A little barely literary brainchild to try and titillate the listener but more likely (probably not particularly literally) litter the web's slightly listing vista.
But seriously, chaps. Here's some thoughts, poems and stories told by me, some current cad that hopes you'll be entertained...
An ultra-quick post this time as I'm dead tired. A massive thank you to everyone who's become a follower - hope I can please you marvellous folks! Here's a more recent poem that I knocked out in about an hour - angry about a poet I read who used only prettiness as inspiration, substance and ornamentation. So naturally I resorted to plenty of bile, lust, wordplay, bitterness and, hell, threw in some pseudo-lesbian craziness for good measure. Enjoy!
I think I might be gay;
She nestles me in sibilance,
A syllabic sac of beauty like a kiss -
But with a tenderness, such care
That makes me feverish, unsure;
A touch on a comatose mind
That’s new, aware.
Or else a something-phile…
Sorry lover, all delicacy is yours
And I’m base jack in your elegant court.
I haven’t the romance in my curves
And no charm, none of the tact
That coddles your sensitive lips and hands -
I try to lap at it, but bite
Hard on the tract.
Maybe I’m none of these,
A bitter nothing biter always chromatic haranguing
Those doing it the way I can’t;
Pale ladies and gents that fold like water.
My form’s all sharp for grasping gums to suck
And hands flat slap on skins stretched up for passion;
This blog post has been a long time in coming. I tried starting it – I tried starting another – but it’s one of those that you just have to write as you think it, watch the words form upon the screen and catch your darting fingers spidering in the periphery, sit stupefied as syllables pour out of fingertips seemingly without any interference from your brain. It’s very much like playing the piano from memory – after watching your hands sprawl energetically across the keys like blind wrist parasites making use of your eyes for their harmonic ends, you feel like your brain should probably try and get involved in the process, maybe just as an overseer – so you try and comprehend what they’re doing, watch the fingers, watch the gaps, try and recognise keys and notes at speed and reverse the learning process and before you know it you’re understanding, you’re faltering, your muscles had the knowledge and mind baulks at how to make your digits count time over ivory. And it all goes to shit. Discordant, ugly shit. So if my fingers run away from me at any point here, please forgive their meandering – I won’t hinder their progress, for sometimes the flesh knows best.
When I previously tried to begin this post last week, I started with something like this. On age v experience: living with two professionals in their thirties and working with experienced other-generation pros, my relative lack of age and experience is sometimes a niggle in my mind and a joke in others’ mouths. It has ground away at me lugubrious as diamond sludge, catching my attention, oozing abrasively through my mind until it began to smart. I don’t know how to begin phrasing the bloody welter of responses that gradually ensued, but I’ll start with a massively egotistical quotation from one of my own poems – The Voice of Reason, which is in the blog post of the same name if you fancy a read. So, in the words of a beleaguered 2007 me:
‘In every minute born a different self
That knows, that’s slipped, that is in no way better –
For every truth hard gained, I’ve lost sweet lies.’
The poem was inspired by a debate with a philosophy and literature student on the merits of thorough research. But it became something more – some testament to innocence. I suspect I was being overly dramatic, but there ‘tis. And, two years on with a host of experiences both exquisite and massively destructive under my skin – I couldn’t agree more. I’m older, colder, I wax acidic, I’ve done things I’d never tell and others I can’t help but crow, and yet if I met the 2007 me I’m ashamed to say I’d look at those 2.5 years and lack of experiences I’d regard her as a lesser person. What utter fucking nonsense. What a shameful double standard. I will fight this inclination to patronisation and superfluous superiority.
Age is just a number. Oh, sometimes it counts, and mostly it is proportional to experience – makes sense, doesn’t it, the longer you’ve been living, breathing and seeing, the more you’ll have lived, breathed and seen. I remember writing to publishers when I wrote my fantasy novel at the tender age of 13. ‘Not enough life experience’ was the consensus. How I fumed. Did one need experience of the things we write about to imagine them? Did every crime writer know how it felt to cleave the flesh of another human, to feel their blood pump over gloved hands? Did every science fiction novelist know the feeling of a spaceship’s deck beneath their alien feet? Did Tolkien go around stabbing the hell out of balrogs on the occasional weekend? Didn’t think so then, and I don’t now. But, inevitably, more time, more experience, more people met and sights seen and words read and life tasted will mean richer writing. I get that.
