Life – live here

Live – live here
Be my bride. The smile I forgot to smile. The smile on the lips of life is our smile.
He is boulder face, he is without life, he does not smile, when he lives he smiles.
But who can live here amongst the ice and boulders of this world.
That cry within – life, live here, for us.

That meaningful vote – a penny in a rusty tin can in the hand of the destitute poor – the world.

Life we cry, live here, thrive here in this dark evil wood.

That meaningful vote – a treaty with the seven-headed beast of the apocalypse, run, hide; but all the caves are one bright and colourless light.

Emotions in space

Here is an emotion drifting in space, too close to the sun and it burns; too far away and it freezes just like real emotions. Give space to your emotions and your thoughts will be creative. Keep your emotions at the right temperature.

Well, here is one emotion drifting in space, the space walker reported it to earth. It’s harmless at the moment, it’s not angry and it’s not happy. A very placid cool emotion if you ask me. If you pushed it with your hand it would swish away like some fish in the water.

Emotions don’t survive death. These emotions drifting in space have been here for millions of years; intelligent enough to know the zone in space where life can exist and sensitive enough to stay in place in their zone around the mighty star.

Emotions drifting in space have no legs to run away; no arms to embrace with; no head to belittle them. They have no eyes or ears or breath and they can live forever in perfect peace.

The Cellar

 

330 party for honoured guest (6)

Inside Cellar Walls

A splinter of rain in the cool yard; the endless smell of perfume and decay; a splitter-splat of rain on leaves, bird droppings; the wind-song in the shadows; a tonal splash of dust, damp air; branches sway, leaves flicker in a breeze from the river: Imagination chooses an individual’s path, through a garden of hunger.

The cold cellar smells of mysterious perfume; a plateau of flowers above me; birds jump like monkeys through the trees. The window hidden by ivy covered wa1ls, midday sun casts a dusty beam for an hour when the backyard swells open to the sky; closed by a tapestry of foliage argumentative sparrows. Two African Marigolds like green nuns blown over by the wind. I put them under the sink, green necks in a pile of tipped dirt. I bring my crippled hands, forgotten songs and poetry to spiritual seclusion from the outside world; exhausted by the day’s work; resentful of people for their violence, madness, and day to day pain.

A concealed Pandorran box opens. Wild romantic roses grow amid the tumult of ivy clinging to the three story building. A beam of sunlight penetrates the cellar like a laser beam, vanishes. I sleep, a strange otherworldly sleep: Prisoner Dream. The cellar grips the events of my life that threw my inner self out of place within me.

Sculpture stands in the enclosed garden, vegetation amassed about them, the hand of a bird ghostly in the storm; the heart of an owl bleeding in the night. The window is open across the ground. I watch the rain, white sky, light, sound. A petal falls from a lush white rose.

The cellar becomes dark: flowers loose light and colour, sparrows plummet into exhaustion; the smell of the earth, carpet fading evermore into colourless rag, the wooden crate glowing in the twi1ight, my pale blue sponge still bright. I look through the window, light a candle; eat bread and honey, wild roses in the dark rain; and the statue of Beethoven, ghostly white in the candlelight.


The man-who-depresses-me, in a mirror fragment, that drifts from doorway to doorway, weightless, goes to his room. I see his reflection, also a fragment of me, a shade paler than I imagined, depressed. The man who-depresses-me reflects the anguish I don’t understand. I go down the spiral of doubt into the cellar; no light, no heat and no water, just loneliness. A splatter of blood on the wall, I cover my broken window with cellophane, stitches in my wrist. A heart squeezing loneliness; a face to face with life detachment; songs noted down in my notebooks lying in a vacuum of hopelessness. I stare through the window to the empty garden.

I am buried in a fantasy, a vacuum in my mind; I am buried in dirt like a plant. There is no cellar only the perfume. My books of poetry turn into pages of savage visions. My heart beats wildly. I awake in a fit, sweating, half dead with fear, like a withered rose.

The ceiling has a hole from where plaster has fallen home for creepy-crawlies. Nailed over the hole, the unfinished full size self-portrait of the man who depresses me, one leg is red, one arm is dark blue and his head is day glow green, poised like superman in flight. The canvas is six by six feet square. One corner is obscured by a zigzagging water pipe.

