Perhaps I should just write, I have no one to speak to, well, at least no-one that I want to speak with.
That feels hard like a judgement on others, but I just don't want to cause more pain.
I'm only spreading grief - grief for so many years of restraint, of not being fully me and now having my belly cut open and "me" spills out all over the street... all over the town... all through the night.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
My Shit
As I sat, old, dumped, crying so hard on what was our bed, moving my shit into my dark room.
I'd only wanted space to breathe too, like you are not taking.
And I write this not wanting to let on about this screaming pain just because its proof to you of me valueless, once good, rejected - I can hardly see for the tears.
And still, still thinking I should save you the pain.
No, I'm in too much pain and its pain we both made and the only person I can turn to is the person that is pushing me away.
And the harder I try the worse I make it, always and inevitably, that's it really isn't it, old toys, junked things never come back.
Trash.
Tears by your bed in the dust.
I just wanted to do some yoga in the light but thats not mine.
Space has a value and it not mine.
Naked, old, crying why the fuck would you do anything but hear me push myself further away.
You can think that its a come down, me - you, arranging deck chairs on a sinking ship
I'm in just so much agony bottling it up because of endless space, stupid, love.
Just trying to protect you from that but I can't now. Broken.
Its just pouring out.
Love, I know that, its just so much pain.
I'm stripping my shit from your room.
If I could I'd burn down the house,
drown myself in the rain not just move my shit about crying.
I'm scrubbing the downstairs bathroom, moving my shit.
The pain I have needs saying, I'm fed up with holding it in, its not just protecting you, its protecting my family, my home, my joy, my love, my heart.
For once, you, stupid, cruel, selfish, just think it is not your space, your freedom, its a choice to have and to be a family.
To share, to join, to be human.
A new thing. whatever that thing might be will cover it up, paste over the cracks.
Perhaps I should never have spared you the pain, its here to share.
1 Jan 1999 "O" "Cerne Abbas & Giant"
30 Sept ***(no symbol for hearts, the *s are stars) JACK BORN 1.30pm (more hearts and stars).
Your diary, my life.
Hearts and stars you can't cut them in two, they have to be shared or they die.
I'd only wanted space to breathe too, like you are not taking.
And I write this not wanting to let on about this screaming pain just because its proof to you of me valueless, once good, rejected - I can hardly see for the tears.
And still, still thinking I should save you the pain.
No, I'm in too much pain and its pain we both made and the only person I can turn to is the person that is pushing me away.
And the harder I try the worse I make it, always and inevitably, that's it really isn't it, old toys, junked things never come back.
Trash.
Tears by your bed in the dust.
I just wanted to do some yoga in the light but thats not mine.
Space has a value and it not mine.
Naked, old, crying why the fuck would you do anything but hear me push myself further away.
You can think that its a come down, me - you, arranging deck chairs on a sinking ship
I'm in just so much agony bottling it up because of endless space, stupid, love.
Just trying to protect you from that but I can't now. Broken.
Its just pouring out.
Love, I know that, its just so much pain.
I'm stripping my shit from your room.
If I could I'd burn down the house,
drown myself in the rain not just move my shit about crying.
I'm scrubbing the downstairs bathroom, moving my shit.
The pain I have needs saying, I'm fed up with holding it in, its not just protecting you, its protecting my family, my home, my joy, my love, my heart.
For once, you, stupid, cruel, selfish, just think it is not your space, your freedom, its a choice to have and to be a family.
To share, to join, to be human.
A new thing. whatever that thing might be will cover it up, paste over the cracks.
Perhaps I should never have spared you the pain, its here to share.
1 Jan 1999 "O" "Cerne Abbas & Giant"
30 Sept ***(no symbol for hearts, the *s are stars) JACK BORN 1.30pm (more hearts and stars).
Your diary, my life.
Hearts and stars you can't cut them in two, they have to be shared or they die.
Monday, October 21, 2013
Pain
Pain, this is just and only about pain.
I woke up - a hundred times and today and felt, knew, deep within me, pain.
Pain you have done to me; I have done to myself I dutifully, responsibly, adultly quip in snappy properness... you did it to me though, really. This pain is mine and I want to share it with you.
Its all been about you, always. Take, don't give, take.
And mine was free to give, small things that I watched go. Time, freedom, sex, joy, fulfilment.
I thought I was sharing them but no. Things with love, spread sometimes to thinly but I shared all that I had.
