think more deeply about my surroundings and everyone else and their pain. Wonderland is more a notion than an actual place, but even the greatest places have darkness, even the hardest hearts can be broken into tiny pieces and destroyed. The will of us, as a race, to keep fighting, to maintain hope and to never give up, as ever, astonishes me to my bones.

May the souls of all those taken so needlessly be forever filled with love, gratitude and warmth. Bless them all!

Blackadder

She was some dark princess
She was the blackadder
She fell from some other place
Not our sky
Some black leaf
To wrap around
Blanket lagoon
Weeping child
You are the words on my pages
You are the wind that creeps
Echoes inside the chamber of the bones
You are lullabies
Filling the sky
Crisp and tarred and beautiful born
How could I ever leave
Without loving you here?
How could we not grow into dreams?
Forever exists
If we so do wish

Andy (for March 12, 2013)

...and the days slip by
and never we know
who spares a thought
for where our winds blow
and the night time comes
and it takes us away
and we are each other
but we'd never say

thanks for the wishes
that climb into thoughts
sinking like stones
of magical sorts
and songs that emerge
from the tongue with their wings
we are forever
the body that sings

Best wishes,
With love

Snowy Bowie

The weather in this place had taken an unexpected turn. It was snowing again. Just as this week had thrown a new David Bowie record into our ears, nothing was what we predicted. I love the element of surprise, at times. So white flakes were once again, over a week after spring had seemed to appear before the eyes and every sense, starting to fall. It was pretty yes, it was so cold again though. I don't mind if the cold leaves for a while now, such is the grey gloom that consumes us and these days. I am ready for something different, another surprise, a pleasant one. I felt a snowy Bowie day today. Music in my ears. Something that maybe hadn't seem likely for a while there and that blows most people making music, much, much younger, completely out of the water. The new album rocks like a behemoth. It's utterly gorgeous in parts, and it shows a man who could easily have passed his finest moment on magnificent form as he reaches towards old age. Truly he was every snowflake falling, he was inspiration beyond the windowpane. He was a hero. He was falling out of the sky now, like a gift, like a lullaby.

Paradise

There are no words
To each his or her own
An ideal
A deeply fashioned view of the world
To share with another
If close enough they grow

We could bathe each other
Then escape down the plug
Follow some river
Flow into the sea
Every second lasts forever
When we are together

You have yours
And I me mine
We could miss each other
Always we would pine
But our worlds can come together
All of the time

This place
For us
Threatens
Everything we were
Abandon fear
To embrace the love,
My dear

Roles of the Century

It has never been played out before. This. Everything should be different. Should be. This is. For certain. The roles of the century, perhaps. What we portray is up to us. Our parts have scripts even, but each person brings something different to a role, there are gestures and tricks and movements that nobody else could do. So the curtains are raised and we play out our parts. Beautifully. For you, and love of everything. The muscles you move, the way you operate them. Delicious. Play into my arms. Orchestrate these days. Fall into grace. The way you are, is a figure to be reckoned with.

To Those It May Concern

To those it may concern                                                                              02/03/13

How do we come to view one another? Who sees the love inside, or the darkness? Who sees it in us? I ask you. What we truly are and the beauty within, it feels like it reaches few. It's all possible. Does it happen though? What are those ones looking for? What and how do they see? Many questions we could throw out there, into the midst of the madness. I want to ask no more questions, just mull it over. The drug pool of love, the surrounding pools. We get lost, we break inside, showing nothing out here. I wonder who cares amongst you. I think it makes it hard, to have to guess. To see no signs at all. To constantly have to try the mathematics when no equation seems to fit. Maybe it is just to give it meaning if and when someone arrives and finally takes a look, or is compatible with your character even, to just open up your soul like a book and see every word inside. It's harrowing and majestic all at once. One set of eyes, they see it. Truly they do. Make magic in front of me, watch me cast my spell, together some unfathomable thing. Just a thing. Like heaven, is just a thing. Something like that. I want to say more, but nobody likes to receive neverending mail. So, maybe it will be continued, and maybe I will forget it all within minutes and move on to the next topic.
Please feel free to join my sordid little envelope.