There is so much space this evening. The sky is blue; rain occupies the space, so immense it makes us seem eternal. Where does it come from? It surrounds us as we shelter in the building. Where did it begin? What distant universe has it traveled through? My mind imagines a golden light in the far sky. It has boldness, substance, and activity. It swarms, melts, and hardens. It falls from the void into the prison of the unseen far sky into the house of darkness, the house of dreams. Tiredness, a cloud evaporating, a rain shower in full moonlight with stolen light darting, twinkling into the ground; into the depths of my being; a sulking tiredness, on the train of deep sleep. Sleep wanders a pathway to the pool of life, phantasmagoric sleep drifts through cinders of a burnt out forest, collecting the images of dreams lying in ashes; a jigsaw of illuminations that swings forth at night.

It is the summer of 1979, thunderclouds roll along Whitechapel roads, Mobiles of light dance in the backyards. The forces acting on the old house are twisting the stone sin. Three stalks of Gladioli sway upwards, pink blooms step into the gloom impregnating the cellar.

My neighbour’s room is empty for the weekend. This evening, the tub that contains the dripping water from the broken pipe in the closet was overflowing. I emptied it down the outside drain. The cellar collects the stink; dampness soaks into me, my clothes, bed. I turn the chair from the window and sit down.

A vacuum in the cellar; a vacuum in me, the cellar is dying; I am dying, the sky brightens; the cellar brightens and I brighten. The sky looks sick, the walls are crumbling and I feel dizzy. The sky is dizzy, the walls are sick, I am crumbling. The roof will fall, turn to dust. The sun will brighten but the cellar is shaking. Nothing is real, all is dark; nothing can be identified.

The cast iron fireplace, the old iron bed on the stone paving, Wellington boots under the twisted yellow sink; someone else lives here, yet they don’t. I am that someone else, but I am not. The cellar suggests the presence of a servant-gardener of the I9th century. The collection of furniture belongs to another personality. I imagine this person has come to life.

There’s no rhyme or reason, alone I go out at night, but I cannot communicate. Boudicca is there, sinister lies fly through the deep darkness. Back against the cellar wall, the window is a sheet of mirrored candlelight. In the reflection I see again the room with the barstool. My friends are total strangers they argue with Boudicca. This morning they were so at one with life. Now dark impenetrable forces search every visual surface for a weakness.

I am a child walking past a wall, a slum wall, division between the outside world and me. It seems to protect, imprison and hide me; I feel afraid to go too far away from it. There is a strange thing imbedded in the wall made fatty tissue, I stab it and dislodge it with a stick, it darted in panic and glided out of sight. It was alive. My heart beat faster.

In a Garden of Eden, mysterious sculptures of skeletal abstract bird-heads, like false gods that a primitive tribe worships, waiting to be brought down by the true one. The tribe obviously is the Iceni. Boudicca divides the people into tribes. The womenfolk divide the tribes. So the people are divided.

The man-who-depresses-me awakens in the middle of Christmas night. He sits in the rocking chair for a moment, rocking anxiously, confused. He must redress a balance. There is something down in the cellar. He goes down the steps, opens the door, and closing it behind him. He pulls up the paving stones to discover a crate of bright white glowing female figurines in a box. He marvels to see them then puts them back and returns back to his bed, to deep sleep. By morning he has forgotten his dream; the cellar is back to normal.

Aug. 30th. Morning. I move the furniture into new positions.
Afternoon, I move it back again.

Sept. 3rd. I move out of the cellar. I take the bed and chair with me. The kitten is the first to move into the vacated rooms above, has a look of relief on its face.

330 garden

The Cellar

It’s been raining. – Now, I’ve been caught;
I’m back in the old prison. familiar with this dream spell,
the reappearance of which I cannot escape for long.

In an emotional frame of mind I turn things over for a while;
set in my ways like concrete I stumble over shadows of old forgotten truths.

The novelty of running from myself is reversed
and I’m faced with the same old empty room.

Sunlight falls into the cellar through the attic of clouds.
The land turns white; a page of sunlight glides through the air
– descends from the summer sky and drops onto the cellar floor.

I begin to read the writing, anonymous erasers drift in the sky
– a door closes on the sun, a man in darkness breathes a sigh.

Wind barriers, sound barriers like bright white lights.
I am longing for new puzzles; trapped by old nightmares.

