I woke up the next morning,
mouthful of strong cigarettes and bad whisky.
My lungs felt like lead weights.
it sounded like Tom Waits, singing in the gutter,
so I knew there was hope.
The sun rises
It rolls over me
It goes down and disappears
in the sultry, inert air
that moves not leaf nor hair
like the breath of the dead
or the sigh of angels.
The moon follows sun
The planets align
The stars wheel overhead
In the night’s darkest hour
when time slows down
to the separation of continents
or to the beat of broken wings.
the year thins to an end
and I too seek closure;
of my eyes in the darkness
(well, temporarily at least).
My thoughts flash like festive lights in no order
and my mind considers things like political parties
and grey life under the Stasi,
of free-flowing intellectualism
and cold, uncaring capitalism.
I think of flights and holidays
and rhythmic train journeys
hurrying to their destinations
where destinies await the destined.
I think about the sun
and where the winter has gone
(It will be back to bite us on the ass,
I think about you and me
wind-blown from the sea.
but the waves do not.
The keyboard lies silent, like a long-closed factory, its worker-keys now unemployed, passing into disuse and irrelevance.
The pen lies on its side, like a dead soldier, a used-to-be who has taken an early pension, now laying in the sun.
The notebook lies closed, in a crypt-like embrace, its secrets hidden inside except; here there are no secrets, just untouched pages.
The once-writer lies on his side, a book in his hand, eyes skipping over the words someone else has written; and wonders.
Yesterday I felt the sea breathing as I watched the wind-strewn waves; some breaths shallow, others ocean deep. I fell into their rhythm and breathed in the salt spray and breathed out my soul in return: sea salt spray for my soul or what part of it I leave here. Today I heard the sea choking it’s breath no longer a rhythm but a slow death rattle. I walked in to it, embraced it but plastic caressed my fingers, tightened and gripped my hand and embraced me, as I wanted to embrace the sea. I pulled, and the plastic relented the more I pulled, the more it came but still the sea couldn’t breathe. Tomorrow the wind will still blow and the salt will still tang the air and the waves still sigh upon the shore and where once the seagulls cried the only sound will be the empty laughter of the few that profited from the many of those who took from the Earth and spat back its destruction. Yesterday I felt the sea breathing and wondered how long it would last.
Staring at four bare walls
No sound, just silence
Not even the mechanical sound
of time passing
as a welcome distraction
The silence isn’t deafening
but the thoughts are.
If they had colour
it would be grey
If they had sound
it would be a low, lost hum.
The drip, drip, drip of the leaking tap,
tightened to the full yet still…
drip, drip, drip,
like some mad aquatic clock
or a water deity’s idea of a joke
and where does all this water go?
Does it race along the tubes and pipes
only to be unceremoniously
into some shitty sewage treatment works?
Or does it instead splash happily along
those tubes and pipes
and find itself jettisoned
into a little stream,
just a trickle at first
which is then joined by others,
left to the same fate
and together they form a river
which gets faster,
noisy, rushing water tumbling over stones worn smooth
and dancing over rocks and waterfalls
and down, always down until finally,
in the distance,
there’s the sunlight’s reflection on water
and the river’s pace gathers
and drives on
then, finally, pours into the sea
where the drip, drip, drip of the leaking tap
becomes waves upon the shore.
A fingernail moon falls down the evening sky
and now the wind has dropped,
from a bluster to a breath
as the frigid night descends.
The trees, immobile in their submission,
silhouette against silhouette,
branches handing like the arms of the guilty
as the frost’s frozen fingers
freeze all they touch;
and even the church bells are subdued.
A thousand firesides
lead like beacons in the night,
protesters’ torches in rebellion.
Cold is the winter night
but is vanquished by the hearth of home
Clock tick, ticking in the silence of the apartment
the apartments because there are nine in the block
I’m the only one awake at this time,
these hours where I should be elsewhere
not writing, or reading or dropping benzodiazepine for sleeping
my body aches for sleep
my mind tells my body to fuck off
get up, get going and do something
I’m on the sofa with a pen in one hand
a notebook in the other and a book by my side
the clock keeps ticking
to think that somewhere the sun is rising
somewhere else it’s setting on another day
the momentum of our forward roll takes us around
big ball of light and heat that keeps us here,
going nowhere except forward;
in space time, in real time,
(who’s got the time anyway?)
somewhere to the east of me the sun is coming up
somewhere to the west of me it’s going down
10,000 lives have just left
10,000 have just begun
we just keep on rolling. Somewhere.
split into two:
black and white
drawn and then fade
and become grey,
like the dawn;
if it ever arrives.