Your sincerely,

Whatever you fucking want me to be

My Late Night Feast

A woman. A woman so perfect in a moment it almost destroys time, the concept of it. Nothing else around. At all. Only the seconds ticking by utterly perfectly. Furiously. A woman. One body. A universe.In my hands. On my lips. Magical you. If I'm dreaming, still happiness excapsulates me. A warm bath to drown in. Sublime.

The most powerful man in the universe. The most powerful woman. A collision.

You stumble. I'll lend a hand, catch your fall, graceful or not. And the heart opens, and the heart closes, and it opens again. Beating to songs, to life, to crescendo and then end. The aftermath. The kisses. Of eyes, of lips, of bodies. Everything in its right place. One more time.

A Fallacy

They tell me I am confident. They truly see me that way. Oh, but if only they knew. I'm not hiding, I'm not pretending to be anything I'm not, but the face I project makes people happier, perhaps, at least at first, than my true self, riddled with insecurities. If I can make you smile, feel at ease, then I feel that energy, that warmth inside, and I too grow. I feel the reflected joy and it sparks me off. But God, I know not confidence as you see it. I wish you only knew!

The First Day of Spring

Today must be the first day of spring. Forget the calendar. Everything about today says 'spring' (I am well aware this statement is also known as 'tempting fate'). The birds, the sunshine, the sky, the very air around us. It all fits, it all feels like that gloomy spell has been lifted from our days. The sun is (working on) polishing off the last remnants of snow into nothingness, into nothing more than a distant memory. Oh, how quickly we move on, we survive, we evolve.

Spring, only through it's arrival do we realise that winter, as beautiful as it has been here in Poland, was like living in a graveyard. The months were long and hard and tedious. Now we exit the torture like a child that slips straight from it's mother's vagina at birth. And we are free. To be trapped by something else. However long that freedom lasts, it exists. For all of us. Breathe it in, savour it, taste the sweet air of it on your tongue, your neck, fill your eyes up with all the beauty you possibly can. Welcome to spring in Poland.

Not Knowing Her Name

I loved the way she lowered her head, and the hair fell down one side and all those gentle little shadows played across her face.

Kto Wie Returns

Everything happens for a reason. Maybe we just don't find out precisely what that is. The clocks tick, but is it to control us, to guide us, to just show us where we are, what state we are in? Kto wie. I love the uncertainty of life outside the cage. Perhaps not forever, and freedom is a state of mind and it can easily be lost and maybe never recovered again. Hold on to it, if you think you have it. Perception. All these artforms, swimming through the brain, vying for attention. Oh, I love the struggle. How I love the blurry image of it all.

I want to comb my way through the mess. To find you. To hold a hand that matters, not just a hand. Not just any hand, you hear. There are so many hands, all reaching, all pulling at the clothes of, all trying to pull us down, underneath the ground, to where darkness festers. Oh, through the crowd, golden light surrounds her. Unfathomably, it still creeps into the mind. Let it go and perhaps it could locate us. I don't know, I am not sure you do, I reckon maybe nobody does. So, whatever will be, will be. Then.

The Silence and Wonder of Nature

Near total silence
Here in a big city
A motorbike buzzes in the background
A pin drop
I could hear it
Exquisite
Magic
Unexpected
It finds me
Us
The cold chill
This heaven
The garden
Pretty white lagoon
To swim in the snow
Peace at last
The ice drop
Crashing water nearby
Return to silence
Waves of tiny noise
Footprints in snow
The song is over
For now

Heartbreakthrough

Swimming through the waves and waves of people
I come to find you
No matter what it takes I will arrive
I will make it there
Some kind of breakthrough
For the heart and her
To keep pushing away
The waves forever
To remark on the struggle
The beauty is ever
All at our door
Always
At our door
The hinges are coming off
In our hands
And the gloves are lying on the floor

Open Your Eyes, Your Heart

It's passing you by. We are getting closer, closer we get. To death, to love, to failure, to a million things. The joint worst day. Back to back. Maybe to collect them. I. Always deep sighs. Open you heart, your eyes, before it is too late. Those butterfly regrets, fluttering, all around a corpse, just fluttering. Some leave, some don't know how to escape there. Get out while you can, the only way out is to let love in.