Facts falling like jigsaw puzzles into dense electric light bulbs.
Daylight in cellar atmosphere moving like silver shadow;

Falling from ladders of old architecture
he has no part in the builder’s plan.
Falling down onto an old foundation,
long buried under the darkness of time

My Hand through the Smashed Cellar Window

Smashed cellar window, my hand bitten by jagged glass.
Transparent darkness below the party.
I fall to the floor with drunken fears that reach the pit of my stomach.
I become a dark embryonic shape that cries like an animal.

In the darkness what I hear is one of many voices;
one of many languages tangled up in pain.

Will It Happen Tomorrow?

A vacuum between here now to the shores of a new Kingdom.
A sweet perfume of expectancy over a desert of quicksand.
Through the visual melee of mirages,
So intense they fill the air; so eternal the heart cries
To be taken further from the dark door.

Is it just a dream?

A river divides the seen and the unseen
On the bank I am a child of many colours.
In the light I look across and see darkness
In the darkness I see nothing.
I go to discover the other side and I drown
I disappear into a grave of water
A new existence takes over – the river.

The river of life? sea of death?

I drift down to the ocean into a cradle of the earth
I float upon the mirrored surface.
A fragmentation of knowledge evaporating into the firmament
As if the universe were a room where mirrors slip from the walls
Of an original parent giving birth to a new man.

When will it happen?

I cannot come to terms with reality until I know it will happen
I push love out of reach myself to seek a new clear key or life.
It’s there I know it is; it is more than what it seems.
But why can I not see it? Why can’t I know that I know it’s created?

From: A Squatters Poetry Journal in pages section.

Dream

 

13th December 2018

I travel in the backseat of a dream. Shadows loom in space and time. This sleeping night, this world without man.
The peaceful darkness where I wander meeting personalities who could be real. Who talk and unravel in a developing film, who show me pictures cut out of other peoples dreams. Who show me the roads I came from and the roads I’m on. This is better, they say. Has it a basis in reality, we will see, you and me, in a dream.

I travel in the backseat of a dream, so clear, so close, so near that I can feel. I want to know, and I wonder, as the dream rolls out its quiz of conundrums.
The man in a battle, with war all around can dream of angels, while the wealthy man in a great tower can dream of walking down a dark and dangerous corridor.
A dream can last for years. A problem that you cannot get into focus. A barricade of broken things that stops you dreaming of great worlds.
Is the visitor in your dream a real visitor with another life outside of your own, are they all real people, those that people your dreams, who unravel the schemes of the nuaghty world.

I travel in the backseat of a dream. A limousine, or a bus. Teach me the wheel of life, teach me the gears; that a ticket has a price. Is this my dream now, has the insurance paid off and what of this cough . . . . .
or that man with a gun, or that blazing sun.

 

 

Moon Crossing

moon crossing 1

The moon is crossing with a bright jesters face with skin like a frightened chicken.

Waxy trees of egg shell hanging hooks slide through the hall of blood and feathers.

The first man made arrow hits the slaughterhouse, a third of the earth shakes.

Moon Crossing was a place outside of town, magical and unreal. Two young lovers set out to see it; they walked between trees and followed the abandoned railway track.
Then above the skyline they saw it, in a coat of silver light, the moon, crossing over into the afterlife, with a smile like that of a jester.

The first man made arrow was a throwing stick maybe until it flew across time and landed at your feet, a sign, do not pick it up it will surely turn into a venomous snake.

Drifting about hither and thither, an autumn leaf in the wind. I admire the autumn colours of the forest; I must follow the fluttering autumn leaf. When the moon is the priest of the twilight then we shall be one; my autumn leaf and I.

Early in the morning I walk through the industrial estate past the shrieking gates of the slaughterhouse .
The conveyor belt didn’t stop, hit the big red button again. The slaughterhouse is like a black star, and everything not nailed down is sucked into machinery and dies.

Moon Crossing, you’ll see it from where you are, above the silver fields. The jester has gone; the moon has a new feminine face. Watch her cross over the fields perspiring with light. You feed your gaze on her illustrious shine. You listen, will she speak? You feel as bright as the moon, she should acknowledge you as you watch her cross over but then, she is gone from sight.

