Viewing Things For Edwin

What I love about churches are their cold echo

What I hate about politicians are their change of tune

What I love about the Landrover is its steadfastness of character

What I hate about liars is their culpability

What I love about smoke is its fire and brimstone

What hate about tabloids is their lack of fine print

What I love about Tambourine is her amber freckles, unrealised divination and experienced youthfulness

What I hate about Mary’s husband (Andrew) is his sly unrealised arrogance and sleek new trainers

What I love about Gem-stone is her unwavering iridescence, humour and love

What I hate about rhythm is the bars that beat around and about me

What I love about William is his kindred spirit

What I hate about South Africa is its unfortunately timed Orwellian manifestation

What I love about St. Nick is his willingness to involve and challenge me

What I hate about bottles are their bottoms

What I love about poetry is its girth and potential, its liberty and open road

What I hate about Eden is its unthoughtful paradigmatic ideology

What I love about the light-bulb is its refusal to be stifled

What I hate about creation is its ability to allude me

What I love about love is currently a mystery

What I hate about hate is its capacity for blindness

What I love about hate is its place on the emotional spectrum

What I hate about love is its theft

What I love about Juan-Henri is our propensity to concur

What I hate about Jack is his lack of mastery and uneducated southern drool

What I love about St. Steven is his ability to laugh at himself with the happiness of others in mind

What I hate about Christmas is its hollow annual metaphors

What I love about the wind depends on which way it’s blowing

What I hate about derelict buildings is the older they get the more stubborn they become

What I love about a cloud is its Eye of Providence – omniscient, bird’s eye view

What I hate about you, wretched cancer, is your abhorrence for reason, justice and fair play

What I love about the outsider is his underdog chance, his view looking in, and his eventually and inevitable triumph against the odds

What I love about the mountain air is its palpable, gulpable crystal-clean purity and soothing cerebral refresh

And what I love about us is we all agree

The Moon Is A 'Hotless' Child

The moon is a hotless child.  And I?

A blurred prince that dreamt I saw you

On the front row of a congregation.

You and the preacher-man were in cahoots.

We cleaned up our sins

And the mud off our boots.

There is nothing there now

So why try to bite?

Why try fly a plane

Before flying a kite?

The beginning is over

The end hasn’t come yet

And all there is to care about is now,

Hanging here, now, a branch on a tree

Whether happy or in pain,

I bow, I submit, I endure.

The moon is a hotless child. And I?

I am its long lost brother,

For tonight the bottle is half empty,

Half full of air, half full of poison,

Whichever is better for you.

The moon is a hotless child. And I?

The hapless father of a lukewarm generation.

Where is the fruit of my long suffered alternative philosophy?

Where is the organic home grown apple of my eye?

What ails the men at arms,

Fighting for a slither of originality?

How comes such valour with so little reward?

Where is the son? Where is the Sun

Of glorious pastimes,

Glorious passed times,

Glorious past times;

The offspring of creativity itself

In a lukewarm bath of befuddlement

And lack of sincere aim?

The moon is a hotless child. And I?

A frozen lunatic.

Marred by my own bewilderment

By my own ineptitude

By my own lack of foresight

By my own fuzzy logic and indecisiveness,

Though as of yet not hoisted by my own placard.

A blurred prince?

To say the least. Boots clean,

And you on the front pew,

In the cockpit,

Dancing in the orchard,

And manipulating solar spheres,

While your hands still shake

When you strike a match.

The moon is a hotless child. And I?

The day after tomorrow’s dawn.

Though as of yet, I’m undecided.  

Ramblings of A Wander-Lusting Neophyte (The Usual Blur of Words)

Are you ready? For a copyright infringement

That will go down a storm

In the right pair of ears.

Are you ready? For a right-inky-mess,

Neurotically depreciative of its own engineering.

A slippery sex-on-the-beach-monkey-nipple of a thought…

Discerning baggy-clothed and barefoot to be the happier option.

