the more we invest in ourselves the greater the wealth we can spend on each other, is that not the weakness to any man-made barriers and our unnatural persecutions? The essence of human evolutions. Slowly, too slowly at times, knowledge reveals the dead-ends and worthless institutions until with combined courage they are ignored and eased out of human existence. The wrong path simply cannot last, laid by fear, it only has nowhere to go...
pelagic
Like, the human mind,
to wander on pointless lines...
Oblivion follows the tide in a singular linear idea
Quietly swarming and wild-eyed
hypnotically driven by time...
Unaware they are utterly lost,
in their widening search for distractions.
Gigantic oceans packed with their silence,
prehistoric with the Ancient's of loss...
A movement catches thousands of eyes.
Frantic sparks into rampage,
Insanity an intuitive frenzy,
chaos insatiable to devour any new thrill
like a worthwhile prize...
Better than the dullness just to survive.
While others fall to the end of their life,
whatever the cost,
to whoever could care on how many lives,
just a million tangents left undone...
the remarkable invention and discovery
unknown, and gone...
just tinder to ignite, to feast on a blood-lust of cries.
As if by command, or by a well-timed strike,
or another well-placed man-made surprise.
From stillness they snatch blindly at terrible things,
that drift uneaten to be lost in their crimes.
Like the leftover dreams of ordinary men...
one-by-one they slow irritable with contempt,
and watch from the outside,
as Oblivion returns in all her dark calmness,
just to tease them gently for millennia,
and to eternally follow the tide.
Styx
…and so absorbed into this giant’s lounge
busy with my ghosts through raw mountains stacks
and greyly scowled, by the unnaturals who roam,
across the moors in supernatural light-deaths
the monsters of love-lost who haunt me so slow…
the hurricane lamp that swings in silent decay
as if something just left, or decided to stay…
a chance meeting left open,
the alien wars in a campfire,
in this place where only the ancient remain
cold and abrupt and simmering
with otherly worlds and their vile gothic stains
the rivers procession of rusty tamborines.
shake free this place of playful things
the brazen bleeding as unholy begins
raised incense of amber atomics,
fire-smoke and flames like a dragon,
breath-taking and suddenly caged
staring back, hungry, entranced as if I was prey…
a fusion of lunar crystals in deep, deep black
injections intense, like peppermint and sage
these Argyll Mountains smothered
generations of murder and rage
the heritage of men that evolves from your veins
pink colours of sunset leech feeble in rain
or lie slaughtered by vanity
on such hard, harder slate
an open mind absolved by the rain
moody thoughts that you taught me to save
with this solitude of paradigm blends
again and again crushing time into vents
an evolution of seasons undoing of life
while I wait so peacefully beside the Styx
waiting for the Ferryman and the open grave
refusing to step forward...
stare downed by death
in a most malicious way.
GLENCOE
These wise old skies of great cannon fire
And silent wars of prehistoric spire
Away and away they cast their shapes
of giant ram-heads, as if Tyrants escape
on their weak castle lakes…
or in effigy of historical dates
Against this place of the killing and drowned
and years of Winter and her chemical flakes
Like a toxic bleach burns brittle and cakes
scorching her cliffs to amplify great
this creation of Springs statement of proud
this forge of seasons magnificent and loud
or ancient walls jammed up by the ground
havoc suspended, they wait for release
to split the Earth and bring to her knees
a symphony of Banshee and ghostly muse
a phosphorous mass as bright as a fuse
The violent disfigured, and buried out-of-sight
The moors of wild squalls
a no-man’s land, of pain and bear,
the rulers called Stag that never left there
the silence it seems like a lethal dare
like a man lost, in a thousand yard stare….
And only the night to seal this lair
For the morning that comes
will leave her fear naked
and so terribly bare…
in the forest storm
They stand crowded,
shoulder to shoulder
packed in heavy and tight
stuck in irritable dancing
lethargic and singing
to the violence and might
shaking free of these wild war ghosts
these seas of unworldly dread
the might of broad swords and blows
as if they fight hostage to fear
or fall savage upon
such shoulders and backs
unleash your worst and roar on man’s ear
and then leave them embraced
and mad with the queer
as your shaken alive,
as the insignificant
wander without wives
…believing in freedom
the greatest adventure of life
orrest head
From the hawks suncrest
sonic’s faint and crash
off the shores of distant planets
that ricochet with passage
as if the monstrous had passed
a century before…
the storms that squat on pedestals
fat with poor temperament
the bone idol cliffs bland and strangely lethal
the vents carved bald and gargantuan
in Mongolian towers that rule over men…
who cluster like something so fashionable
to wander fells of lawn-bowl perfect,
or lowly and beneath, pitch such fragile tents
engulfed in another worlds weight
the artefacts of the Craftsman lies everywhere…
forging life in a blown nuclear kiln
diluting the magnificent blue shield,
with drifting mists like mindless ideas…
and occasional holes, of dark acid rain…
and old testaments of forests, dusty in legend
and the hope of a pale, palace fleece
littered with graves of ancient war lords
and the sun-drenched romance
of the great Viking queens
the breath as fearsome as a wizard’s haze
Across the roofs,
mouldy straw and lattice frames
the lessons of loss that lie so badly frayed
yet I so small to stand here
on the edge, within reach of nothing
a speck alone in their midst
the beyond, in light years
and leaps, for all that we hoped would be something…
filled with such monsters of sacrifice
I above all, am allowed to exist.
