The Sparkler…

And thus you did ignite

Ahh you glitz of fizzy light
Sizzling in so short a life
more than shimmer, more than glimmer, more than glitter…

Erupting pleasance to the eye

You dazzle fly so bright
Spitting sparks into the night
By side, by red of bonfire, neath fireworks’ spangled flights…

Obstructing the passers by

You stark prickle of white
Scintillating needle knife
with o’s, with eights, with infinities…

Conducting no orchestra but the eye

Oh you ember of failing light
Fizzling from so short a life
Dropped to grass, to mud, then trodden…

And thus you were stamped from sight






But not forgotten

The Dragonfly in the Conservatory…

An unwitting entry to the conservatory for a creature so short on thought that it traps itself within. Imprisoned by an inability to trace its wingbeats back through the slim white door from which it arrived. To roughly observe: I see it little changed from its carboniferous era ancestors; a striking curiosity, the size of a small bird—a living anachronism. There’s a bassy buzz about its thorax that announces its presence quite overtly; one that alerts and lures another carnivore, Kitty (the household predator), from a summer afternoon slumber. A twitch of a whisker, a brain stirred by instinct. One eye, then two. Two vertically slit eyes—open wide—attuned and topped with a crown of black triangular hoods that reflexively track the dragonfly’s careens and caroms. Each sharp change of direction for the insect, a recovery from mandible-first whacks into the glass walls and ceilings of the sunlit jail.

I envisage this marvel of nature’s straying will see it die sooner than it should. Let nature take its course says one percent of me. I crush the cockroach of a notion with a no and the weight of the other ninety nine percent of me. What awaits?—Death by impact and fall and consequent consumption by scavenging cat? Or capture by swiping claw, death and consequent consumption by hunting cat? The outlook from the point of those rounded, compound eyes, is grim. But I shall save the beast; I’ll save its being and its outlook.

Nature’s course gets a cocked snook, I get the cat and eject it from the conservatory. It eyes me, miffed, from behind a glass pane. My attention turns to the dragonfly and to a how to. A how to take such a delicate thing in order to release it? One snap of wing or antenna will confine it to ground to starve but too effete an attempt will spook it into head-butting the glass more frantically. No way to usher it out, it can’t conceive that solids can be transparent. No, I need a net. But no net, I have no net.

A flimsier than flimsy plastic bag, sat upon the washer homes pegs of many colours, offering itself as the impromptu tool of choice. I tip out the pegs and strengthen the edges of the bag by rolling them over themselves. Aloft I hold it and after dragonfly I go.

Some clambering over conservatory furniture, footholds askew and body in the awkwardest of stances—I make my catch. Deft but with utmost delicacy the dragonfly is enclosed in the thinnest of sail-white a shell. I bring myself and my captive out through the slim door to a more comfortable setting. No buzz; the critter’s settled and most likely believing it has been eaten. ‘Not so bad’ I imagine it would report to itself if it were able.

Peeling away the edges of the bag to put the light from the clear blue above on to this, the greenest (yes, so green there’s fluorescence in its viridescence) of curios reveals to me the beauty in its oddity. I’d stare and marvel at its strangeness a day and more were I not fearing this moment is fleeting. The dragonfly’s will is its own now; if it would care to beat those wings and take off.

If it had the inkling.

A few seconds more I’m afforded the privilege of its presence. Vivid in this day’s solar splendour I see sharp blacks now amongst those greens. Missed and unseen the first time for their stealthy containment of the stranger stronger colour; but with attention the lines that frame its paintwork take their stage and intrigue me as artwork—angled by Cubists and put down I dare say by a single bristled brush dipped in the most exquisite back end of a squid’s bottom! I need a camera, to capture this that I’m seeing and this that I’m setting free. But no time, I have no time. The wings (of four) both aft and fore touch the ground once and then rise through their range; the auto-pilot inside that big-eyed, bug-eyed vessel is running flight checks.

I fumble for my camera-phone but as quick-fingered as I am I can’t pull any focus on the scene and so with a snook as cocked as the snook before; the being lifts off and takes its green to be enveloped in the blue above. Big dot, small dot, smaller dot.


Still, with no still to show for the experience I am prompted to document this to prompt the memory next time I visit—and so I have.



Cutting to June 2016 the conservatory’s gone now, demolished in the name of progress. A big brick extension of more practicality sits in its place. This is why I write.