You don't share, you take what you want, cutting my heart, my love, my memories, my family, my home, all that I ever had, cut down through with a knife - ours, cut in two becomes two dead halves of a bleeding heart, blue.
Your future, you see it as you kick off the things you see as shit; me, our home, our children, the time, the sharing (haha). If you could you'd bin me but perhaps you can do a deal and leave me out in the rain, without my pot of course, for some sad fuck to take away - take away a bit of that stuff that might, might, leave a mark.
That stuff, the pain I want you to feel - that love as it turns circle, scimitar, becoming pain and hate.
I woke up - a hundred times and today and felt, knew, deep within me, pain.
Pain you have done to me; I have done to myself I dutifully, responsibly, adultly quip in snappy properness... you did it to me though, really. This pain is mine and I want to share it with you.
Its all been about you, always. Take, don't give, take.
And mine was free to give, small things that I watched go. Time, freedom, sex, joy, fulfilment.
I thought I was sharing them but no. Things with love, spread sometimes to thinly but I shared all that I had.
You don't share, you take what you want, cutting my heart, my love, my memories, my family, my home, all that I ever had, cut down through with a knife - ours, cut in two becomes two dead halves of a bleeding heart, blue.
Your future, you see it as you kick off the things you see as shit; me, our home, our children, the time, the sharing (haha). If you could you'd bin me but perhaps you can do a deal and leave me out in the rain, without my pot of course, for some sad fuck to take away - take away a bit of that stuff that might, might, leave a mark.
That stuff, the pain I want you to feel - that love as it turns circle, scimitar, becoming pain and hate.
Monday, June 24, 2013
Dream notes
The pond is near dried out, once beautiful cartoon like creatures lay still, dying, one by one they speak their tail, eloquently, their words clear and strong. And then, i easy the sounds as the other people, disgusted, standing staring hear them, just as gasping, deathly noise. A man is holding a near dead, but plump and otherwise healthy gold fish in his hand. Showing the fish to another man, both dressed in tweed. I motion that they could put the fish back into the healthy water, but they want to watch it die.
I move on and the fields are dry grass and being cut, along their whole width, all at once, the cut grass falls as in a wave, knee deep towards me. A young man knees ahead of the wave, unaware, but the cutter, unseen, takes no notice, its not important. The young man is turned over smothered in cut grass
Im trying to get somewhere, i don't really want to go, back beyond the pond. To a wedding. The rocks are wet and slippery under my hard shoes. I am nervous while a man, Im not fond of him, chatters and distract me. I watch my footing and inch on, getting late and anxious. I realise, through my distraction we are now hundreds of feet above the river, near the top of a near smooth sided cliff that curves around us. The rock is smooth, wet and weeded. The terror of the height sickens me, Im standing, heels to the cliff as if walking down hill but its a cliff and I need to turn and climb down facing the rock but its too slippery to move, and I know that when a turn it will be too dark to see my footing down. I wake, its my choice, escape my own dream. Sickened, laying in bed a regret waking. I want to go back there and screw the dream, the fears that drag me and press me, i just want to jump, knowingly to die more than to suppress myself with fears.
I have started to do that in nightmares - often they culminate in my being in some position of being trapped high up with my fingers and toes loosing grip but still never quite releasing me so I stay in terror. I woke out of this one and wanted then to get back into it to just jump. But, when I do stay with it, in sleep, in the dream, and take the haha fuck it and jump option I just fall and die - there is not flying to another land or some release. Just like in Amsterdam, I just witness my own death in vivid 4D repeated endlessly in the finest possible detail and from my perspective and from all of those, simultaneously, that know me - those that I know who love and those I know who are indifferent.
Stories write themselves in dreams, they take the things and materials inside our heads and construct themselves, free will is only as effective as a light breeze, shifting the dream but not controlling it. When I control them more strongly they simply merge into reality and continue after I have woken - the dream elements, fear, paranoia, despair, loss, rejection, abandonment, failure - they just become real entities played out in symbols as some people, not me, project human personalities on animals, I project, and thereby reflect my terrors, into others and generate, in my perception, their hatred and disdain of me.
But, as we know, there is not fighting fear and terror or pain. It is only us, ourselves. Fighting it is just tearing at ourselves - we/I need to face it, know it; its not the weather, a storm, a high-cliff; its what our heads are up to, poor things. Fear needs bold, brave (as it is scared as well as scaring) limitless love... what else is there to do?
