The Refuge of the Page

Stutter.

Stammer.

Feel the heavy hammer

of vocal chords striking a tune unfamiliar,

a sound so peculiar

you wonder if you made it or heard it;

perceived? created? Or perceived creation?

Logos, centros, Derrida was right;

They say to speak, but I claim to write, is the nobler form, the upper way

to show our torn and tattered natures to a shorn and shattered world 

bereft of those who care,

left with those who share inane, insane, irrational ramblings,

strewn across the cyberspace we like to call home,

to which we must roam and vent our rage in theatrically absurd ways,

like loyal players upon a stage,

seeking the refuge of the page.

madness & me

The incessant whisper nagging at my door, the door to my soul. The sole purpose of the band striking up a tune for the final stand, crying god for Harry as they face volley & thunder. The thunderous applause of an audience so naïve & nuanced they cannot see the inevitable, onrushing collapse of society. Societal norms pushing outsiders to the edge, marginalising & labelling the mad. Madness, affected & performed by the deformed outsiders, the few who recognise a hawk from a handsaw. Scribbling, scrabbling, bubbling, babbling, the incessant whisper nags at my door. Dormant in most& for most of life, once awakened it wreaks a revenge most sour. Manic with desire  you’re pulled apart by the fire that burns a gaping hole through the lobotomised knoll to the sorry soul down below. These are the things I can no longer stand, the incessant nag, the futile war band, & the madness that defines, defiles, delineates eliminates & tugs at my very existence, daring me to write, as the only means of fight left in me, a final hope, a way perhaps to right the sins & woes of my life. & so here goes, I’ll dive in, pen in hand, dipping pink toes in an inky blue sand, & when the flames within are once more fanned by the rage built up inside, we’ll merely glimpse another chance of life , of an identity, the proposed, & therefore possible existence of a me beyond the ampers&.

New Moves

Good afternoon fine folk, and welcome once again into the inner musings of my mind.

So far, every post in this blog has been a piece of poetry. However, as a special treat for the new(ish) year, and because it happens to be the form my inspiration has taken lately, the next few submissions are likely to be more lucid and prose-esque, whilst (hopefully!) retaining their inherent poeticism. This is partly because I believe these rough-hewed forms best allow a thorough exploration of the issues dealt with, and partly to provide an insight into the thought processes involved in my poetry, as they are, in essence, pre-poems, the raw materials of a finished work, yet to be polished and refined. These outpourings are both emotional and intellectual dumps, similar in style to 'stream of consciousness' writing. They are, as I said, more 'thoughts' than finished articles ready to stand up to the full glare of the critical eye. And yet that is what I hereby choose to subject them to!

I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed writing them!!

The soul is the source we must retain

Adjust, adapt, re-interpret.

Mass produce and distribute.

In the midst of all this,

There lies inherent risk,

Of losing the creative spark,

Which makes all of this writing lark

Worth the suff’ring of indignant pain.

The soul is the source we must retain.

We cannot but recall our poesy’s root,

Lest we forget, or bid the soldiers shoot.

Vitae

Shifting, sifting, lofting, lifting,

Applications. Aspirations.

Dreams, hopes, prayers, for a future

Devoid of this despair.

The time has come, the game is up,

It’s time to get a life. No more

Mere games for this young pup,

Just struggles, grief, and strife.

Falling, failing, aiming, ailing;

The market is too bare.

The young lad’s sorrow

Haunts tomorrow, and no-one

Even cares.

Chin up, they say, the

World is tough, and only

Tough men prosper. We’re

All in the gutter, looking up, like

Poor, deluded Oscar.

Alas, cries he, this cannot be,

The world’s a grisly place.

Filled with the rank skulduggery,

 Writ large upon your face.

With that he strode toward his addressee,

And wordlessly disposed of his CV.

Curriculum vitae, aptly named, for that is what it takes.

The soul sucked out onto the page, to be read

 by a man with a Stonehenge face*, the product of    

a bygone age, in which men were men, and

women slaves, a tyranny, so warped

and twisted, that it ended in a blaze of  rage.

The Mirth of War

Once the foggy mirth of war

Has lifted from the bedroom floor, he

Finds himself at lone at last, ties a noose,

Makes it fast.

And climbes upon his hardwood desk.

As though stepping up to the batting plate,

He makes a decision about his fate,

Makes it fast.

Gasping, gaping, flailing, fighting

One sad mistake and now he’s frighting. The

Noose, so tight has cut his supply, lending

Poignancy to his desperate cry

For a help that never came

 in spite of all the Novocaine.

And there he dangles, limp and lifeless,

Left alone, child-and-wife-less.

A soldier in a far-off land,

Accidental hero of a fight,

Sufferer of an indignant plight

 that none could ever understand

CRASH. BANG. WALLOP (Taunton's Terrible Tale)

CRASH. BANG. WALLOP, the coaches used to say.

Crash, bang, wallop went the fireworks display

Which haunted and taunted the newly-tainted Taunton.

But they were not to know

The dangers of their show.

Crash, bang, wallop, a victim slowly dies,

Crash bang wallop, the natives close their eyes

Hearing only the casualties’ cries

Ringing out across a clear night’s sky.

Crash bang wallop, a nation mourns en masse,

Crash, bang, wallop, a truly awful crash.

You need not be in Taunton town

To taste this terrible waste, as,

Putting on a mournful frown,

Reporters cover the case.

The cops, they saw, are looking

Into the causes of the smash,

But blaming the RFC? To me,

That seems a little brash.

For they were not to know

The dangers of their show.

Crash bang wallop, the sounds fill me with dread,

Crash bang wallop, 51 injured, and 7 dead.

Those who saw and still survive

The atrocious scene on the M5

Will never forget the crash near Devon

Watching their loved ones ascending to Heaven.

If, as some are sure to claim,

It’s all a part of God’s great game,

And that He, in fact, set these people free,

Then ask, why them, not you, or me?

For tragedy is a thing, you see,

That cannot be explained

by turning to some deity,

No matter how well famed

his vengeful wrath may be.

Crash Bang Wallop, a lorry hits a car

Crash, Bang, Wallop, under a glittering star.

There follows a phase with cars all ablaze.

Taunton is forever tainted

By this terrible tale.

Years of Innocence

Years of innocence, years of glee,

Years that ran away from me

And left behind mere memories

Of the lives we used to live.

Years of Triumph, years of Woe,

Man cannot stop the temporal flow

Which whooshes and weaves its way down

Toward spaces not yet met,

Spaces to which we may never get.

Years of sorrow, years of joy,

Years ago whilst still a boy

I met a weary, world-worn man, who told me of a wondrous plan

To defeat the ravages of Time;

Escaping into a poem’s lines.

This lesson I hope to have heeded well

As I feel Time’s tsunami heave and swell.

My time is short, and his much shorter, but

I fell in love with this man’s daughter.

And once we’d wed, and drank his wine,

He passed away, dear friend of mine.

Years of happiness, years of grief,

Our time on Earth is very brief.

Years of innocence, years of glee,

Years that ran away from me

And left behind mere memories

Of the lives we used to live