Sleep Little Misery

Poem about chronic depression

Sleep little misery
Your whole life has been death
Sleep little abortion
You will never have breath.

It’s the way I have carried you
Since time began
With bruises and beatings
Confused, as a man.

An impossible beginning
In the wrong body
Without thought or feeling
A stone cold nobody.

A poem about long term, undiagnosed depression, which I think has become common in society. I thought to publish it here; maybe it has wider application than original idea.

With my head lodged in the moon

With my head lodged in the moon

With my head lodged in the moon
Eating bright cold fire of imagination
The bogus halo of crystal hurricane
Mans hunger snapped like dry spaghetti

Oh I love you with my bifocals on
Watching the transformation of birds
Into straight jacketed screaming gargoyles
As I float like a chess piece in eternity

When at edges, boundaries and borders
Vertigo becomes a snake in love
Between two sheets of pure steel
Sounds are pressed out like bells ringing

I live a simple life within a crisp packet
And the dawn feeds me flakes of glittering corn

2003

I want to know about you.

I want to know about you
Why hide yourself?
I want some pieces of you
To paint a portrait.

I want some colours of you
To taste on my tongue.
I want some of your breath
To fill my lung.

Every escaping light from your eyes
To fill my scrapbook;
Every murmer made in your sleep
A momento to keep.

To whole world is described
Time and time again.
I want to know about you
Who I may never see again.

Aphorism: It was the goal of the season

  • They’ve put so many hands
    in a deck of cards.
  • All the hate in the world
    Wouldn’t be so bad if you loved me.
  • It was the goal of the season, it was a good goal
    It was the goal of the universe, it was a good goal.
  • Jealousy is banned, banned across the land
    And spite, its evil twin, never more should sin.
  • How I wish the night would come
    Because I’ve got nowhere to run.
  • The heart has its feelings
    The eyes have their dreams
    The vocal chords have their thoughts.
  • Ever since you invented them
    Half the world has died – end the gun, end the gun.
  • Not even the man in the Kremlin
    Knows the heart of the Kremlin.
  • Don’t commit adultery
    Don’t worship the image of the wild beast
    Honour Gods name.
  • Peace is like a garden,
    Peace is like a plan
    But whatever you do now,
    Don’t leave the design to man.
  • People with multiple personalities
    Also have multiple broken hearts.
  • The end is worse than the beginning
    You retrace your steps and discover
    That what you started with was glorious.
  • They keep their hate secrets; nobody knows their hate secrets
    Nobody sees their hate secrets until it’s too late.

 

Ted, Bet and Tony visit their artist brother in London.

group in flat

From left to right. John, Tony, Bet and Ted.

John is getting a bit worried.

Tony Briscoe. Please, Tony, don’t slouch in your chair! That’s better

Ted Briscoe. Ted you’re just like your brother. Straighten up please. That’s better!

 

Tony and George do the washing up while John and Ted mouch around.

Snap!

john in flat 2

John Briscoe.

george in flat

George Saxon. Performance artist

george tv flat

George, the multi-media artist, scratches his ear.

john sleeping with cat in flat

It’s been a long day for John.

ted in flat 2

Goodnight everyone see you tomorrow.

 

Love Story

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The foolish youth believed the girl
To be in love with him
So did the old man

Old man time and young man time
Sat upon a bench
Silent

The young girl, always young!
Whilst man grws old and dies
The young girl remainsupon the earth
She is dancing and playing magic tricks

Enticing their age with magic
Flirting with time
Playing with hearts both old and new

The foolish youth sat with old man time
He remembered life
He collected memories in his heart

The foolish youth believed
The young girl to be in love with
Him
Yet here he was
Why she flirted with him
Is mystery
To his foolish heart
Yet how can he answer
When the young girl
Flirts now only with his heart
But wiht the very heart of life
That old man time guards
So jealously

circa 1971

The Highway News

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The latest highway news was delivered
Then left immediatly
The man who delivered
The sad blues
Never wished to be seen.
Minutes beforehand the stranger left
So dear to the vagrants heart
Bowing her head not looking
Not noticing the shame
That had been brought upon them all
By the deliveryman’s game.
He stood at the roadside
Sweating, his head was in a spin
More mystery had been in his dreams that night
Then all the dreams he’d been in

A Wish

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Close your eyes and make a wish
Lay down in the garden of a dream
Walk the pavements of time
To the yellow moon of infinity
To weep into the sea of passion
To scream into the night of death
To cry into the diamond darkness
To float through the compartments of infinity
Into the existance of nothing
Do not look for only you are seen
Do not speak you will hear only your voice
Do not listen you will hear only your thoughts
Close your eyes and look
Do you see still more mysteries of living
Your wish should be fulfilled by now
Lost down the tunnels of nowhere
Flying like a white dove into the daylight
For what is a wish but this

CIRCA 1971

Fear, terrible fear.

Fear, terrible fear is released. The ship of Liberty is sinking.
There is a bitter iron in the heart.
The heart like a baby in the grip of pliers beating, beating to get free of
its crib.
The rope of sleep is reeled in,
Called in, dying there in the primordial temper of the stressed heart.

The threat draws closer. Is society becoming crazy,
loosing its footing, struggling to stand stridently
on shifting gravel.

Good intentions become the walk between two guards to the prison cell.
The Good intentions of the middle class are independent of King or Queen.

They have taken the university; they have moved in.
The children who grew up in luxury
With their eyes set on the great heights.

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.