My eyes are heavy
and my face is sliding
like some lost Dalí canvass;
long dripping clocks
leaking slow time:
in the long dragging night.
The sax-playing Santa
sat in the shade of the subway
blowing his way through Christmas classics
and then just some classics
with no mention of Christmas;
which is good.
I could listen to him all day
or even an hour
or even 10 minutes
but I can’t;
I’ve things to do
and people to see
and places to go
and even if I don’t
I have to be doing something,
and I can’t stop,
we can’t stop
because it’s Christmas
and there won’t be another one until…
well, this time next year.
Early Sunday morning walk,
Squinting in the morning light
Cappuccino with a double shot of coffee
and eyes that finally open
with the hoarse caw of the crow
and the hoarse voice of the barmaid
who must smoke a packet
or spend her life shouting
above the noise of the cutlery
being put in its place
as the coffee machine whirs
and the people sit
over their Sunday morning papers
as the cappuccino goes down
and the day opens up.
The stairs crush my knees and steal my breath
and I get to the top and I ring the bell
and I enter the surgery but the waiting room
is empty except for the noise
because the window is open
and the noise from the street competes
with the radio newsreader’s urgency
to tell me the headlines and I can’t hear them
but maybe it’s a blessing because
I don’t want to hear them because
everyone has a missile pointed at someone else
and it’s always someone else’s fault
and everyone is trigger-happy
or God-fearing happy-clappy
and it’s mine versus yours anyway
and now the smell of the floor cleaner joins in with the noise
and the headlines as they vie for my senses
and it makes no sense and my knees hurt
and I can’t hear myself think
and I can’t feel myself breathe
and then the doctor comes out
and asks me how I am…
I’m here, aren’t I?
I like to feel the cool air soothe my skin
as I stand outside on the balcony
and breathe the morning air.
I like to hear the leaves in the breeze-blown trees
chitter-chatter amongst themselves
in a language I don’t understand.
I like to see the rain roll down the window
and the streams run in the gutters,
now clean and ready to start again.
I like to watch the clouds chase each other
across the sky, racing in the wind,
making shapes only I can see.
Oh, and it’s Friday.
having nothing to say
yet you could talk all day
having something to say
yet no will to say it
staring at the pen that won’t write
or the keys that won’t type
or the pages that only turn
in the late summer breeze.
The deep-water sound of someone pissing from a height at 4.30 in the morning
before the first blackbird has it in him
to wake up and start singing
and no car hums the tune of rubber on tarmac
and the night has its own sound
a “fuck me, well hello again, it’s you” sound
and I join in the silence,
eyes wide open and mouth closed shut
and I breathe in and I breathe out
and it doesn’t do much good and I turn over
on my side and wonder if I should read by reading light
or just get up and kiss the night
so I say hi to my pen and paper and I want to write a story,
about the world and what goes on in it, within it
and all I end up writing, again, is my own.
I turn my pillow
over and over
and fuck off mosquito, you bitch
(it’s the females that make you itch)
and now the early morning crows
are crowing, or cawing
while the neighbourhood is still snoring;
and I’m turning
like an undecided Brexit MP
as I can’t for the life of me
so I get up
and stroll on the balcony
in my shorts
it’s just me and the crows anyway
in this summer heat.
Electric light, electric noise
The TV scream
and noise just hurts my ears
and tears my soul and
I can’t hear myself breathe
I can’t hear myself live
I can’t hear myself,
bass string pull
tic, tic, tic of the cymbal
as the brush sweeps the beat
blow Bird, blow
woodwind winding out to meet me
like a cold water splash to my face
or the clink of ice in my whisky
Wake up, stuffed nose, can’t breathe
can’t see, light switch, where’s the light switch?
Get up, still house, silence, silence
and the clock tick-tocks the night away.
Walk around, bare feet, cold feet
need a glass of water I’m parched.
Wine and bitter mouth, that last digestive
getting festive on a Saturday, as you do.
Sunday’s here and I’m the only one to see it
and when it’s time to get up I’ll go back to bed.
Not much to do but write and read and
Lester Bangs talks to me of Lou Reed
and The Velvet Underground.
Well, at least it’s Sunday Morning.
The black night draped
for the morning.
The first feelers of light
yet to be felt.
The first rays of the sun
yet to be raised
above the horizon,
as the long and tiresome
night drags on.
While the world outside
and me inside
wait for spring.
damp and cold January
I have a cough and I cough and I splutter.
Does it matter? Does it matter?