Out-sprinting the ‘blinged-up with a pocket-watch’ March Hare this is—without revision but with the obligation I feel I must.

Just here, in the moment forcing self like a shrouded celery to break out into the light with something creative. The thought fox and inkling sylph have long eloped and took the night with them. Oh, they took some honey and little money as that’s all they could wrap it up in: one of those new small five pound notes, you know—the plastic type. I figure the remnants of that mellifluous glob of sweet stickiness will wipe clean mind once its bulk has been consumed. Built to last this new money, not biodegradable, unlike us (us rotters) nor the aforesaid wild animal/spirit relationship. That’ll peter out too; they’ll scrap over such a scrap as the scrap of honey—and, given inflation, only one of them will be able to afford to get the bus back. There one of them is, look, stranded on a bench by the roadside puzzling over what happened to the boat, the other, be it fox or sylph waving ‘buh bye’.

The light, yes the light, back to it; not blinding just ample to shrink the pupils to pinholes and sharpen one’s take on the immediate. I didn’t realise by the way that in the absence of reading glasses one can still see things close up by making a tiny hole with two forefingers and two thumbs and peeping through. A handy, handy hint there, a digital aid that’s technology free. See. Did you have a go and see? Useful come the apocalypse eh.


Celery is the same species as rhubarb I surmise and I can’t be bothered to go google the truth. Actually the truth is that I can be bothered but I don’t wish to be. I’ve googled far too much of late, OD’d on info; overloaded self and consequently soaked little of it in or up. It’s so easy to come by now, knowledge—it’s losing its power.

Maybe I’ll be less corrupted.

Celery, no rhubarb, get with the programme museless man. You’ll find some wild here : 53.438530, -2.307520 . A lot further away now from where I live alas, it’s best harvested in May—be wild yourself, bunny-hop the fence and slice you some stalks.

I have to go, something unplanned has come up.



Okay 1 revision to the above if you can spot it—and a little deciphering. This was a rapid release, a sit-rep that I guilted myself into, an excuse put out to masquerade as a reason for not posting. I’ve moved recently leaving, family member behind, to smaller house but in a more idyllic setting. Presently saddened by this but I am adjusting to the change and building a writer’s shed-a-proper as a consolation. There’s a heck of a lot of hours to put into getting my little (ocd appeasement) world just so. But once complete—watch me go. 


Where to Today…?

…reads the numberless sign at the fore. It heralds the arrival of an old yellow school bus. Air brakes hiss as if sighing, side-doors concertina to reveal a grit-worn grey platform; a step that beckons me to hop up off this pavement.

I do.

The driver; a spirit of a wisp of a man, dead a couple of decades I’d guess—no joke—dead, I mean REALLY dead. This, his ghost, is present, yet locked in the echo of routine. I accept the scene without question or surprise. He holds out a translucent hand into which I drop the exact fare—for exactly where?…

I don’t yet know.

The money tinkles through ethereal fingers, to fall most conveniently into the cash trays below; these funnel the coins to the takings box. I’m validated, now a bona fide passenger, by the faintest acknowledgement from this being—the faintest of men. Not free yet though to take a seat, his eyes drill into mine with a repeat of the question—Where to Today…? I stare back, still I’m without an answer. Behind the stares we see each others’ prior worlds, and witness within them a commonality that binds us into friends. I smile, something’s occurred to me, and so I answer; it’s to be a stop: a bench several miles hence, you’ll know it when you see it, the one neath the oak tree on the apex of the bend.

He the ghost…and me the rider.

We are underway, a small jolt, a loll of the head as we run up to speed. The first road is a straight one, laser beam straight, named the Mile Road, yet in length it falls short by half of that. To both sides; flood plains that spend most of their lives either furrowed by plough or furred up with wheat. They go by this day in a state between the two; a motion blurred streak of green shoots and soil. Approaching the end of the straight we pass between pylons; I listen out for the electric buzz of the cables they prop, for the arcs I know they ooze their energy, but the bus’s engine noise and tin roof blot the sound. The driver, his form eroded by the interference, fades more-so for a second. He looks over his shoulder and casts me a message—it does that to me. It hurts.