But where I get confused, where people have a problem is in the qualification of experience. It’s obvious that the guys in the office who’ve been riding bikes for more than a decade than I have will be better at it – more time, more experience, and therefore better. It’s a no-brainer that I’ll have the edge in terms of time and experience of, say, writing poetry, considering the degree and all that. Where it becomes a brainer is in gauging the value of these things. In the job, experience of riding bikes and writing about them makes these people better and therefore employed as they are, and with every right to be at least a little patronising to me (which, considering the dropping of the BMW, they haven’t really taken me up on). It’ll also come in on a few other levels, like hobbies/sport/motoring prowess etc. And that’s it.
Where I start to chafe (apart from there, damn tight leathers) is at the assumption that people are miles apart in experience because of their age, setting a massive divide between generations. In fact, I don’t even like thinking about generations unless we’re talking granny/mother/daughter. People of any age, when faced with a younger person, will generally have a touch of the when-you-get-to-my-age-you’ll-know-betters. And in some things, they’ll be right. But I hate to see people of my age and below written off as only half-people because we haven’t been there and done it yet. Been where and done what, gramps? Been to a friend’s 70th? Had a mortgage? Got married? Seen our children win a prize? Got that promotion to senior management?
The moments that define our personalities, that shape our lives, that determine Value of Experience can take anything from a second to a decade – or more. A simple example – one guy spends fifty years learning and practising to be the best guitarist in musical history. He does little else – and is rightly in a league of his own when it comes to the guitar. He is the most experienced guitarist ever. Another guy spends one year doing something different and becoming skilled at it every year for five decades. He’s done a year of guitar, and is nowhere like as skilled as Dude A. But he’s also done a year of surfing, of carpentry, of studying Mandarin, of winemaking, of accountancy, he’s spent a year in France, Cuba, Iceland and Russia, he’s…well, you get the idea. Overly simple example – who’s the most experienced after 50 years? Either? Neither? One or the other? What if Mister B only spends 5 years studying different disciplines? What if he spends a week doing something different every week for a year, and then meets Fellow A? What is A going to say to him, at a possible 55 to B’s 17? ‘When you get to my age…’ what? ‘You’ll be so much more real than I ever was? You already are?’
So leaving the oversimplification for something a little more tangible, yes, those important moments can take any amount of time. In the two years since I wrote that poem I’ve watched one of my grandparents decline into Alzheimer’s, senility and death over more than a year. A year – and it was a terrible, eye-opening, memory-threatening, hope-destroying cycle of days and weeks and months. Yet I’ve also spent a drunken night with someone who really should have known better – night’s less appropriate than ‘hour’, one hour that’s left me with a cankerous weal of shame, rage and secrecy that I can never, ever undo. And the hour-later Me would eye the hour-before Me with a bitter glare that said ‘You!- innocent, naïve youngster, you don’t know. When you get to my age, just 59 minutes from now…’
I suppose what I’m missing is that generally the age/experience differential is just fact. It’s evident – made-up, ties off – in the arrogance of every older year of kids at school. It’s there true and tender in the advice of a parent to a child, who knows it really will feel better in the morning. It was there last night when a friend and I cooed at some liberally pierced youths at a fast-food counter, warning them of possible interview-related predicaments.
Age is just a number – similar (though not identical) to gender, build, race, or hair-colour in its importance towards judging another person. I don’t want to be wary – or embarrassed – by saying I’m 22, any more than I would be saying I’m a woman, a Libra, a natural brunette or a zealous cheese aficionado. I’m 22. I’ve visited over 20 countries, given up my happiness for that of strangers, and committed acts that I’ve loathed others for. I’ve been kicked in the head and I’ve danced for money. I’ve felt love so potently searing it’s driven tears from my eyes and howls from my throat. I’ve played the sax, played chess, played with people’s future happiness. I’ve swum with sharks and sprinted from spiders. I’ve been through physical and mental pain great enough to make me long for death. I’ve stolen, lied and cheated with a huge grin on my face. I’ve eaten at the Ritz, written a book, had sex in the rain and died my hair purple. I’ve a to-do list as tall as my tales. I am 22 – and in three months’ time, when I’m back from a summer of what promises to be incredible Experience, I’ll look at myself now and pity the poor child that I was.
So this rambling’s gone on quite long enough. I guess what I’m trying to say is: let experience be the decider, not age. I’ll try to do the same.