The King of All Loneliness

It's fucken tough at times. In this brutal place called Wonderland. It was meant to be this way. I was built for it. Nothing easy, body howling. You push me towards agony, effortlessly, needlessly. Ah, bliss. The cruelty of people. People are cruel. What should one expect? Nothing, and one cannot be disappointed. For this is difficult though.

And if the people who love me are out there i'd ask does love not need to be shown then? I should guess of its existence, am I correct? Where I have shown it in the past with words and supporting actions I must attempt to understand the concept of it being shown through silence (?). Okay. How odd, how strange, how pathetic. It carries an air of the conditional.

Far be it for me to proclaim myself some expert on love in the same day I openly name myself 'The King of All Loneliness,' (or at all, not what i was reaching for) but actions speak volumes to this here man. So, I can sit and write, not just from the Well of Depression, but about a great many topics, from angles that show various degrees of light. I can still see love, even if I can't feel it arriving at the door from more than one source. But if one person can entrust their own life to one other, foolishly or not, then one person can save the universe for another. All it takes to make the world. To save it. One person, when every other soul seems lost (to you), when those who should care abandon you. There is always hope, until the doors close, and even then it depends on the angle.

The battle of the century. You and I. And 'you' is everything, and 'I' is just one man. This one man.

you are not what you think
if you think
no not at all

Maybe winter really was designed for hibernation. Of all creatures.

When She Finally Dies...

When she finally dies, will regrets flutter from her body like butterflies? Will flowers grow from the ground above her unfinished heart? Will everything be sucked into a tragic past and yet maintain some epic tale of failed love throughout the ages?

I think many people live in fear. They follow rules, they do so as to feel safe, not law-abiding. They hide behind barriers and walls, and do not face the true battle as our recent ancestors did, standing in the middle of battlefields being shot and blown to pieces. They think of only their own needs and pleasures and desires and not of the ones others have, and how to truly share experiences and places and things. How many of you are busy taking photos of a place you visit rather than standing side by side with a loved one, forgetting what will just join a million other photos, and actually soaking up the sights?

When she finally dies will she leave as a proud vessel and her soul empty out into the universe with a wealth of pride and love, for all she ever set herself to, all her eyes fell upon and all she touched? Will she leave behind life lessons, valuable ones, for coming generations? Will it all have meaning or will she have left a cold shoulder astride a statue?

It is easy to ask questions and perhaps of the infinite answers all we could ascertain is that there will never be one answer, or at least not one on which we would all agree.

When she finally dies bury her deep, see how strong her will could be from the other side. A battle against nothing is an unnecessary challenge. For I sit here alone, waiting on clouds. They come, they arrive, they are blown here, and then they pass. This is life. Sometimes the wind blows quickly, sometimes the candle flames go out. Sometimes love is not enough and sometimes it cannot grow because we just can't let it inside. I suggest finding the key and the handle and opening the door. For we know nothing, so listen and learn. Unlock those doors and let anything inside, that you possibly can. Let it inside. For when she finally dies there should be no butterflies.

the worst day

does it really need to be written?

if only it had wings.

Fish Tank TV

There's nothing on. You know it, though for some reason you can't quite abandon your faithful, old friend. I took another route. I watch them swimming through the days. Even at night, I can hear splashing and bubbles being made at the top of the TV, the surface. Throw a few flakes in, watch them dart for the top of the screen and admire the great swimmers. It's kind of peaceful. It's the best kind of TV. I can meditate, can take in the beauty of something soulful, the water parting so beautifully for those baby fins and tiny bodies. To just soar through the water as if it weren't there. It seems like nothing, but what a weight it possesses.

It makes me think, rather than manipulate the total train of my thought. It sets me free, rather than lifting an invisible cage down upon me. It fills me with hope and love, and I am in there swimming too. What great TV! What a way to pass the time. There's not much on, but truly there is as much as I desire.