The road’s uniformity is ruined by a T-junction that’s kinked like a wrecking bar. Our progress too is hindered by a red light, but then helped by an amber and a green. We trundle now, rather than speed, limited in our endeavour by a street sweeping vehicle we’ve caught up with. It’s maxed out at 20mph, I know this as I briefly see the bus’s dial through our driver. He’s jittery, his form emboldened by the agitation, he looks over his shoulder and casts another explanation—only when I’m angry am I like this. It hurts as well.

A ghost with road rage, I ponder what took him from this world: a crash, a stress related seizure? I stare into him and beam back—no worries, I’ve no deadline. My word choice could have been better; I shouldn’t have used the word dead, I pull from his gaze and turn a full one-eighty to look out through the back window. It’s fogged with dry dirt, but see-through enough to reveal the source of our driver’s unrest. A white sporty hatchback, up close and aggressively swerving. From my seat; beyond the rear pane, the dirt, and into its windscreen I stare. My eyes find and lock on to the motorist’s—back off! He’s awestruck by my transmission and respects my demand; out of bewilderment or fear of this ability, I’m unsure. The result is, he drops away.

Up ahead, the road sweeper peels off into a lay-by allowing us to pass. Much better etiquette from him, and a clear road for us from hereon. Our trundle is stirred up to a low whine as the bus’s engine spins more freely and we clunk up through the gears. 50mph, the whine’s no longer low. It would devour my thoughts if not for the panoramas—left and right, fed on fast-travel conveyors, they show us: fields that on Sundays host football, hedgerows of hawthorn frothed with white blossom, stables with lazy horses, a car park for weekend car boot sales, pylons, more pylons, and another lay-by that holds a battered burger van.

A page of a newspaper distracts me from the show, it has in some way been whipped up outside by a gust. Like a sting ray to the sea floor it sprawls on the windscreen; long enough only for me to read its headline: BY CHOICE OR BY FORCE? And have a flash of the accompanying image: A migrant boat on the sandy edges of North Africa, an overcrowded deck, yet still a fearful man is being shepherded up the gangplank to add to their number. The shepherd: a rag-tag policeman with arms as skinny as his raised baton. The period of ‘long enough’ expires; the paper is snatched by the air we plough. It rides up over the roof in the turbulence of our progression, lollops in the wake before a feather-like fall returns it to the road.

The unremarkable landscape and its sideshows subside; we break into the sprawl of a glamourless housing estate, of the social sort, pebble-dashed grey, every third garden unkempt, and a woman or two pavement-side towing two kids off to school, whilst each has a younger sibling who gets to ride out in a pushed pram. Our driver slows for a lollipop man whose armour of fluorescent yellow, and moral boundary of silhoutted kids on a disc on a stick is staked in the tarmac. Our slowing is converted to a stop. A child being ushered over the crossing looks at the driver as she passes. And with that vision goes as wide-eyed as an owl. She tugs her mother’s coat to get her to share the spectacle and hopefully supply answers. Her mother’s too occupied though with not occupying the road and takes a hand off her pram to tug the bemused girl onward.

Another small jolt and a loll of the head as we again break into movement. We shift up through three gears and I settle into the sense that the next phase of the journey, four miles at a guess, will be without interruption. Verdant green offers to end the estate grey, but it’s approach is stymied by the bus’s slowing—we are with interruption. Down through three gears. A bus stop. Company. Lots of it too, a good cluster, twenty I’d estimate, all elderly. I read the faces and some of the thoughts of those that eye me. Sadness, such sadness. All of them here together, answering some calling, but each of them alone. They all share the situation of having no-one. A gathering of the lonely. I mask my empathy, adopt a smiling façade and secretly broadcast—Awayday today folks; away to the island. No reply. I know not how, but I know they know we’re heading there anyway.

Onward. Aside from initial glances, I do what all others do when sharing space with strangers; look in every direction but at them. It is only rarely, but twice, that I lower my sight lines and by accident observe a man three rows ahead. His gaze encapsulates the verdant green we’ve now at last, rolled alongside. As he admires the countryside; I delight in the face his life has given him. His profile, side on, illuminated by the still low sun is the tanned orange of a well off retiree. Too many toes on the crows feet tell me he frequents the Algarve or Spain or similar, and that he’s spent a life with many a smile. I want him to turn my way just a few degrees, to catch his glabella. I see a lot in what’s between someone’s eyes and can differentiate twixt frown, anger, consternation and concentration. My curiosity has me cast—suntanned man, look this way.