---"tail" - dyslexia allows me to tell a tale of turn-tails without spotting the terror of spelling - and only when I read my words, with the eyes of a "teacher" (those allotters of status), do I spot (my teacher's red-pen in my slapping-hand) that upon my tail there is a sign, pinned, that reads "upon this tail there ends the tale of a fool who would not spell no matter how much told he should".
I move on and the fields are dry grass and being cut, along their whole width, all at once, the cut grass falls as in a wave, knee deep towards me. A young man knees ahead of the wave, unaware, but the cutter, unseen, takes no notice, its not important. The young man is turned over smothered in cut grass
Im trying to get somewhere, i don't really want to go, back beyond the pond. To a wedding. The rocks are wet and slippery under my hard shoes. I am nervous while a man, Im not fond of him, chatters and distract me. I watch my footing and inch on, getting late and anxious. I realise, through my distraction we are now hundreds of feet above the river, near the top of a near smooth sided cliff that curves around us. The rock is smooth, wet and weeded. The terror of the height sickens me, Im standing, heels to the cliff as if walking down hill but its a cliff and I need to turn and climb down facing the rock but its too slippery to move, and I know that when a turn it will be too dark to see my footing down. I wake, its my choice, escape my own dream. Sickened, laying in bed a regret waking. I want to go back there and screw the dream, the fears that drag me and press me, i just want to jump, knowingly to die more than to suppress myself with fears.
I have started to do that in nightmares - often they culminate in my being in some position of being trapped high up with my fingers and toes loosing grip but still never quite releasing me so I stay in terror. I woke out of this one and wanted then to get back into it to just jump. But, when I do stay with it, in sleep, in the dream, and take the haha fuck it and jump option I just fall and die - there is not flying to another land or some release. Just like in Amsterdam, I just witness my own death in vivid 4D repeated endlessly in the finest possible detail and from my perspective and from all of those, simultaneously, that know me - those that I know who love and those I know who are indifferent.
Stories write themselves in dreams, they take the things and materials inside our heads and construct themselves, free will is only as effective as a light breeze, shifting the dream but not controlling it. When I control them more strongly they simply merge into reality and continue after I have woken - the dream elements, fear, paranoia, despair, loss, rejection, abandonment, failure - they just become real entities played out in symbols as some people, not me, project human personalities on animals, I project, and thereby reflect my terrors, into others and generate, in my perception, their hatred and disdain of me.
But, as we know, there is not fighting fear and terror or pain. It is only us, ourselves. Fighting it is just tearing at ourselves - we/I need to face it, know it; its not the weather, a storm, a high-cliff; its what our heads are up to, poor things. Fear needs bold, brave (as it is scared as well as scaring) limitless love... what else is there to do?
---"tail" - dyslexia allows me to tell a tale of turn-tails without spotting the terror of spelling - and only when I read my words, with the eyes of a "teacher" (those allotters of status), do I spot (my teacher's red-pen in my slapping-hand) that upon my tail there is a sign, pinned, that reads "upon this tail there ends the tale of a fool who would not spell no matter how much told he should".
Words again
Words ain't going to help you. I love them, but they are just drugs. I used to wonder why people did them, words.
With their merry delusion of clarity, poetry and, that myth, understanding. Communication yes, but of what. I was right, my only failing was (shit the fucker is on the tip of my tongue - one word following) my ability to turn that knowing into symbols, sounds, words, written-downs, speakings and all.
And now i get it, the addiction to them and the missawareness that we are all doped by them. They take us, listed, to the shops, call out in the dark, whisper sweet nothings, and lie. . .
Its just the drugs, multi colours, dimensions and other such words. . . They become the fabric of our very meaning and yet they are not meaning. There only is, there is no meaning and test that by asking if that makes sense.
Trip the shite fantastic, dip in ancient ponds, wake to dawns of perfect silicon. A drug you dare not stop, kick it at silent peril, numbed, all there is is what there is is what there is - and, so a wise man said, so it goes. There, without you go your words.
With their merry delusion of clarity, poetry and, that myth, understanding. Communication yes, but of what. I was right, my only failing was (shit the fucker is on the tip of my tongue - one word following) my ability to turn that knowing into symbols, sounds, words, written-downs, speakings and all.
And now i get it, the addiction to them and the missawareness that we are all doped by them. They take us, listed, to the shops, call out in the dark, whisper sweet nothings, and lie. . .
Its just the drugs, multi colours, dimensions and other such words. . . They become the fabric of our very meaning and yet they are not meaning. There only is, there is no meaning and test that by asking if that makes sense.