perfectly last
To stand at the end of the world
As the what-might-have-been runs past
trying to stop the oceans from dying
weak observations
as if from an inflatable raft
which drifts perilously close to the edge
a dream of those beautiful endings…
and define more than myself,
as I awake from a dream of falling
the energy that saved brings with clarity
of anchors, salvations, barely clutching for rope
as we walk amongst the burnt-out stars
plagued by ghosts and too many false starts
too many man-made ideas…
too many lost in a million
…as if that something could last
Or stolen, and left way out in the past
Alienations, strange creatures from Mars
Implications, a catch-up in parts
Handsome sceptics, Terror genetics
And then we suddenly discover
we were never meant to last
…designed so perfectly
vessels for life who travelled way too fast
a strange man, at the end
of a grey-fossil pier, a relic of history
where the tide had drained out,
dissolved into swamps and sandbars afar
the night radiant with a new universe
and captured explosions of stars
each a life in one point of light,
in a skyfull of aliens,
moving as one passing time…
implying how good men must pass,
and what’s left, just survives
taken in the end by a lonely,
and horror-filled last gasp
so much knowledge, I can sigh at last…
where once I was wrapped in another,
at the end, with nothing to hide
He looked sadly at me, these are our times,
an affordable life? the value we are …
theirs is another day yet to be colder,
another day to seize
building our lot,
on incredible dreams
all gone in a blink of an eye,
and all we are left
where once stood great friends,
the world rundowns with another’s debt,
Adventure in life until we are doomed to rest
Hung from each other where desperate is met
and strange men lean over the unnatural edge
And everyone looks blank, to say
what needs to be said.
I met a strange man at the end of the street
He said let’s take a minute,
and pointed at factories
And lakes of carparks that stretched
far into the week
What the hell is this place?
As he stared at his feet
Maybe someone somewhere called it Creation,
but where do we sleep?
It’s the human plantation,
and look, who made me?
Is our genius killing us?
Are we perfect in sleep?
what must lie buried
beneath these beautiful streets?
perspecuity
These windless sanctions
and hollow and dull halls
breed the sound of hurried footfalls
removed by distance…
Leading unknown by handsome throats
…gentle with pencil blows
a-cross, to embroider a land in deaths throes
and the stillness claims her Winter’s masts
and gods of imperfections
like the persistence of percussion,
a timepiece of worlds
wage war on savage fillings
or simply put
a selfish sense-ability
that aches for the midnight
the wild and lonely
the silhouettes on a bare barren wall
companions eroded, into a point of being
the winds that gather in waterfalls
reduced to clear
and far too open
left weeping
in agony
and for everything I cannot say
headlands
Somewhere beyond…
a headland is crushed by gigantic
that others call them endless days
where ghosts roam like ancient winds
searching out victim and praise
like prayers that are held until paid
somewhere beyond…
these headlands wear bearings
and winds have such little weight
where storms are herded wild as beasts
and the dreams of men stay where they lay
somewhere beyond…
the headland persistent, foolish and dazed
tiny fingers of tides tease like a craze
searching for imminent endings
while memories fragment the useless and lost
in our headlands to wander till the end of days
where they fish with their hurricane lamps
and monsters salt winds, batters the cliffs
where war-tides tear landings adrift
here at the end of a century lost
the deadly no-man’s are fed with loss
the wreckage of good men laid unto death
while to the many who wait to be found
wander vacant and ruined
at home in their dread
myth
And I have stood where no fool should
where giants suspend the roof of the world
the cliffs that are measured in days
these sheer stone fells,
under great black she-ghosts
that amass in fronts of alien wars…
and I humbled by this her brutal space
and her oriental sisters of fierce sunrise
flung bruised upon injured frowns of thought
cruel as I lean too these old winds of Thor
who passed with his legions a century before…
and yet have I harboured so brave
on the piers of mighty Orion…
stiff insects of barnacled keels
as I sailed and understood the Aztec elite
or poached the whale bone, or stole the teak
smelt the moss greens and salt while I sleep…
or dreamed I the Sage in a summers night defeat
or imagined the size of Cleopatra’s fleets
harvesting, drying out the harbour net creaks
out in the winds that sang and leaked
and long peaceful soaks in sangria fields
and gunfire clouds sent to rile wilder feats
the herds of innocence they dragged fast asleep
silently screaming down to the Earths inner deep
And I have stumbled upon Dante’s demon
His desperate vagabond hounds
vicious with ratchet ribs,
superstitious and terribly proud
his mangy back and pyramid squalor
detours and hazards in freeways abound
the sculpture of royalty, odd and confusing
No substance from ignorance to rule other men
on a skeletal fire that escapes
of a birdcage ledge high above them
so high in the sky above these modern day roars
and her toxic, crippling, bad breath
The idea of civilised, which is their powerful lie
The higher ground they demand,
Just to sit in defeat and squander the lives
The softly, softly who own their dominion’s
Makes such murderous demands
On a whim between what’s left and what’s right
And lies in wait for slaughter,
and so it has been by those,
the few with psychopathic hands
…the same hands that feed me
In this world of such splendid whims
in stadium malls, art filled to sell standards
lavish with passion kiss
pop conversations and orders so gallant
brooding with the ungrateful of bliss
and headlands that brace only nothing
that suck to death our middle class feats
…and define the ordinary man.
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