- The Current Cad
NB Though I'm tired and I really don't have the energy to re-read this before posting, I'm aware that I might be coming across as a self-absorbed jerk. Apologies if that's the case, lots of first person will do that to you. I've purposefully not made reference to the hundreds of thousands of people all over the world that go through massive, life-changing, embittering trials each day - I know they're there. As and when I meet them I'll sympathise with, be enthralled and astonished by their experiences. But I've only got my own - and a choice few - to go on right now, see?
Two days: two accidents. Ballsacks. Neither was serious; the first was a majorly embarrassing drop from near-stationary coming out of the car park by the office - while all the guys watched from across the road, then had to come and help me pick up the bike, all grins to my helpless fuming. Damn lack of upper body strength - men have to play the gentleman to your distressing damsel and wander over to help you out while you lie furiously in the road letting out expletives so vile that the tarmac cringes and kerbs peel away in disgust. I let the rage and shame drive me on the way to Wales, used the hot sting of embarrassment to keep my wrist down, revs up, the engine screaming for me. And as a result pulled in at the destination just a few minutes behind the first person to arrive. Cue victory jive. Plus it turned out that two others had got into, ahem, scrapes on the way - and I had done the least damage to my lovely BMW. Though it sounds cruel, a shade of relief tinged my consternation for the other crashers.
Accident 2: the Hairpin. After the previous day - of dropping, embarrassment, riding, riding, no stopping, riding some more, photos, riding, applying nosebag and generous nosebottle and getting only 4 hours of sleep - an exhausted cad approached a track for the first time. After a few slow laps I stopped for a long break, already weary - but after lunch and a power nap in the van (40 minutes of dozy leather-clad bliss), not to mention the encouragement of the other riders who were zooming around and swapping bikes every few minutes, I went out again. Oh, what larks! I took it slow, got used to people soaring past me on the straights, cranked right over in the corners and scraped some bits of me on the floor, started to get my confidence up, posed like a bastard for the photographer at one of the bends, hared it down the straight, braked for the hairpin, oh god, going too fast for the hairpin, shit, shit, crank it over some more, fuck, it's gone, I'm trying to keep the BM off the floor with my arm, failing, I'm sliding across the track watching the bike slide parallel to me, scoring a white line on to the recently resurfaced tarmac, then tumbling over myself taking in black green blue black blue green black blue and praying to the gods of roadkill that I won't look like the latter when finally I'm still, swearing profusely, craning my neck to see the F800 lying still as a corpse and a marshal waving a flag to slow, oh crap, my boss. It might as well be a white flag. I utterly surrender. I'm such a tit.
So they pick me up, pick up the bike, and it's not serious. My brand spanking new leathers are scuffed up where they've been hassling the track, my extremeties (shoulders, elbows, knees, hips) are starting to pick up a glow of pain, and there's an overwhelming lack of damage to the Beemer - extremeties scuffed, just like my own. They make me hop in the ambulance, it's protocol - and the fellow checks me over, takes a few details, says he's cool with me heading back out if I want. With a wry shake of my head I jump out the ambulance just in time for my scowl of self-loathing to be photographed by the grinning snapper. Fucking ace.
Everyone was pretty nice about it. 'Shit happens', 'Long as you're alright', and 'It's got two wheels, it's made to fall over' seemed to be the general consensus. Even James Haydon (quizzical frowners, Wiki up a storm) gave me a warm smile and asked 'You alright, babe?' with genuine consternation. I was alright - the biggest casualty was my pride. Lucky for me I didn't want to go back out, because the most complex equipment I got to control for the rest of the day was a stopwatch. And they managed to stuff the BMW in the back of the van and me in the front, so I was spared a 5 hour ride home at the end of the day. I never thought I'd see the time when I'd rather take the van than the bike...
So two days later I'm back at my desk, still a little stiff, aching and bruised, but okay. I was encouraged to take the day off yesterday - neck and arm soreness made doing pretty much anything a hassle (you know you're sore when grating cheese brings a tear to your eye). Though it hasn't been decided whether they'll let me take the F800 home for a day or so until it needs to be returned, it's nice to see that they trust me as a rider, despite the 2 incidents - I cruised around on a sporty Yamaha R6 not an hour ago. And crash-wise I'm 2 for 2 over the trip with a young fella with much more experience who's thrown his Harley down twice in 24 hours and done more damage than I have. The moral of the story, folks, is - don't be a twat. It's a fucking hairpin, isn't it? Sloooooow. Dooooooown.*
- the Current Cad
*Also, don't drop a £7355 bike. Actually, don't drop anything that costs £7355. Just don't drop anything, okay?