Trip the shite fantastic, dip in ancient ponds, wake to dawns of perfect silicon. A drug you dare not stop, kick it at silent peril, numbed, all there is is what there is is what there is - and, so a wise man said, so it goes. There, without you go your words.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
This one
This one is just for you - my friend.
You are all that there is to me and yet I am loosing you - fearing loosing you.
You say that you don't know now; that you have not known for some time, but you don't know how long.
Well, you say, from that time when you think that I did something so wrong and, unlike you, I know that I did not but I do know that you may never even try to believe that.
I think you have a coldness - I don't think its yours, you were given it and you still have a hold of it when you could have let it go, put it down, kindly said "thanks, but no".
You have, for me, lost your fire and I should, should... should such a word... leave you be really. Cut my losses and walk away as I have before. Cut the albatross from around my neck, killed the fucking goose of endless unrequited promise.
This though, I'm not prepared to do - my loss is too great. It not just you that I loose but my boys, my time and so much more.
Things and people - those attachments - my codependent time-travelers. I should know better, know that they only .... no, not "they". I only let them cause me pain.
What I feel is what I do. And, of course I have choice, the choice to cut the rope and drop into eternity, endless falling or to continue to hang here constricted, choking and die.
You are all that there is to me and yet I am loosing you - fearing loosing you.
You say that you don't know now; that you have not known for some time, but you don't know how long.
Well, you say, from that time when you think that I did something so wrong and, unlike you, I know that I did not but I do know that you may never even try to believe that.
I think you have a coldness - I don't think its yours, you were given it and you still have a hold of it when you could have let it go, put it down, kindly said "thanks, but no".
You have, for me, lost your fire and I should, should... should such a word... leave you be really. Cut my losses and walk away as I have before. Cut the albatross from around my neck, killed the fucking goose of endless unrequited promise.
This though, I'm not prepared to do - my loss is too great. It not just you that I loose but my boys, my time and so much more.
Things and people - those attachments - my codependent time-travelers. I should know better, know that they only .... no, not "they". I only let them cause me pain.
What I feel is what I do. And, of course I have choice, the choice to cut the rope and drop into eternity, endless falling or to continue to hang here constricted, choking and die.
Light passes from spark to eye.
Spoken words and written words.
Voices from different selfs. Not all of my selfs. I'm not sure there is a self.
Just those that want to speak outside of my head.
Communication, the process by which thought passes from mind to mind as does light from spark to eye.
|
Linking us: are we even there? here?
When I shut my eyes I am not sure if I am here or even there.
In comes that tram - again. It carries with it memories from then to now.
Communication through time.
Linking us: are we even then? now?
Nothing, as so often seems to be the case, is certain.
Motion, such an odd concept when all is moving - ultra-normal. Only stopping is of note. From me to you - in mysterious ways.
The Floor
The floor is not there but we are not falling and neither are we still.
All is moving; change.
Watch the lights and listen to the bells and this, for us, will end.
And the pebbles on the beach are turning to sand. I watch them and know this. If all were made of stone suggested Jack - all things I asked - the air, the sea, all things.
A fine stream falls - time marked out but there is no need to turn the timer. The sand moves both ways - all ways, time does not move from place to place. Place moves - time stands still and we move past in flashes of momentary lights and bells.
Choice, brings the fear of death. With all that we accept we say no to all other possibilities and they are dead to us. Our past, a place stopped but still moving.
Nothing makes sense, it always has but I didn't know it. Only nothing can make sense.
Motion, such an odd concept when all is moving - ultra-normal. Only stopping is of note. From me to you - in mysterious ways.
All is moving; change.
Watch the lights and listen to the bells and this, for us, will end.
And the pebbles on the beach are turning to sand. I watch them and know this. If all were made of stone suggested Jack - all things I asked - the air, the sea, all things.
A fine stream falls - time marked out but there is no need to turn the timer. The sand moves both ways - all ways, time does not move from place to place. Place moves - time stands still and we move past in flashes of momentary lights and bells.
Choice, brings the fear of death. With all that we accept we say no to all other possibilities and they are dead to us. Our past, a place stopped but still moving.
Nothing makes sense, it always has but I didn't know it. Only nothing can make sense.
Motion, such an odd concept when all is moving - ultra-normal. Only stopping is of note. From me to you - in mysterious ways.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Acid chair - You, all legs-up-to-here and posh-as-you-like
You, all legs-up-to-here and posh-as-you-like sprawled on that revolting old foam chair bed; itching. You looked at the scars on my face - still red, not faded as they are now - and talked through me... no shag for me then.