Do I dare,

And do I dare disturb the universe

With a cacophony of half-baked words,

Amounting to an ‘I love the bones of you,

That, I cannot escape.’ (?)

Some mirror ball, in an empty disco hall,

Reflects a similar sentiment –

That of Everything In Its Right Place,

Everything Has Changed.

Tonight the city sounds were violins,

Tonight the stars were multicoloured.

And whilst I reiterate, whilst I regurgitate,

Somewhere the last echoes of a snare drum

Fade out to a quick acoustic death.

Lets then. Yes lets – entertain a myriad of impressions

Fantastic and evanescent,

A sharp steel shard of the refreshingly ordinary –

Something like ‘world peace, less pollution

And butts that look good everywhere.’

…put that in your cocktail shaker.

Lets have a powwow

A Boom-Boom-Pow-Wow

To welcome Dawn’s eternal throes

And grasp earthy tufts of fuller life

To glide the highs and ride the lows

And help rebuff a word, a world, of strife.

The airwaves hum (Zumm Zumm),

The transatlantic, London to Brighton

“ Problems of an extravert”,

So peculiarly foreign.

The Exotic Other?

No. The Great Unknown.

Physicians are a good sort.

They want to do the right thing.

And yet all of us, behind closed doors,

Would kill to hear the Sirens sing.

…Do not all charms fly

At the mere touch of cold philosophy?

Cold and calculating, knowing all –

Nothing left to imagination’s sense of adventure.

Well, you’ve the wrong weather forecast.

That life, you know the one set out for you by others,

The one that has the universal-thumbs-up,

You-can-do-it-Facebook-official,

Chew-on-yer-pen, follow the leader

Yellow-brick-road

In red shoes kinda deal;

The one constructed in all futures but yours,

Set out in all plans but yours?

That’s the one you think hardest about.

Think harder, and then contemplate it in full -

Just for good measure.

Then, with your head in circles,

And out of kilter with Daddy’s Five-Year-Plan,

Look up the word ‘wanderlust’ in the dictionary.

And whatever your mind falls to

In the pending moments,

That is what you

Chase. And be happy(ier).

So say all earnest generations previously.

So say I.

The Montepulciano agrees.
Do I dare to eat a peach?

…Out to the windy beach,

Far from the twisted reach

Of crazy final moment’s

Sweet surrender, fragmentary,

Paradigmatic, post-modern,

Dada inspired sorrow. 

It’s OK. I was a neophyte once

Upon a time, dressing so fine…

With bones on the table…

Feathers in the garden…

Clothes on the line.

   

Dystopia eat your heart out

You have the right to know that my heart is in this matter. So when I know you were here before, that you left a wet footprint on the bathroom floor, a ghost of your presence, a shadow to the wind, a whisper to your essence, the likes of which I can conjure up without a second thought, but might be tinged with the smallest dose of pain sometimes, remember my heart misty murmur is in this. We all have to strive, and strain and seek what is good and where the silver lining that is the only thing on God’s green earth worth shouting about, and if not then no one’s got a chance. And everyone wants a chance…

     …The moon, yes the moon. I haven’t howled at it, but it outshines a mid-night metropolis. Streets sleep, pavements are empty but the city has a pulse that cannot be stopped and a thirst which cannot be quenched, no matter how many hipster jazz cats bop to the underground night beats that no one can see but are always heard.

     Lets be me, whoever you are, and entertain a world of furies and wear Nike ironically in pretence but covertly think it the thing to wear, and everyone else thinks the same and nods and passes narcotics in your direction, as if it’s the cure, the remedy for times of insecurity and despair – one of the two.

     Call Lane reeks of the failed artistry of European song, once shot in the chest, but he’ll ‘give you a sheet of his unpublished music genius ‘cos you played Mardy Bum so tight considering the time of night and the alcohol percentage of Red Stripe.’ He digs it. Man, he digs it.