So I'm still at work and having one of those moments where there is absolutely nothing that I should be doing. Which gives me a moment to update you on the reason that I'm jigging excitedly in my swivel-chair (a rare dancing feat of arse and wheels). As of one hour ago, I have a new toy. A BMW F800R, Chris Pfeiffer replica*. Oh, but it's sexy. One minute drooling over the hunk of metal and I'd consigned my poor old Bandit to the lock-up with barely a pang of guilt. (NB: riding in a skirt and heels is not recommended unless you're up for a stiff...er, breeze.)
Okay, I only have it for a week. But I'll be riding it to Anglesey on Monday, then tooling around the track on it on Tuesday feeling like a pro (and trying to keep out the way of the pros). This is the first day I've actually looked forward to going home - on the new steed.
For those many of you who aren't so bike inclined, I...am having trouble concentrating on anything else to tantalize you with. But I'll persevere.
Having met a whole host of different characters in the past week (no, I'm not at Disneyland), I'm starting to realise that everyone has a hidden...thing. No, not that thing. Every single person has one very esoteric and original area of expertise, or particular idiosyncratic experience, that you might never find out unless you ask specifically for it - and then you'll be gobsmacked. It's so easy to simplify your perceptions of the people you come into contact with - whether over a long or short period - into 'That's just my mate Stoogenmeier.' 'That's just Girl With Herring.' But an amazing way to break the ice, or gain a new level of respect for your existing mates, is to really ask after their thing. (Please don't confuse this with the other thing - it may also be a good way to break the ice, but can lead to a loss of respect for your existing mates.) I mean, really ask after it - make them come up with it, ask specifically for it and make them dig deep.
It might be anything - a crazy specialist subject they became proficient in at uni by helping a struggling mate, a life-changing accident or injury, a bizarre hobby they had ten years ago. But it'll really open your mind to the...reality and substantiality of other people's lives. Right now I can feel the 'things' of everyone in the office (I'll give you a couple of seconds to get that image out of your filthy, filthy minds) - just opening your mind to be aware of the hidden talents and experiences of other people really does make you operate differently. Instead of 'man', you see...man...
I know, I know; I'm full of love and respect for my fellow humans with a sickening lack of bitterness and sarcasm. I do apologise. Normal service to resume as soon as possible. But please go out and ask at least one person if they'll share their thing with you. And please phrase it differently. (Or don't; results may vary.) I'll post with some of my people's things tomorrow, if I can.
Okay, it's 5.04 and it's almost time to get out of these clothes and leap onto the new love of my life. Hell yeah, sexual connotations. If it rides like it looks, I'll...wish it was a man.
- The Current Cad
* If you don't know what or who this is (as I didn't until about 3 days ago) then watch this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pXJ6siu8ttY
- And no, I can't do that. Yet... *shifty eyes. Runs off from desk. Comes back with bruises.* No, I can't do that.
Thursday 6 May 2010
It seems I've been terribly naughty. Two whole weeks of steaming naughtiness. Or just over, if you recall the date of my last post on this blog. Yes, it's been too long, but I've been busy. With AWESOME. Before I get right down to business I just want to say a fervent thank you to the people who've joined as followers - I hope I can keep exciting you!
Man, but it feels good to be writing again. I've been editing other people's words for the last week, and while it thrills the child in me to be wielding an avenging red pen, the wordsmith braces her claws against my gut and howls as paid, published writers bludgeon her with flaccid phrases and bad grammar that hits like a carcinogenic two-by-four. Even writing that smeared a smile over my face; I think I may even have winked. It's really hard to find the mood and time to carry on with any of my writing projects outside of work - the novel's pretty involved, I can't get it up for poems like I used to, and even updating the blog has...well, my two-week interweb vacation speaks for itself. Though I adore what I'm doing at the moment at the mag, feeling the thoughts arouse my fingers and trace curves through plastic onto the page is deliciously intoxicating, indulgent as ganache and vital as bone.