Life is Poetry

Oh, when the stars
Precisely are
Exactly where I left them before
If you must move them on
For a while
Please put them back
At last

Sparklehorse (February 3)

I was listening to Sparklehorse, on some mini bus with a special friend of mine, heading back from the Polish countryside to Wonderland. Yeah, so it was night now and darkness was consuming our little bus. Sparklehorse. I hadn’t listened to Mark Linkous’s project in years, not properly. He killed himself not that many years back. Now he was singing to me. I guessed he was as alive as I wished him to be. God, I wished him to be. His voice was eerie, broken, whispering to me (as if he was actually ghost while he’d been alive even), as if from some deathly place. He was amazing. I didn’t want to think too much what made him do that. I knew some people’s burden was just too much to take. I knew it. I could just cope with my own. Just. I believed to my soul that others weren’t so fortunate and escape was a saviour to them. It was sad, but it had some fucked up beauty to it too. Somehow. He was with me now. I was holding him in my heart. I nearly turned his album ‘Good Morning Spider’ off several times and put something else on. It was simply too good though. I let it play out, from start to finish. It was a perfect night companion. It was strange, different, gorgeous and tender and utterly shattered in parts (like a mirror on the floor, scattered everywhere, totally broken). I could feel him inside my heart. I didn’t know all of his work, and I hadn’t listened to this in a long, long time, so it was almost like a fresh piece of music to me, or some long lost jewel, but what a lovely collection of minutes we were sharing in that bus in the middle of some Polish countryside.

The Traffic Light Girls

Red, orange and green their coats were
They were the traffic light girls
Pretty young Polish things
Skipping through the streets
Trying to get to some place
At a canter
Smiles on faces
On this grey day
Sparks a-flying
And then they were gone
Probably forever
I hope they found their destination
Those three girls
Like a human trio of traffic lights
Lighting up the streets

Farewell, January Blues

Finally, she has departed. We can breathe a deep sigh of relief. Those first days of the year that see us all sink in gloom, that seem to give a backhanded smack after the warm hug of the holiday and Christmas celebrations has finally ended. February has arrived, and I feel a warm glow. The January Blues is well known to me. Unfortunately, it seems to loom greater than ever before with each new year that comes by.

It's my birthday tomorrow. A pause for contemplation. Getting a year older in a day, if that doesn't send one down a philosophical avenue then nothing will. I feel closer to death, to Death, my friend. I started blogging a year ago tomorrow. i'm still doing it, whether it reaches anybody or not. Practising my art. One day i might even be... no, it's too much to consider.

Just the word 'February' feels warmer. I took today off from work. I woke late and put music on, I read some of a book, took my time, grew into the day, had breakfast, took my medication and emerged from my little home. I walked along the river and into the streets of the place I still consider to be Wonderland and I found this little coffee house, my favourite in the city. I sat down, ordered a pot of tea, and I began to write. Everything is in place. All is beautiful, however it seems some of the time.

Hammer At the Heart

Nobody can take you from me
It's inconsequential that I can't reach out
and touch your bones
I keep you behind the door
The one to the heart they keep a-hammering at
We are home
My dear
I'll keep you still

Shadows of Yesterday v.2

Everybody has a past. Some are still being chased by it. Can't quite put to bed. Can't move forwards. Sinking sands. Yesterday looms large, casts a tremendous shadow. How do we move on? It's exactly in the actions we make now and will make that we can change the lighting that falls upon what went before. We have the power to change everything. We need not only imagine.

Shadows of Yesterday v.1

Everybody has a past.
Some are still being chased by it.
Can't quite put to bed.
Can't move forwards.
Sinking sands.
Yesterday looms large, casts a tremendous shadow.
How do we move on?
It's exactly in the actions we make now and will make that we can change the lighting that falls upon what went before.
We have the power to change everything.
We need not only imagine.