He looks; the corrugated folds by brows shout ‘thinker’ and ‘squinter’. The latter coming from being blue-eyed and dwelling in bright climes; such places, I’ve observed, have such a man react to light this way. And the thinking, because…well because I know him. A man from my past is hemmed behind that roadmap of time. David Watts, unseen for thirty years. They said he’d gone to Bolivia to pan for gold. Yes, it’s definitely him and I’m right, he was a thinker. Not someone deep though, his forehead would fold up at the simplest of statements, which was a constant source of our circle’s amusement. I never wished I could be like him…damn, I thought that out loud. He’s looking me in the eye and weaponising that frown. Then it melts and we both laugh; he’s sage enough now to know his limitations and sense too there’s no malice in me.

I rise from my seat to join David for an impromptu catch up; a hand up on the yellow rail helps me negotiate the unsteady aisle. As I arrive though, there’s the familiar winding down of the gears and I feel my weight wanting to carry on forward. We’re stopping, I’m gripping the rail tight.—This bus terminates here—casts the driver, a new skill I note, it came through the back of that transparent head of his. Everyone rises. It’s then I go dizzy with the dawning that every occupant in this coach is a person from my past.

Too many. The people and the memories that accompany each of them—if listed they’d fill a scroll taller than ten of me, and be so disordered they’d render the scenes I’ve detailed this last hour most sane and sensible. And all at once they come. I’m by the driver hanging on to the rail, twenty plus pairs of eyes eye me; David Watts’ pair lead the charge—no frown on him though, and no frown on any of them. Draped from the stares are faces half-scrunched, half-smiles from my friends of old. A life spent people-watching tells me the faces are telling me of their appreciation. Coyness comes to meet my confusion, I look to my feet and prepare myself to faint on the very spot they cover.—Thank you for coming, sincerely thank you…

A hand, a translucent hand, is pushed in the way of my downward gaze. Its fingers click to snap me from the woozy, woolly-headedness. An awakening of sorts, which itself is snapped away by a hiss and the sight of the side doors that again concertina to reveal this time; a grit-grey pavement, a step that beckons me to hop down off this bus.

I do.

An island of green ringed by kerbstones, implanted with an oak of considerable size and a lichen-covered bench strung with wood, of equal age, that blends with it naturally. I stagger there to sit down and clock the situation from at least a small distance. This coming together, I get it, it’s a send off. The sun is behind me, it warms the space between collar and hair, I want to sleep in these rays; a last look up at twenty plus now smiling faces on applauding bodies.

A look down, my footwear is now chequered slippers.

The Lion Shan’t Graze with the Lamb…

I owe it to you

To requite without agenda
To hold not so close my secrets
To sacrifice those rustled lambs of leisure
To commit to do and to eschew the will to say I will
To confirm all paranoias are true fears from well founded reason
To apologise for a life led in limbo on the trail of a circle of breadcrumbs
To acknowledge and appreciate all surety and loyalty amidst unending uncertainty

But my pride is lions and they won’t let me from their den—so while they sleep—I slip out this kite

The Night’s Bargain…

Bench, silver birch, bench and repeat. Such is the waterside lined. I choose my spot; it’s hard, fashioned from box steel and painted a colour to match. Nonetheless I’ve committed to sit and endure it till someone talks to me—my stubborn resolve will see I will.

No sooner have I sat before a man walks by with a terrier. It roams quite free on an extendable lead, sniffing everything, including my leg. Luckily I’m deemed a post unworthy of scent-marking.

The sharp sound of high heels holding pace and purpose. A woman in a long coat approaches and passes. To her ear is one of those phones I find myself incapable of deciphering. Her body is here only as a drone—a mind ensconced in conversation.

Silver birch, bench; a couple arrive and sit themselves that distance away. They canoodle. I envy their display of love for each other—all fresh, locked in that perfect circle of adoration. I travel back to my time, many years back and recall the euphoria of sharing a similar stage—a tender memory that snuffs out any present resentment. I think my eyes overstay their welcome with a stare that breaches their space, but it’s loaded with well-meaning.

