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.

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.

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.

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.