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

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.

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.

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