Water beyond the waterside shimmers and bounces back the rusting sky. The Sun’s final act is to turn itself even redder before peeling away from the closing lid of day; its job done; gone to show off its sunsets to what’s west of here. Around me lights awaken, popping on one by one, offsetting the dark but no defence to the assailing chill. One that surrounds, gnaws and steals my energy. I think twice of my whim but my will is strong, I’ll stay here till someone talks to me—unprompted. I hunker into the cotton collar of my striped top, make fists in my pant pockets and settle for the duration. My breaths escape as wraiths and diffuse into the local air.

Cyclist without a front light whisks by; a dying glimmer of match-head red at the rear (pulsed, I suspect, by a poundshop Chinese gizmo, and the last dregs of an equally cheap battery). The most I get from him as he enters and leaves my world is the waft of his wake, thoughts of filaments and mild hypnosis drawn by the diminishing ember. My sigh escapes, a wraith to join those others in the ether.

Bin, bench, silver birch, bench, silver birch, bin. A tramp; systematic in his foraging, takes no interest in me, but delights in the old and cold half-eaten hamburger his efforts uncover. In lamplight and from crumpled paper it emerges, a sesame seeded moon, that swiftly disappears through his beard; he smiles to no-one in particular, swallows, then disappears too.

Six hours. I’ve had nothing but a wary nod from a hurrying, underdressed for the weather, woman. Hurrying where? I’ve no idea. I look at my striped pants, I’m underdressed too. My will to stay here is still strong mind, stickler to a fault, sticking to a decision, that’s me. Admittedly, at one point I was overthrown by the urges of my aged bladder. Aye, to confess at midnight I did leave this seat; made my way to the waterside to wee. The ripples that rode from my standpoint across the calm managed to tell the story of their emergence (plip plip morse code I imagined) to the other bank! I wonder what it thinks of me.

I returned promptly from the excursion to man this post, where now in the small hours I’m a being of shiver and angst and pins and needles and hunger and, and…discomfort in what’s otherwise a silent night.

I’m tired too, but there’s life in me yet, I’m going to sit here till someone talks to me.

Two drunken young men en route home I suppose, swaying more than staggering, discussing with slur the desirability of a young woman they’d clocked in the disco from which they’ve been expelled (I think they call them nightclubs nowadays). Both men were unsuccessful in their attempts to ‘pull her’ they admit to each other, both introspecting (out loud) and searching for their point of failure. They see me and go quiet with their suppositions. I hope I’m enough of an oddity to stir their curiosity and have them engage me. But no, they pass by, damn, I’m as inconsequential to them as they were to their prize, and as I have been to all throughout this venture.

Something white in the dimness, distant and afloat. I close my eyes a second in ignorance, allowing some purchase to the urge to sleep. Opening them to only slits; a white carrier bag? A broken lump of polystyrene dumped there on a day more windy? Closer scrutiny at least tells me it’s drifting. Eyes more open and some moments more carry it closer…a white swan. Ostensibly asleep too. I know not whether swans sleep nor whether they drift when doing so, but this waterborne being gives such an air of…being. It’s head not the proud prow, nor the tip of a capital and statesman-like S one expects; instead it rests upside down in the down of a wing. Injured no, only sleeping. I watch with interest as it’s carried nearer the bank. Carried is the assumption, for all my knowledge it’s webbed feet could be as industrious as a Mississippi Steamer’s paddles. That’s their thing I guess—swans; grace that eclipses effort. My assumption was wrong and my guess was right—as the bird neared the bank its apparently dormant self steered away from a beaching and back out to the distance. What I’d give for its down now, to huddle in a mound of that over this flimsy cotton outfit. So cold,  but my will is strong.

What left to the west reappears east; a sunrise through the buildings behind slants a ray that warms the space between collar and hair. It wakes me. The dream I was in was a good one but it’s fading fast; I was shouting: I’ve so got it, I’ve so got it…I have, I have. The interconnectedness of folk—their lives and their coming together. The note, the gathering of the lonely, the away to the island. By choice or by force. That’s all there is, that’s all the tail end of the dream gives up, nothing by way of context for me but a feeling of euphoria. My subconscious, the wily scamp, keeps its brilliance behind blackout curtains and has done all my life. I look down at my chequered slippers and try my damnedest to recall what it was about. But it fades. So, as I was, I’m still going to sit here till……

“Grandad!” Behind me in the sunshine of morn my granddaughter; Emma, she’s with a nurse I recognise from the hospice—and a police officer. She’s smiling a beam of utter relief and racing towards me. I feel loved. The police officer thumbs the button on his chest-mounted device.

