Please include in real life

Please include in real life
This foggy existence
No more than a small animal in a dusty den
Born by chance

Please include in real life
This foggy existence
No more than a field mouse
Scampering across the meadow
Born by chance

Please include in real life
This foggy existence
The spirit of breath
The beating heart
Alive by chance

Little more than a field mouse
Born by chance in a dusty den
Scampering across the meadow
Never ever seen again

The Inner Child has shrivelled

The inner child has shrivelled like a palmate leaf set on fire by the gardener and is burning within.
I feel it always, slow burn, tears dry when they should be wet; falling upon Loves shoulders.

Did you see an inner child running, running through the streets of London on fire?
Did you follow him back into the dark oracle cave womb of the inner mind heart dream?
Carrying Piccadilly’s Eros statue
Carrying Nelson’s column and the four lions
Carrying a sack full of Prince Albert’s on horseback
Carrying ancient Charing Cross
His family now, his friends are those stones
(Spit on the Elgin marbles, send them back to Homer’s cradle, replace them all with lead imitations of Cadbury Tins and comic book superheroes, for Britain had an empire too).

No, I didn’t see an inner child running through the streets of London in the winter rain chasing the shadows of dancing bears followed by winged white turtles in black Victorian suits.
No, I didn’t see an inner child who crossed himself with a sword and became an optical illusion of endless depth.
No, I didn’t see an inner child wander lost through the streets of London stealing the light from all the windows of town and feasting on them.
No, I didn’t see an inner child clinging to the tomb of the unknown orphaned mother of England.

In this prose-poem, the inner child is the core component of the adult, if society grows to be too centred on being grown-up can that society be whole.

The blind country boy

A blind country boy in the city of love
Touches no one and no one touches him.
The world passes by, so much blinder than he,
Weighed down by worry but not doing anything.

When Gods word came forward and divided the sky
To make the moon rise as he stood by the way
Standing on a corner singing his song
Not knowing the light from the day.

The earth spun around like an acrobat’s ball
Beneath his feet spinning on the overhang
And the blind country boy in the city of love
Imagined the world as he sang and he sang.

He touches no one and noon touches him
The world passes by, not doing anything.
He’s the blind country boy in the city of lies
He’s singing his song – until he dies.

A Stranger at the Dinner Table

Several people re sat around a dinner table. I do not know who they are; they seem nice, friendly, unassuming. I do not see their preoccupations with each other.
They pass the salt, they pour the coffee, I like that the sun is shining, at how relaxed I feel with them, at how well the meal was so well organised; a family meal that has been happening every day for years.
Their clothes are clean and well fitted. The table cloth is clean. Items on the table include a pen and paper, a radio, a bracelet.
At one point in the meal they were all passing something to each other, their arms were folding at the elbow, swinging from the shoulder a motion that surrounded the table like a paper chain. Then they put their arms down and began to chat.
The wife spoke and as she spoke the salt cellar exploded like a small volcano and everyone was surprised, she though, not seeing the miracle or the response to her table talk just laughed.
The husband a few minutes later said something. The olive jar cracked open and the olives rolled over the table’s edge. The birds from a nearby tree flew down, do birds eat olives, and ate them.
The dinner resumed. The two twin girls started arguing over the chocolate mousse which stated to bubble and in the bubbles could be seen dark wicked eyes appearing. The mother told them to stop squabbling and be quiet.
The guest began to tell a story of his recent travels abroad. I was in Valencia recently he said and the gravy boat capsized like a ship and spilled over into the lap of their son’s new girlfriend.
This all hinted at the secret life of the family. I asked for captions to appear above their heads to show what they were really thinking.
The husband liked the son’s new girlfriend.
The wife was having an affair with the guest.
The twins were both in love with their tennis coach.
The group dispersed to various rooms in the building and the husband to his garage. The attractive maid came out to clear up the table. Suddenly on a distant hill a house caught fire. A fire engine passed by and all the firemen were singing

Your song of love and insincerity

Your song of love

The manifesto began to burn as you sang. When you had finished you had saved a whole nation from conquest.
The commander who had stopped to listen stripped off his clothes and walked across Libya. His skin became as white as snow.
At the prisoner of war camp your song hovered above the compound like a virgin light. The rules of war themselves bled to death and all the prisoners were released.
Suddenly on the calm of the ocean thousands of U-boats came to the surface attracted by their radar to your song. As you reached the high notes the code books ran into the sea and mermaids came and ate them; a Convoy of merchant ships passed by in peace.
In the equatorial jungle a man ran to freedom. Creatures in red coats with dinosaur claws and overgrown hair took hacksaws from their purses and listened. It was your song again for the 5th time it seemed to come from the mountains far away. The man reached the sea and safety.
Do you know that moment when all around you there is war yet it all comes to a standstill just to listen to your song of love?