My cough plumbs the depth of my lungs in the night like my soul plumbs the depths of despair in winter and the clouds…
…and the clouds are pigeon shit-grey and they roll in then roll over then roll away and leave me…
bathed in monochrome
and the rain…and the rain.
It’s water and I’m dancing
I drank more water than what fell to earth last autumn
so we rain-danced for a drenching soul-cleaning and yet…
damp and cold January
let it rain, let it rain, let it rain
pour your monochrome down upon me.
That old adage about “write what you know” – I should laugh in its face and stick my fingers in its eyes.
I started this blog , as it says on the tin (well, the heading), as a pin-board for airing poems and flash-fiction first drafts and ideas. Of late, after a barren summer, I’ve hit a creative vein, with no idea why except it runs in tandem with another bout of worse-than-usual sleeplessness. I don’t want this blog to become a shrine to insomnia so things will change in 2018 (that’s two days and, possibly, two nights…).
This is this blog’s last insomniac poetic hurrah! If I couldn’t write anything else then I would stick my pen where the sun doesn’t shine. Luckily, I can and I have been (just not here, o bored and tired reader).
Have a great New Year everyone and thanks for looking in.
And still the treacherous night lingers on
and pulls me along with it
incapable of leaving me behind
in a dreaming world of slumber;
And still my words spill across the page
and takes me away for a while,
pulling me into its world
where pen and hand work in unison;
And still my eyes remain open
and my awakened mind rages
full of ideas that fall on paper
as my head wants to fall;
on my pillow.
and yet, and yet…
and yet I love these early hours;
the quiet, the still, the night sounds
– or early morning sounds – take your pick.
A slave to the whore of the morning
fresh on her rounds and as yet untouched,
the sheets still unblemished
and the rose cheeks of her sunrise.
Another year, another…well, year, I suppose.
Time doesn’t drift, it flies.
It flies in the face of life,
it flies in the face of all that we know
yet can do nothing about.
I’m older today than I ever was before
and I’m younger today than I ever will be again.
If we’re lucky we can hitch a ride,
but we can just as well walk.
The horizon is ever before us.
the road behind is barred
the road ahead is open
our worn-down heels will be our proof of our existence.
Mind muddled, befuddled
hours doing everything but sleeping
crawling on my knees
to the dawn queen.
Lying there in the dark
looking at every darkened shape
of every angle of every wall
and feel every stubbed toe
on every piece of furniture
lying there in the dark;
Alarm clock; you are redundant,
again. As ever.
Your services are limited
except when you tell me
how long I’ve been lying there awake.
As I crawl on my knees
to the dawn queen.
The twisting cobbled streets
slick with the damp night air
holding their sodden breath,
waiting for morning
each stone a rain-washed monument
to man’s short-lived triumph over nature:
But watch the sprouting weed
or the green shaven-headed moss
hiding in the cracks
of frost-split stones
polished by centuries of feet.
History has taken us from the humble cobbled stone
to the cloud-reaching tower
of glass and concrete
of plastic and steel
Babel now lies in every direction
praise be the money-god. Ha!
Yet even these so-called wonders of man will fail
when nature decides to reclaim her own.
We can hope.
He went out in the streets to find love
and found instead crushed cigarette ends,
oil-filled puddles swirling with colour,
yesterday’s news blowing in the gutter,
a choking fit on exhaust fumes,
a cold foot from a hole in one shoe
and discarded chewing gum stuck to the other,
as a dented Coke can drummed along the road
and shouts came from an open window:
no love there.
He looked at cards in telephone boxes;
no love there.
He watched a police car speed through the lights;
no love there.
He heard the siren of an ambulance split the night;
no love there.
His shoulders slumped and he shook his head.
Every night it was the same.
Same street. Same sights. Same sounds. Same hate.
A teenage girl helped an elderly woman across the road
and left without stealing her bag.
There it was.
In the streets there was love.
He turned for home.
Look ma, no brakes!
Just my hands in front of me.
That push over the edge
that fall from the ledge
that push down the slide.
always down; unstoppable.
No skin left on my palms,
red raw and racing to ruin,
or just racing, really,
but movement is movement, after all.
The days pass
and time is passing,
another day has passed into night.
Time ticks on. Time ticks by.
The clock strikes. The bells chime.
The sun rises. The sun sets.
Always rushing, I’m buffeted by time
like the wash of air from a speeding truck,
carving lines on my face, like sea over sand
yet what is the significance of these lines
within the grand significance of time?
Time was. Time is. Time will always be.
Time. Oh, how it passes.