“Subject located, I repeat: subject located.”

The Wall of Wonder…

And to the wall of wonder where each brick’s a gnome or nearly a gnome. Not all a known gnome but some the rarer more unknown gnomes. I’d do better here than to be a presumptive pedant. And so shall assume you know your gnomes. But (unable to help myself from helping yourself) if you don’t, here’s the definition: gnome: a short sentence or statement that expresses or summarises a general truth. For what it’s worth, gnomes please stand aside and to attention for a…I’m tempted to say gnomement but I’ll say moment and refrain from any endeavour at being funny. Donald Rumsfeld’s* known knowns answer given at a defence briefing contained “...because as we know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns — the ones we don’t know we don’t know…” was, to me, a watertight example of both logic and language torture. I loved picking the bones from it and admired too the way it invoked, depending on your persuasion, a wish to understand it or to reject it. For me, it drew focus and achieved its aim yet sadly, for our dear Donald, landed him with a ‘Foot in Mouth’ accolade.

Okay gnomes, at ease, back to the wall. I imagine soon myself clothed head to toe in the colour of night. Not so much as I was in the night rider episode of lasteryear, moreover much as our perceived image/notion of a Ninja. Soft shooed and shrouded I’ll be, quieter by foot than the owl on the wing that catches the quiet as a mouse mouse. This will too be at the time of night, right in the heart of night, I’d say an equal distance twixt dawn and dusk. So you can clearly see, I see myself not being able to see well and not wanting to be seen at such an hour as I envisage I’ll be engaged in some tame yet suspect activity. Petty crime, I guess it’s petty – but that which I create will be pretty, quite choice in both font and the way it’s set. That being graffiti. Graffiti of a very different kind mind; Twi’ll have one one or more of the following by way of feeling: dismissive, impassive, curious, interested enthused and/or inspired…or downright miffed (being the owner) that your wall’s been disc..dessercra….disrespected. So to each wall a bunch of bricks and to each brick I’ll trick out with a pre-prepared stencil, prepped in the security of safetyville (my co’s art department (sorry boss if you’re snooping)). And to that stencil I’ll bespray with a tone that’ll suit its all too short subject matter – little wordbites. A masked man, his masks, his aerosol. The silence therewith broken in small bursts by the hiss of gas expelling paint. At times broken more sharply by the rattle of marble in tin.

At floor level there’ll be such aphorismic delights as:

Look up, there may be stars. Lost something? Well lose everything, then you’re free to do anything. Be mindful that dogs piss here. Concentrate too much on your vision, you’ll lose your sight.

Plenty of time, this’ll not be one night’s endeavour, too afraid to get caught in the act. Repeat journeys with repeat cans but differing stencils. The bricks above by the way hold thought provoking words that in their majority aren’t mine; those that are, well if they’re not obvious, I’ll be proud of managing to blend with those to who I defer.

Many small time crimes later and a few courses above there’ll be:

––––Don’t let your sorrow cross this line–––. Die on your feet, don’t live on your knees. Keep determination and desperation apart. When the issues build up – cancel your subscription.

And to top it,one can, with one’s can, squirt out these puppies up along the top shelf:

Over this wall be apples. Here is the height of perfection. Tonight this, but come morning I spray on aftershave like the rest. All in all this is just another brick.


* Former US Secretary of Defence (Defense)


93 Million and One…

It gets cold and frost comes down like glitter over grey
and nights get colder by degrees as our axis tilts away
from the sun
93 Million and one
and just a little nudge could send us into
deep and everlasting winter
but that’s okay

be a little like Christmas everyday…

^ Fab lyrics to a fab tune – let the beat and lyrics of this enchanting song beguile you so.