     If only Cadillacs were from Yorkshire. We could get one second hand, I know a guy who knows a guy who knows Cadillacs. Real cheap. Real good nick. Real great Nike. Real good spanner in the works, and we could bomb to the coast and get high on grey waves and white wine or try to find the Pennines and make our mark. But the roads are too small, incorrigibly acute and sheep and rain and old stonewalls ooze obtuse Shakespearian anxieties, a kinda rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind notion and the Rozzers wouldn’t be too keen.

     If you ask me, I think we’re too middleclass to revolt enough to see ourselves as we wish. This may not be the case. I hope it isn’t. Hope being the main reason why I write. To be free of the fear. THE FEAR. To be free is to write, but in writing, I address what it is I cannot surpass (I think.) And I am left nonethewiser much like when you find yourself on Call Lane. Although how much like it it is I have no idea. The similarity lies in the searching, I would suggest. The big fat gypsy nothing we wish to fill in – colouring in the spaces between the lines that define us, like the train journeys that are the gaps between our sense of life. And to find articulate brevity that matches what it is in our minds we cannot verbalise of vocalise – to find and capitalise on that is what those on Call Lane search for. Or so I like to think… that’s why, certainly, I’ve found myself there a few times.

     Mixing it with the revellers – pretending to be on a level of loss, which I can relate to, but find weary, both at the same time, at the same instant when handing over moola and looking down the sticky neon bubblegum drum rum bar at my own reflection, and the mirrored image of myself I find in others, those Sambuca fiends give me back a knowing look of ‘yeah I got a loan out for this shindig’ and I’m like ‘yeah I can’t relate as much as you think I can.’ And the music swirls and gyrates, people swim through it and come out the other side dry-wet and grinning helplessly, it heats the room, and more time than you think is spent looking at the floor and your feet and the sink in the toilets. Then you’re gone and you hit taxi tyres and fumble wallets and shout at some cat that was meant to be sharing a lift to our neck of the woods. But before you know it you’re shouting out orders for Styrofoam boxes with extra mayo and go easy on the garlic and why would I want salad, swearing for the lack of fizzy tin pop sweet drink, then reaching for the payment in your pocket you’re nine pennies short of, and after incredulity think that although worn out, home is close and the chirp bird dawn chorus don’t get heard by many.

     Stagger past steaming green bins and you crash into dark kitchen space at first light and smash silently up hollow stairs and look into space before closing out that same caffeinated city spectacle scene that now twitches awake while you twitch for sleep, a big fat gypsy nothing of sleep that your soul yearns for until afternoon. But your liver moans, then it groans and turns inside out with self-satisfying disgust. Throwing a window open for cold air to ice lungs and face, unconscious gasps of invisible nature quench stripes of red unease, and you watch an obese sunburnt blue belly hero sort in a panama hat toke a Cuban, while you momentarily remember we’re out of matches, you get Spanish strings and woody acoustic type vibes and sounds and the Samba pulse through thoughts best left for a smoky room full of mahogany and whisky and moustaches singing snooker and the tap’n’echo-click of billiard balls on verde velvet. But that’s a place you haunt too often and discard it from cloudy mindset and lean and teeter from a window, which once held the moon misty and the street-lamp-lit skeleton frame of urban immortality, but now frames a pylon wire web spread to the horizon and a dead-electric black Mercedes-Benz and a newsagents that charges to pay on card. The moon the moon the murky orb hovers the city swells and shivers morning’s unstoppable beckons. This is where we eat ourselves and in doing so recognise our self-destructive hardwiring. But all you know you need is a roll of toilet paper and a lined notebook for the degree you should probably start working towards. But you justify coffee to the list to make it worth your while and squeeze downstairs and into sunlight, vile and deviant and unforgiving like a frowning adult who’s never had a hangover. You rock to and fro and think you’re rocking aviators for the light-pain, but really you look like some sort of televised talent show boy band member dropout with hair to match, and end up crashing on the sofa because the guy on ITV turns out to be a thief and a severe neurotic and you pity him more than you dislike him, and anyway Grand Designs is on plus one in a quarter of an hours time… Dystopia eat your heart out.