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

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.

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.

The Colours of Life

The Colours of Life

There is a thick fat yellow that glows more warmly than gold
There is an unconscious dark blue so dense that it supports your weight as you walk
There is a deep dark blue-green that oozes like a swamp of essential life
If I could drown the world with these colours, all governments would cease and eyes would see

The honey melts down

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The honey melts down and reveals the wire grill.
An old love is a faceless icon of the Virgin Mary;
I hear a tremolo as the voice demands obedience.

Who am I to be cared about? I am nothing but a grain of sand in your life;
A bit of grit on your tongue, but you are the full orchestration in the lung playing.

As the honey melts the cold steel mesh is seen, gone is the dream.
The skeleton walks onto a film, birds drop cluster bombs,
And then run and tell their moms.

How hard it is to answer questions in your sleep:
To be confined from the help of family and friends,
To stand there in the thundering darkness as meaningless as a shadow,
To have your memory challenged by a caster of spells.

The Frog and the Sensitive Boy.

He was disconnected from life but did not understand the disconnection. He was cruel to life not having any empathy. He was at one within himself but he was not at one with life. Oneness with life is about respect for life, the pool of life, the family of life. Life is bigger than us all, it moves through the days and nights like a turtle climbing a beach to lay her eggs, one step at a time.

Life, we are reminded, is sighing and groanng all together, man kills man, animal kills animal, the earth pushes and shoves against itself. Within life, there is the cruelty of the single minded psychopath, the sociopath, the hunter, the manipulator, the spoiler. Life doesn’t need an organiser or a manipulator, it needs a referee, an umpire, someone to stop the arguments, the disputes from turning into conflict.

Sensitivity to life is not oversensitivity, it just is. It has accepted that life is far from perfect and that things can go wrong in a big way, which means the extinction of life, the driving away and the hunting down of life. Sensitivity to life is normal, it’s the hunters and the slayers and the ones who like to annihilate and who defend their status by saying or accusing the sensitive one of being too sensitive and confusing them as to who is in control of life and what is allowable in life.

You’re being too sensitive says the little boy who stabes a frog or picks the legs from an insect but he doesn’t like sensitivity. Sensitivity in another is a threat to his higher than thou status; his belief in his right to be in control over life and death and if there is no God, who is there to reprimand him. He feels supreme, he feels like god and that is what he lives for. But life isn’t living to be supreme, to be seperated from God, life has to deal with death everyday and knows from experience that life needs to be protected from those who are insensitive and who permit themselves to be like gods.

We were children outside school in the dinner break. We went into the gorse by the canal and there was a frog minding its own business. One boy in the group stabbed it with a stick and staked it into the ground and then exalted over his action. The group as a group said nothing because children aren’t taught about Life, about how life is vulnerable and needs to be protected. It was left to die there. But after school I went back alone, I pulled out the stake and put it back into the canal. I partly realised it would probably drown there, I wasn’t saving it from its slow death but I felt I was putting it back with its family, back into the enviroment that loved it.

You’re being oversensitive said the self appointed leader. But I was not being oversensitive, I was being as one in life, I was arguing for sensiivity as the norm’. Without sensitivity to life – life would be torn apart by the hunter, the psycopath, the one who likes to be in control over life and death.

 

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