Tuation be gone! Punk…

This post is a post that is a refined version of a reaction to a forum request of a call to action in which I developed an aversion by avenue of acquiescing to persuasion and employing some writing deviation in which I would let flow a stream of five hundred words and ooze out without so much ease five hundred more if I had the time but of late I have not had much so I will crack on for a wee while and pay little mind to measuring such a quota and not keeping any sort of score because to do that may distract me from this mission which is to serve the aforesaid request which I have made doubly difficult for myself and am not one bit sure for I am trying to have it both understandable and punctuationless with the added nuance of the vaguest hint of slightly metered rhyme to which I will add in there some of the time that I am figuring presently will further hamper any chance of this sentence progressing or tending to advance where to especially bear in mind it could end up a catastrophe as I am realising now puntuationless must sure also mean a lack of apostrophe for that will leave this with only two elements of the three and with that I shall sign this sentence off as I am actually holding my breath too as I type and calculate that this is only a shade over being forty three point three percent job done and should really be therefore considered to rest in the gap between coming up short and total calamity

















Where Are You…

When the words of which you’ve read shift seemingly at random by some pseudo-intellectual sciolist author’s edit. Unsure yourself whether it’s obsessive revision and the perpetual search for subjective perfection? Or a whimsical splurge lamely revised by Dr Attempted-Mischief and his misfit cryptic cohorts?

Maybe either or neither.

When looking to the heavens all signs are obscured by clouds that shift to another’s purpose. A comfort blanket or some vampiric cloak unendingly drawn to permanently conceal?

You just don’t know.

When the words of which you’ve re-read cease to fit the recollection. Check. Check them again against an older copy – but to detect takes time. And time itself is unfavourably pliant, it’ll misguide you.

So don’t waste it.

When, with feet firmly to the ground perhaps, you read those words and fix them in place by rote. Ground is no base. Ground I’ll inform you edges one way at the speed of a growing fingernail, another at the roundabout speed of a 24 hour day; yet no day the same length as the last. Warped too this land on which you stand; added to and eroded by sea and tide. Or ploughed aside by the dozers in the wake of the marchers of progress. And memories anyway, whether forced in by said rote or blotted up by interest; they swing this way and that; any recollection can be hijacked and rewritten simply by your own mood of the moment.

So forget that.

When the words you read are transferred by chisel to mountain. Yes, look to Mother Earth, take comfort in the bosom of her being as you etch one of her many breasts: that unbalance her sphere to spin out and trick you those uneven 24 hour days. Mother Earth that holds those oceans and land and makes no apology for her perigees and apogees; whose children in their billions fight so readily and redly in tooth and claw, demolishing themselves and history with their doings; that mother who swallows her own mountains! No solace in this world where these words matter just fleetingly and for that only in the minds of its apes and their zeitgeist.

Lay down your crude tools.

When the words you’ve read may be illuminated by peeling back the covers of your comfort blanket – yes, get some measure by moon and stars. Here you are, only it’s not where you think you are. Up there the stars are loosely beholden to their Newtonian purpose and lensed out of place by invisible influences–dark ones, un-wholly so. And the unreliable moon, it’s letting you go anyhow and looping out farther by the day.

I may lay down the pen too in this quest at least–ultimately nibless.

When the words have no frame of reference and there’s you all unsure-footed too, unfixed to this land, its satellite and all that’s unplaceably local. Temporary lodgers and associates bound by elastic threads to each other and to a burning furnace that will one day ebb from its yellow and flow to an all-engulfing ‘big red‘. You’re spinning, you, all of you and them, round and elliptically round, all tracing your ever-varying, ever so personal, spring shaped spirals; loosely lassoed as your dominant partner blazes its path through something coined ’The Western Arm’ by someone unknown to most. An arm whose body is a bigger altogether and less together dust cloud that holds celestially you Mary Celestes. All committed all of you, every vagrant particle of every one of your beings, to something supermassive that hunkers (comfortable for now in a creamy whey) but long-term hankers to have you–its prey.

There you are.


an answer



Who Am I…

When my anger to one is as great as my love of another
When harmony, congruence and conflation are elusive
When confliction, dissonance and conflagration are all pervasive
When the opinions I voice are drowned internally by floods of hypocrisy

When I mould my persona to suit the ones I’m with
When my anima and animus brawl on the flotsam of dead opinion
When incidents and circumstance invoke moods that deny reason
When reason anyhow is born from culture and conformity

When my desire for swift justice is knee jerked itself by responsibility
When I wait forever for something but know not why or what for
When arousal in the interim is sated and slopped out as disgust – and never discussed
When the clothes I don shape me into what they represent – briefly

When a lie in my own mind is the truth in the minds of others
When that lie then overwrites the truth in mine
When I’m sucker punched by appearance for ignoring substance
When I wish for aphorisms but wind up with wound up anaphora – repeatedly


I guess what’s next. tbc