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.

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...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.

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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?