“Lie with me on the cold wet grass
and speak with me in rhyme
as the evening pirouettes away.
Confuse me and seduce me
with strange untrue stories of your lives.
Tell me riddles about opposites, of conjurers and peacocks
You will know when to pause
and let stillness be moving.
And when I ask how you knew when to do it
you’ll talk of the mathematics baked in music.
Which you learnt from some wearied Oxford punter
some time past, perhaps it was December
as ice lay on the water
and you stood their cold and wondered
if he was real, absent or maybe altered.
And you count the breaths I make
and understand I want a further explanation
so you talk of a lens you had applied that morning
which placed characters of forgotten novels
in emptied unused places.
It populated your world with fantastical societies
conceived through impression and carried years in your memory
and I asked like a child if I can see the punter too.
And although you invent to please me
here you speak almost harshly
for we both know that lies are only beautiful
when we address them with some truth.
You tell me I cannot see the man upon the river
even if I went back to that past December
and stood there right beside you
and looked at him through your eyes.
In this place now all is darkened
you are sounds without visions
you are the words so accurately chosen
and my silence is my submission…”—Strange little me
“This one is odd to language
This one is ode to us
This one is not for wooing
or appealing to some subjective midnight conjuring.
This one is not free verse because of Whitman
or on loss because of Larkin
This one is not for beat or travel
This one is ode to us.
For your surety and sobriety
and loyalty without demand
This one is for the simple thought
That all I love in you
is all I lack in me.
And when I speak of love I’m not on a mission of alluring
to symbols in nature or darkened undefined passion
but that you are you
and I am me and that alone is satisfying.
This one is for all we have done
and all I hope to do
with the concept of companion in my mind.
This one is as close as I can come
to that unspoken
I could never thank you for
For putting us above the other
despite the pain and gossip of young intelligent people.
This one is ode to us
This one is ode to me
for my dissonance and my regret
This one is not for eloquence or art
This one is ode to feeling
put present, past and true
this one is all I can muster
as my indefinite
apology to you.”—
“Consciously maturing is a miserable business,
my sensitivity is slipping
and I lack motivation to act on impulse.
I fail to be soothed by poet or painter
I struggle to find solace in some dusty book.
I have no time to write and think and relish contradiction
no inclination for riddles.
And although I feel more defined and certain
I feel certainly less like me.
And now my writing comes out disjointed
clearer but lacking the muddle of meaning.
In finality of this temporary break
I consider this,
this, my Faust.”—Strange little me
“The wind is delicious, sweet and wild with the promise of pleasure,
The stars are alive and nights like these were born to be sanctified by you and me, lovers thieves, fools and contenders.
All we’ve got to do is surrender.”—Mike Scott
“You have been told that, even like a chain, you are as weak as your weakest link.
This is but half the truth. You are also as strong as your strongest link.
To measure you by your smallest deed is to reckon the power of the ocean by the frailty of its foam.
To judge you by your failures is to cast blame upon the seasons for their inconstancy.”—The Prophet - Kahlil Gibran
“Here she stands
In attempts to alter herself to
appearances to appease
To slime through the shrinking gap in your infatuation.
Oh here she stands
Pus.”—Because writing monologues is fun
“Even this dust is laden with authority. I see it fall from beams liberated by the gaps in the blind. I could capture it and I could place it in a jar with a label. I would place it on some unimportant shelf, next to the faded postcards and self help books. It can act as a reminder of the intensity of the thing. You see, everything could be altered after this moment, where lies the certainty that it will remain the same from one passing thought to the next. Although world is yet to jut and flip perhaps it has simply been waiting. I could walk out of this door as different or cured or no longer in possession of this strange little person who’ve I become so familiar with. I wouldn’t say I’m fond of her, but there is a kind of safety in understanding her. What will I do if someone intrudes on our secret conversations and alters her, or silences her. This therapy is verging on witchcraft and technology has become too much like magic. I don’t understand the things in the world, and I don’t think they understand me. I wonder if we will ever reach some line, where we decide we are messing with things to powerful and stop creating. A moral choice to cease development. There is now a medication which reduces waiting, some potion guaranteed to cure a broken heart. I feel as though the more we invent, the weaker and more dependent we become. Of course who wants to deny innovation?”—more short story writing
“There are a lot of things I like of you.
I won’t list them now.
From certain angles, you almost appeal.
But you are fragile and I’m careless
why let you, limit me?
See, look now…
you make me seem heartless.
To judge myself unfairly
an indefinite sentence
of glimpsing the limits of my patience
I wouldn’t know without you.
You reach for extremes,
I hunt only for my balance.
Why try distract me?
You see the rope I walk is frayed.”—
“I catch glimpses of myself in windows and mirrors as we walk, as if there was another version of me, walking some parallel corridor who is as surprised to see me and I am to see her. I think we should always be distrustful of mirrors. Who is to say that mirrors don’t have their own agendas with the reflections they show. Mirrors have always caused problems for humans, yet we give them so much authority. They lead to vanity and opposites and consciousness. And while vanity is a preoccupation and opposites bread confusion, consciousness in this certain greenish light, is always a curse. It becomes nothing more than an ugly collage of metaphors in our attempts to apply being to language. These are the final thoughts I can remember, which faded like some unimportant spirit - ceased to be frightening - as the atheistic kicked in.”—Short story writing