And, as happens unfortunately frequently, it's only a quickie this time. I've got to get up and apply hygiene to myself in the morning before work (which I'd prefer to refer to as play, but whatever), and so I'll give you guys a brief taster of the last two weeks which I'll hopefully elaborate on later. So, in the last two weeks I have: ridden the bike around perilous London, had drinks and exchanged numbers with a fairly important fellow, exceeded the speed limit by 30% under a policeman's nose, run my bike flat out at 132mph, written my first content for the mag, got up at 7am at least once (please stifle your surprised vomit, it can impede the performance of laptops), translated 'book on sex tips' for a French girl, locked myself out of my house, watched a harrier jump jet land in my immediate vicinity, had several inappropriate dreams (I mean, it's 7 months 'til Christmas), smashed the rear brake lever off my bike by leaning too hard in a corner, been given many professional handshakes and business cards, sent the most ridiculous drunken email of my life ('WoohBooo!'), fought a man for trying to make a salad, and fucked up my toenail ironically by jumping out the back of a stationary van. Etc.
So until next time, which will hopefully be in only a day or so, I'll leave you with a bastardised written version of my appalling French translation. "Er...elle a achete un livre pour...um...elle sais...avec les garcons et les filles...dans la chambre...?" To which Shirley matter-of-factly replied, "Ah, le SEXE." Thank you, and good morning!
So, yes, I've been a little tardy with my posting; yet I have good cause. I spent most of last week moving out of my funky Leamington flat into an elegant Peterborough house, in order that I might enter...the world of work. *cue organ music* In fact, it's less of a world than a parallel universe; to an unemployed person (or should I say, someone working on their own creative stuff because they're just so gloriouslybohemian), people who work inhabit some kind of universe in which they're missing all day from the real world - from shops that in the daytime are quiet and queueless, from pubs with sleepy-eyed staff, still awash with last night's misbehaviour, from houses and crazy-paved driveways all left empty, wanting. The streets are bare, silent; somehow huge and engulfing, at once quiet concrete and disquieting chasm.
And where are the people? Their lives have been sucked into some other existence. Some plain where the day is a sequence of variably interesting tasks and the night is preparation for the day. Meals have to be prepared, eaten, cleared away, leaving only the sud-scented memory of the energy consumed to power Work. Clothes must be changed, washed, dried, ironed, laid out. The living space must be tidied. You must go to bed just as the day's getting interesting, setting your alarm for some godforsaken hour of the morning. And if you don't do all these things, you try and do 'leisure', then you feel like a failure when your flat is a tip, there's no clean clothes to wear or in-date food in the fridge, and you're eating yet another take-away out of something that may once have been a shoe. But it's necessary. And the unemployed, the students, the stay-at-homes and the gadabouts can't understand it, can't really get it through their heads when a working friend says, "No chaps, I'm not drinking; in fact I should be off in a moment, it's 10.30pm and I've got work in the morning..."
You'll probably have noticed that I switched to the second person in that little deviation. Yes, ladies and gents, I've gone where most men have gone before; the workplace. Sadly for me, I'm not getting paid, since I'm doing a...an internship, let's say, since 'work experience' smacks a little of school. Fortunately, I'm working at one of the best places one could possibly hope to get some experience - a motorbike magazine. If you didn't know it already, I've got the two-wheel fever, and there ain't no cure but to ride my little heart out. So I'm damned chuffed to be working at one of the top bike mags in the country - and since I started yesterday, I've had a massive grin on my face (or a pensive smirk as I realise where my next grin is coming from). I'll keep you updated on the most interesting things that happen; for example, on Friday, I'm off on an advanced training day - which I'll then be writing about, hopefully to be included in the next issue. Watch this and future spaces for details...Well, that's assuming that the hastily fixed hole in my petrol tank doesn't start pissing fuel again and culminate in my legs a) catching on fire b) being torn off in a probably exciting but almost certainly gory explosion.
So, in conclusion, I now know what it's like to enter the Work Dimension. And here I sit, at 9.20 in the evening, with no drink in my hand and no plans save tidying my shiz, putting out my work clothes for the morrow (I'm thinking, oh, I don't know, maybe bike gear again) and getting an early night with a good book. I can't wait for work tomorrow...and there! I realise what I'm thinking. Although tinged with an inevitably naive romanticism whilst the novelty's still unworn, I'm living in the parallel universe, spending my time with strangers and sleeping in a house that didn't exist. This is a placement, it's not a job - that's what I told my panicking inner bohemian when I applied - yet here I am soaking up knowledge, names, numbers and letters, attributing importance to previously unknown matters, and caring about people whose existence meant three syllables to me 48 hours ago. Though the memories and the people of a lazy existence in Leamington are still fresh, still important, still relevant, this is current. This has taken over my time, my home, my mind, my life. This was going to be Work Experience, and maybe, I'm panicking, maybe it was better when I called it that. Because this could so easily become what I'm Doing With My Life. And what's really scary is - that it wouldn't be bad. In fact...it'd be pretty fucking great. I could pick up this feeling and run with it, let it power my future job, my home, my decisions, my life from now on. It would be so easy to become...whatever I would be. And all because I sent a casual email, thinking I should probably do something with my year out.