All the Yearning / The Death of

You are dying at my hands. Your time is almost up. Nearly over the hill. Out of sight. Pretty little thing. I type away, my fingers know you well. I have shared with you a great magic. When you leave it will all continue, but something will have changed. I love you all of the time, even if I cannot possibly always show it. Sometimes it hides, sometimes it sleeps, but it never goes away. It burns ever brighter. I know it well. From the inside out, the scars would show.

and the stars are still shining, and she is as mine as I feel, as close as I can bear. All of us are writing a tale, with every single step, some of them should even be told, some of them are kept. She weeps in the shadows at the end, but look what will grow in its place... she only has to take a few steps to see something new to take her onward. From there, to here, to all that the heart has.

Honey, become, again and again, never fail to start over. Never be afraid, my dear. All the yearning, always the tears, always you, my dear.

Fall Forever

Never let these days end. The chasm of loneliness and how it fills eventually and the thrill is so much greater. The ride, the neverending ride. I long for, I reach out, we make contact, communicate and feed off each other. The desperate longing. The addiction to the edges, maybe we could fall. Maybe we would fall forever, arm in arm, bodies entwined, I want all of you.

Looking back and hoping for... just a trickle of love gets through, a flood awaits, a circus of opportunity, waiting to be translated into...

Never let these days end, never give up, follow the ticking heart, like the clock that marches us with meaning and passion. Be as you are, beautiful flower, be as you are. We could tell ourselves that nothing lasts forever, but we would be wrong. All of this is ours, a garden, without boundaries, a universe in the palm of the hand.

Surprises (The Third)

Maybe one of the true beauties of life is the unexpected, how it lurks and just attacks when  it couldn't possibly have seemed further away. The glory of something lovely just snapping at our heels, grabbing our attention and saving our souls again. Always a woman, always magic comes to find those. Those who know of it's intentions. Winter warmth arrives like arrows from over a wall, stright through the skin, making a mark. Love, in shapes and numbers that we cannot fathom. Thank you for keeping me on my toes, thank you for keeping me alive.

The Second

If this is us

We made it

The mountain

The view from here

Just you and I

If this is life

Then how golden

To hold you

For even a second

Of such precious time

If you hear

My whispering words

Then you know by now

In your head like birds

They flutter and swoop

and peacefully glide

I'm never going to leave

Your side now

If this is us

In this room

The kingdom is

The universe

All for you and I

The Fairytale Out There

Truly a wonderland. My darling, Wonderland. She is almost in a permanent state of whiteness, as one blanket lays itself down upon the last, or on a landscape that has turned to its natural winter colour once more (usually only hours before). It really snows here. Like Polish winter couldn't live without it. It's spectacular. The white snow is so much more beautiful than what lies beneath. It gives winter here some sense of magic. The flakes are falling all around. I feel like i am walking through some continual fairytale. I got wet today, walking through thick snow, falling at an angle, getting inside the shirt collar, which was mostly surrounded by clothes and a scarf, yet still the snow somehow sneaks its way inside. Everything looks like a postcard. Some of it old fashioned and stunning, some of it modern, cold, some winter paradise. I could send it to people around the world and show how beautiful my home in Poland is, just how stunning this city is. There is magic coming out of the cracks in the pavement here. Home at last.

Joe Strummer 10.2

Oh, life. When you are alive it could end anywhere. Nobody knows. The beautiful surprise of it all. If we knew, it would all mean less. Perhaps. But once we depart our bodies, these vehicles for the days the counting since our ending will continue forever, or at least until we slip from the memory. Each day we get further and further from the days of warm and pulsating bodies. We slip ever deeper into the ghostly realms we know not of as we live and breathe.

Mr. Strummer, from life to death, we are eternally connected.

Joe Strummer 10

It's hard to believe at times. Just how quickly time passes. Faster and faster, leaving us for dust. Enjoy the ride, because we won't escape alive, we aren't getting to a safe place to live forever, unless you know about souls. Oooh, that is an interesting one.

Joe Strummer. I was lucky enough to meet and know the man a little. I don't claim to have known him well, but I also shared a love for Andalucia and I too made acquaintance with a stunning little fishing village in the South coast of Spain, with gorgeous little hidden beaches and sunshine to fill the heart and mind for years. That was where our paths collided. No wonder we both returned so often. It was the summer of '99 and the one the following year too. We chatted, we even had a drink or two together, I served him cool drinks in the warm afternoons at the bar/restaurant I worked at. I even met Bez (yes, Happy Mondays and Black Grape cartoon dancing legend) through him and even my poor memory has a few special memories of Mr. Strummer in that there village.