The Water of Life

God created a sun to make light
around the sun he created a zone where liquid water can exist
the distance of the zone is 93 million miles from the sun
and this is the habitable zone

where the water does not totally evaporate
and where the water does not totally turn to ice
in that orbit where water exists the earth is fixed
and the earth is a planet where life can exist because of water.

and around the planet was the watery deep
and God divided the watery deep by an expanse
and the water below the expanse He called sea
and the water above the expanse He called heaven.


The book of Genesis is story telling at its most compelling. Perhaps in the gates of a town or camp people gathered to listen to the beginings of life passed on by word of mouth from one generation to the next.

It seems to say that the earth was coverd by the watery deep before any land emerged. And then this watery deep was divided by an expanse perhaps the air and so the sea and the heaven was formed. Heaven in those days must have been what could be seen with the eyes from the land.

It strikes me how well this fits well with scientific fact. With the habitable zone and the amazing facts of the earths place in orbit around the sun. I wanted to put these two things together in a kind of poem. I tried to put it into my own words but some of the style, the idiom of the book of Genesis has crept in. And of course truth to materials has to be maintained for integrity.

 

 

Brick Lane

My old friend from far afield flew in today
She had been lost in the recent storm
That broke the branches and ripped the roofs
Of her own quiet green country village.

She flew in an a bluster of air
She glided and flapped and struggled
To stay alive in the gusting gale
That battered the country.

As the wind abated she landed
Her tiny feet grabbed hold of a weather vane
She ruffled her feathers and took a look around
In front of her stood a busy bagle shop.

She was hungry, she leapt down to the ground
Looking for crumbs and eyeing with her brown eye
The cream cheese bagles being consumed by the peckish people
Shoo they went, shoo said the proprieter.

She fluttered away but not far away
She circled and landed on a pram parked outside a brewery.
She saw the bustle of resturanteurs calling to passersby
And the appetising sundries in the windows of the delicatessants.

Coo-coo I went when I saw her
Cooly taking the crumbs from beneath the feet of tourists
She fluttered away without hearing me
Onto a roof above a craftsmans workshop.

I followed trying to get her attension
Below a car honking at the crowd came to a stop in Brick Lane

 

 

 

 

 

I Have Never Had a Discount for Love

I have never had a discount for love; love is never at half price. If it dies, it dies whole; if it lives it lives whole. Love detests coupons; love detests a price. You can’t capture love with a penny or a pound and many before me have said the same thing.

If I could cram my whole life into this room and lock the door. It will disappear like a lift into the bowels of the earth; it will become the smallest atom passing through a black hole in space and back again, then it will jump into song. But if love is inside that atom, the atom will not be able to contain it, it will stretch and strain and squeak and scream but it will never hold love in. Love is not in the atom; love is elsewhere, in the memory of life. Love picks you up like you’re a three legged fly and says poor fly, and when love gets the order to march, love will give you back your legs.

Upon the night of Halloween the voices came again telling me that their way is the only way. Lies, I said, your tricks do not deceive me and then I awake. And there I was, in a room, and in that room is my whole life, and I must pay the re

An Avenue of Blackbirds.

The earth has been financed, every square inch of it. Everyone is in debt, the big debt is here. It puts a seal of debt on every human being. Stocks for guns are up, human beings are down*, so why not keep shooting them?

The financial world says of love, it’s no good, get a job. So you get a job and then the financial world sees you as a useful item, you are on their radar. Should you stay off radar? Would you be poorer? The poor can live happily – until they have to pay their taxes. I don’t mind dirt roads with holes in them so long as the sea is blue and the birds sing, but the mess of finance makes the sea and the air polluted and our wildlife numbers grows fewer.

It was a great experience to hear the blackbirds on that one summer Sunday, last century. I still remember walking down Burdett Road, listening to the blackbirds, they were singing in every tree I passed, and on both sides of the street. I ran the gauntlet of blackbirds, until I got to the traffic lights in Limehouse. They had maybe quarreled with each other, they had probably smoothed out the wrinkled cloth of their territories for the privilege of  their own tree to sing in; nesting season was over and now it was their singing time. There was no war of extermination, there was no hierarchy. Each blackbird could sing with exuberance and love.

Then came big human political decisions and the world of blackbirds collapsed into the empty purse of mankind; their numbers collapsed as human debt rose; they collapsed because humanity has no love; except for money, and their greatest skill is war.

And each winter humanity has the privilege of helping them to survive; instead the reality is humanity – will do what it does best.

*Erica Jung, Fear of Flying, I think