Insincerity

Like a child who detects the insincerity in a mother’s voice you’ve known insincerity all day long. You give them their wages in the form of a treacherous smile and move on.
You were sitting on a rooftop when floodwater filled the contours of the land. Just like insincerity you said to yourself.
You know that at certain times of day the phone will ring. This must be insincerity for how can the fish catch the fisherman?
Your wife is self-wrapped in cling film yet she still manages her appointments. Little mice run about her feet as if sensing her insincerity.
A news report the size of a billiard ball crashes out of the TV and sips your tea while words roll about like marbles. Did they really think you would not see through their insincerity?
You know insincerity all day long, you watch it grow, you see its serpents heads popping out of its flowers and spitting blood and fire as the butterflies hover overhead.
You go to sleep and you have a nightmare that you have become insincerity incarnate.

The contestants are gathered in the town.

The contestants are gathered in the town square somewhere on the Midwest plains. The master of ceremonies arrives.

Years before the game began the beginnings of long strips of coloured plastic tape were laid down into the square that stretched for miles out across the land and into the Rocky Mountains. Each tape chose its contestant by a secretive whisper that only they could hear. Sometimes more than one contestant was chosen and sometimes a contestant chose more than one tape. Each tape represented a pathway of life for them o follow, an ideal, a philosophy or a plain command that would appeal to their senses, their needs for something to follow in life. Year after year new tapes representing new ideas were laid down from the town square and off into the wide distance until the thinkers had exhausted every avenue of possibility. And no on this spring morning the game would begin.

The stating whistle blew. Out of necessity quite often, the solo contestants joined together to form teams to follow the tape. in other situations but one individual would choose but one tape. In other instances some tapes got no takers and one tape led the hapless contestant in a loop back to where he began.

What philosophy, belief or practice would win? Perhaps no one would win, perhaps in the end the tape ended on the top of a mountain with nowhere else to go; or into a whirlpool of rapids where it shook nervously in the abyss. Some contestants having reached the end of the tape carried on across the Rocky Mountains into California. Some contestants returned to the town to find an unused tape.

From the sky a traveller would see a huge rainbow coloured trail stretching for miles across the land like a modern Nazca line. At the end of the year the tapes were blown by the wind and wrapped themselves around the mountains.

The master of ceremonies gathered his fees and left town but before he disappeared he gave a speech in the public square which began, “I have something to say to America”, and ended with “farewell”.

THE PAIN OF NAKEDNESS

The pain of nakedness
In the Mediaeval morning
Bitter as the sweet dew
Where heartbeats flower
From the amnesia of clothing
In the single heartbreak
In the honesty of morning air
Yearning for affection

The pain of nakedness
True as unexpected tears
That walks through a park
Made of the scenery of dreams
The tingle of the flesh
The tight vulnerable skin
The unprotected fantasies
The darting red deer of lust

The pain of nakedness
Its eternity through night and day
The never ceasing longing
To touch the pain of nakedness
To be touched and kissed
To be loved and caressed
Oh why do people run away?
Why do they bury their nakedness?

Isn’t there a Saviour?

The pain of nakedness
Born into a cradle of tears
Dying in the shrouds of anxiety
With the flesh turning to rags
The heartbeat silenced
The unsatisfied years disintegrating
The spirit like lightning strikes the ground
But goes out like a candle flame

The pain of nakedness
A game of endless patience
On an empty kitchen table
And now sleep and night and death
Often cuts short the winning hand
So often severs life’s fulfilment
Or separates the pleasures like oceans
Around the pain of nakedness

Jan 16th 98

Another day in the darkness of mankind

Another day in the darkness of mankind
Whose love is the scraps of torn paper sheets
On which I cling like an unwanted survivor
Straddling the oblivion between groups of people

And picking dirt out of an unbandaged wound
Is like picking love out of the darkness of mankind
Every day the demon wind sows seeds of malcontent
Pulling the blanket of the sun from under our feet

Only a child can glimpse what love can be
Whose summer holidays are the bond of sun and water
And every day is a dream come true
Fed and clothed and sleeping under the stars

Not knowing pain or tears or old age
Until the careless world breaks them away

It’s significant

It’s significant; the eyeless marble white statue of Homer was in my bed last night.
I woke up, and I was his statue, plying a saxophone in the street.

The search for his eyes began by cutting shapes out of the wind and burning the wind in an oven until a baby appeared.

I am that baby, I cannot talk or see now until you snap a shaft of sunlight out of the sky and pierce my heart with it.

It’s definite, that poet gypsy had stolen me with promises of healing, and I wander down a wind tunnel in the clouds like a flaming white horse.

The quest now centres on the sin of Adam that burns in my liver like a flaming heart.

This great blot on my spirit is as ripe as an exploding apple filled with crude oil and has a life of its own, and has lived longer than I have.

I see the words of man disappear into a whirlwind in the sky wherein a stranger appears to be eating every word ever said by the whole of humanity; words that have been, and words that will be – devoured.

A red carpet appears at my right side and I fall. The blood red miasma of a stranger kind of love, sweet as the nectar of wild flowers, clings to my side.

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