I can't do it justice. But somehow, already, the tenth anniversary of this great man's death has passed. It was several weeks ago now, but I can't let it pass totally unnoticed. I still remember clearly the day my mother came home on 22nd December, 2002 and told me that Joe had passed on. My heart in my mouth I simply couldn't believe it. I mean, I was going to see him again. Surely. It had only been a question of time. The very time we don't have, or we cannot be certain we have. This man, down-to-earth, humble, a bit crazy (in the best way possible), and full of life and energy and passion was gone. Astonishing. I guess there are lessons everywhere. His popularity seems to only grow, for despite the man he was outside of his profession he was fucking good at what he did. He cared, he bled for his art and he will be remembered as one of the best. He did what was right to him, not the vultures, and he deserves great respect for that. For he made some astonishing music.

When I knew him I had not been a fan of his band (which is not something to be proud of, but may have tempered my excitement to know him a little at that time), and since I have become someone who completely appreciates what he accomplished. Some moods could only be matched with his band's music. Uplifting, life-affirming, ballsy. Put simply, I won't see his physical body ever again, though I dive into the concept of souls. I am happy I met him and shared some moments of that oh-so precious time with him.

Never forgotten, always with us, rest in peace, beautiful Joe.

The Table

A man rested on the table, shifting the pen, or the pen shifting his hand up and down the page. Eventually, the children followed his example and started writing, showing thought, concentration, inspiration perhaps even.

The man wondered how long that table had been there, as it stood almost at the centre of the room, mostly surrounded by tables, ones the students were also leaning upon. He pondered all the other figures who had leaned on this particular rectangular, four-legged table and considered where and when it had been made and who by. Was it as mechanically made by machines and men of the modern world as it looked or had it been carved and shaped with love? It did a valuable job, people never seem to truly appreciate all the things that surround them, but it all makes our days, our times, our lives easier. The table was ugly, but who could truly say what was ugly, beautiful, special and so on?

To consider all the people and their moods and hearts and minds moving near to, around, in contact with this table was immense. The scale of it all. Mankind and the world he has constructed, and the way we operate and use each little thing. All in all, it's just a table, and I would never ask it to be more.

Bedridden, Part 2

Come save me. Swallow me from this room, before she takes me instead. Three days trapped in bed, within the small confines of this room. It's enough to drive a man to madness. I like this place, but to hold me for this long, a continuous stretch, feels a struggle, too much. I contemplate the Art of Patience, and I allow myself further time to recover. A few people care enough. They come to me, contact me, love me, from different places and angles. I know they consider me, and it helps. That bed, just over there, but a few steps from where I now sit at my computer (my strength returning to me all the while), must be covered in my sweat and torment of illness, as it cushioned the blow. It made me ache, such was the aeon for which it held my body. Come save me, my muse, my darling young angel. Swim into view and take my hand, and pull me toward sleep, until I am all new once more.

The January Blues

It's only a matter of time before it comes. The comedown. The aftermath of the crescendo. Everyone was looking to the year's end, with eagerness. Every great ending means a beginning that can never quite feel the same follows immediately after. I call it the January Blues. It hits hard. It feels like having to work your way into it, like any book, it takes effort and passion to break past the barrier. It requires enough love to see through the darkness. If you are not up for a fight, then how did you make it to an end that even led us to this new page? The new year was beautiful. I had the hand of someone. I had a sea of candles. I had the eyes of a woman. She was perfect. perfectly there. In a moment, the two of us. The whole world and its fireworks and noise and booze was outside, making some perfect racket. Colliding like stars, trying to finish off the night. We were inside, holding everything else. The January Blues was waiting, like she does, just around the corner. Ready to pounce. just like she always does. Let's enjoy that feeling, sinking and fighting and doing it all over again.

PS- have a healthy and golden year!