You said your man wanted me to get him some acid - I had none of that... and he was off to Chile - Lord of the Mansion, old money with new on top, one of Thatcher's children - dealing guns for Britain to Pinochet to kill poets no doubt; not that your man was bothered with that, the market would sort out the morality of the situation. Though I quite wished I'd had some acid - to send him on his way with a very bad trip.
Damp night, cold room, not enough entertainment to cover the smell of must and the grey dripping of uncomfortable time that seeped through the ceiling... and I wondered just how far your legs did go up above the bottom of your top - there must be, I wondered as I drifted in and out of sleep, some eventual point of convergence, physics (not to mention biology) surely demanded it.
A song to praise the death of many a poet - and the friend of Margaret, daughter of a grocer.
You said your man wanted me to get him some acid - I had none of that... and he was off to Chile - Lord of the Mansion, old money with new on top, one of Thatcher's children - dealing guns for Britain to Pinochet to kill poets no doubt; not that your man was bothered with that, the market would sort out the morality of the situation. Though I quite wished I'd had some acid - to send him on his way with a very bad trip.
Damp night, cold room, not enough entertainment to cover the smell of must and the grey dripping of uncomfortable time that seeped through the ceiling... and I wondered just how far your legs did go up above the bottom of your top - there must be, I wondered as I drifted in and out of sleep, some eventual point of convergence, physics (not to mention biology) surely demanded it.
A song to praise the death of many a poet - and the friend of Margaret, daughter of a grocer.
The Past - legs-up-to-there and posh-as-you-like
The Past was there - on the bench, back the way we had come....
It was sitting there - still somehow calling us as we sat and ate sandwiches and shared shit cheap diesel wine from the bottle.
So, as we walked back that way we spoke about how we might help the Past spend its time (so much time and not a nice place to spend it) - perhaps buy it a sandwich too (it certainly wasn't getting any of our wine).
So you, all legs-up-to-here and posh-as-you-like walked up to the Past and went to offer it a snack - but you recoiled - stepped back - revolted - that Past, on that bench, just around the corner from Smithfield had its cock out, wanking at the passers by.
It was sitting there - still somehow calling us as we sat and ate sandwiches and shared shit cheap diesel wine from the bottle.
So, as we walked back that way we spoke about how we might help the Past spend its time (so much time and not a nice place to spend it) - perhaps buy it a sandwich too (it certainly wasn't getting any of our wine).
So you, all legs-up-to-here and posh-as-you-like walked up to the Past and went to offer it a snack - but you recoiled - stepped back - revolted - that Past, on that bench, just around the corner from Smithfield had its cock out, wanking at the passers by.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Iron Hat
One night while I was walking all out and alone a man in an iron hat came along and told me, all in song, about his life - well so far, at least.
It was a long tail, twisted and hairy, and tufted at the end and, as it swished from side to side, odd odes and never-heards came listening bound.
Some words were puddles, big ones, with ducks. Some words were horses, they thundered on the hard ground. And as he sang he tapped out a salsa beat with a bleach clean ulna bone, from a long departed monkey friend, upon the brim of his iron hat.
And i know you are wondering how the story goes, id tell you nothing more for tupence and not a penny less. For more id tell you twice as much - settle down upon this bench. Wait, feel the rain falling in your hair, shut eyes, still your mind. Here's nothing, think nothing of it, its a gift from me to you
It was a long tail, twisted and hairy, and tufted at the end and, as it swished from side to side, odd odes and never-heards came listening bound.
Some words were puddles, big ones, with ducks. Some words were horses, they thundered on the hard ground. And as he sang he tapped out a salsa beat with a bleach clean ulna bone, from a long departed monkey friend, upon the brim of his iron hat.
And i know you are wondering how the story goes, id tell you nothing more for tupence and not a penny less. For more id tell you twice as much - settle down upon this bench. Wait, feel the rain falling in your hair, shut eyes, still your mind. Here's nothing, think nothing of it, its a gift from me to you
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Dance yourself dizzy
His own words silenced - cornered.
Torn apart with fear he grabbed his nearest weapon.
Brandishing his wife, he let her rip with her wit.
4 floors below, knee deep in lurid dancing, a brace of strutters bopped - stopped.
Caught in time, no rhythm just rhyme.
Paused to hear the cries from above.
The witty retorts, savage words cutting.
There, on the dance floor, fingers in their ears they danced themselves dizzy and banned all thoughts of men and wives and voices.
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