Well, we'll have to wait and see how life pans out. But I know that this placement is 2 months; at the end of June, I'm off on a massive adventure (details to follow at some point). What I will tell you now is that the following poem was written for the guy who I'll be travelling with over the summer. A brief bit of background; I've followed the traditional ghazal format quite closely (you might want to quickly google it to see how closely, since it's a really interesting form), but modernised it a fair bit too. And the subject deals with simpler things being somehow harder to understand - such as how much I miss my friend, who lives thousands of miles away in Toronto, Canada. Mr J, this one's for you...
...is what should have intervened when my hand started to pour another drink. Yes, folks, it's 16 minutes past midnight on what is now a drunken Monday morning. It starts so innocently...as always, I suppose...with due consternation as to the expiry date of a carton of fruit juice. 'Oh no,' I had thought, glancing from the box to the calendar, the calendar back to the box, 'this pineapple juice goes off this month!' Dilemma - solved easily by the application of reason from my mighty human brain. 'I know! I shall consume it by means of my mighty human oesophagus!' But then hero's problem begins to complicate. My brow furrowed. 'But as a youthful, happening sort of person it would be foolish, nay, laughable to sit in on a lazy Sunday evening drinking pineapple juice just to be reasonable. And since I am compelled to drink this pineapple juice whilst holding true and faithful to my evening's plans of not going out, I shall have to hit upon exitement - in beverage form!' That's when I noticed the rum, schnapps and vodka - white, peach and Value respectively. (And, may I just point out, it was bloody lovely.)
So, hours later, bottles emptier, head achier, chores forgotten...ier... here I recline (ahem, sprawl) trying to ascertain whether I'm about to ruin my credibility by introducing this next poem with drunken ramblings. The voice of reason...says I'm only increasing my credibility as a real person. And that I should introduce this next poem as one last older poem for now - on the merits of knowledge v passion. So I'll leave you to the poem, which will be vaguely more coherent than I am right now, and end by saying that I hope you've enjoyed this drunken blogging, and that even if you haven't I win, since I'm now chock full of Vitamin C. Thank you, and goodnight!
The Voice of Reason
I
Yesterday, I was sobered.
Apparently I sin in every word I write
(And, I suppose, I say)
When I could be so much better informed.
He said, “There’s always more to be done.”
He was young, confident; he made sense
But I would not hear.
As he spoke the air thickened, stank,
Stuck hope to him like honey;
Wiping expectations from his face
He tore rotting stars from vaults
And washed old bones in the dappled lamplight.
And I watched him, from some place
Where potatoes are just a side dish
And thunder says what it means –
I watched with stricken heart
As he showed me that the pen could never have its day;
Told me to read and read
In order to assimilate great minds
And learn to lose my own.
II
This android dreams…
Of having a say. Oh, one can learn,
But every minute lived is seconds changed
And I’ll never be as good as I will tomorrow.
Let’s draw the line, lay down the tome a moment
To grasp at life, instigate wild spasms,
The pen dancing as if minutes from death,
Cellophane-wrapping the perishable flesh
Just aching to go sour.
In every minute born a different self
That knows, that’s slipped, that is in no way better –
For every truth hard gained, I’ve lost sweet lies.
Who knows, I may live out my days
Some burnt-out carcinogen echoing glory,
But for now I’ll be more than content to shoot
And hope to see inky integrity festering,
Dark words smouldering in some white tissue,
An infection to bleed new verve into the darkening water –
This android screams in a pretty kind of delirium…
Reboot from start.
III
The New Year, a lack of resolution,
Where dreams are wires that spit and snarl
My overloaded mind. Slovenly, marooned, comatose,
I crave certainty, spent passion,
Whilst computers crash beneath my hands and waves play on the shore.
Venus’ arms could hold all my strength now.
Fleeing sunken depths of eyes, my thoughts are spurred;
I wonder if they’ll judge me
Some self-indulgent child with no mystique.
No blood in this deliverance, just pus;
I lance the boil of feeling with my pen.
Beauty’s rarely truth, words both and neither,
Just mediums to lie/confess before a stranger’s jury.
The page is severed, crumpled to the pale mass grave
And, finally undone, I’m lost to blushing depths of hands,
