An ode to reckless teenage bravado.

You're the victim of
Fear in vanity's clothing.

But I still
Want you,
And need you,
And adore you;

Even though you might
One day
Become
A supernova;

But, I'm secure
In the knowledge that
You'll never
Collapse
Into a
Black hole.

Kick up the leaves,
And curse the heavens
For being too perplexing;

But one day
You'll know them
Like your palms,
And psalms,
And everything else in your dreams.

Funeral.

Crying at a funeral

for no particular reason,

other than the heavy sense of

grief and

similar watered eyes.

We all cry the same;

though in different moments

and shades;

some tears are kept inside

and lubricate us,

tempting us to fall apart

like frantic machines.

Crying at a funeral,

for no other reason

than respect:

a poor and facile reason

that any cheap conjuror

can tease

from water-ready eyes.

Crying at a funeral

because I would like

to have known you

and loved you

like your dearest;

But I never did.

And I never will.

So I sigh,

but my eyes don't become moist

with tears

that have no place,

or bearing

within my soul.

I'm sorry,

but sometimes the dead

die quietly,

and the living

have quiet thoughts,

that cannot be placed

and so live

in suspended animation;

but somewhere,

real tears are shed for you:

tears that began on the day of

creation;

tears that will run for ever,
weeping at the beauty,

and banality,

and wonder,

and futility of it all;

tears that run through us all,

and prompt us to remember

that one day

we too will die so pointlessly-

like you -

after living under the

hammers of others,

and a boundless night sky.

No matter.

No matter how obscene you think it -

no matter how crazy they say it might be -

a crazy thought is not the preserve

of a crazy mind

or a violent sea.

A thought is all yours:

an expression of you;

and it matters not that others tell you

that you're a fruit

or cuckoo.

Don't worry on keeping quiet

or keeping your thoughts within;

your thoughts are for you -

they're not for others' whims.

They say that it's 'random',

but that's such a facile word.

The only thing that's random

is that their aims are so absurd

as to try to shut you up;

as to try to dumb you down;

and put you in a suit,

and cavort you about town -

like a monkey on a string,

or a child with a noose;

or some colourless thing,

like a dead and lame goose.

No matter what they say;

no matter what they do;

your tomorrow is today,

and you

are you,

are you.

Hate.

Can you feel the hate
Swirling within you?
You mask it as 'humour'.

One day,
It will turn you inside out
And swallow you whole.

And where you once were
There shall remain a heavy presence
That quickly goes unnoticed.

The teeth within you
Will develop an appetite
Whose calling can't be sated.

And so you will crease,
And fall in on yourself,
Like a neutron star in its death throes
In some uncared-for
Pocket of the universe.

Art.

Art is hidden

in the deepest cracks

and recesses

of human experience.

Even after they're dead,

you'll still not look there.

Even after we're all dead,

there'll still be art there

You refuse to look there,

because what you see

might pull you in

and keep you there for ever.

How would it feel to be

trapped with your

reflection for ever?

All your guilt and sin and

squirming pitifulness?

So you don't look there,

and it doesn't peer back into you.

But in your quietest moments,

your mind skips over the ocean,

suddenly descending into

great holes in the Earth.

The truth.

Your patriotic attempts
at jingoism -
in all their couched and pathetic venom -
will not stir the
ignorance
within
my heart.

I will crush you
like you don't expect;
flags will wave,
but they will be covered in blood:
the blood of you,
and your children,
and your enemies,
and your children's enemies,
and those of conquered lands;

and the dead who've tried in vain to cease
the incessant marches of unreason,
and disdain for moral character.

I will put you under my foot
and crush you within your
Reichstags and temples,
and churches -
long before you even wish to burn them down yourselves,
and blame their destruction on foreign entities
with nefarious motivations.

I will not get rheumy-eyed
at the thought of
my country
and all of its honours -
mostly terrors in fancy clothing.

I will not tremble;
nor will I remain impassive.
I will shoot from my mouth
flames of truth
that can vaporise mountains
and put the fear of all desolation
into the eyes of tyrants,
and dragons,
and despots,
and monarchs -
and even God.

For the truth is my weapon,
and I wield it with pride;
indiscriminately.

Who knows? -
I might even be its next target.
But it will cut me down with glory -
and I will let it.
And it will be taken up by other
ne'er-shaking hands,
that will strike you dead
without spilling any of the bile that animates you.

Your flesh is for the whims of time -
the hourglass -
and the seagulls,
and your rabid friends,
who will weep at your demise,
after tearing you apart like the feeble dog you are.

And new life will blossom,
and be bruised,
and sour,
and steer from tranquility;
but maybe we can deter the next generation
from devouring your lies;
instead, digesting them fully,
and offering them to the earth,
in a thankful and even promise,
that flowers might grow in the most acid peat.

Like growth,
maggots thrive in the midst of decay.
But maggots die,
whilst change is present
in the nuances of each new burst of life.

Listen.

Listen to me;
I'll listen to you.
I can see
Beauty in you.

Don't be afraid.
Don't run into the shade.
Come out and face the Sun.
The future is waiting
For you.

Don't say, my dear,
That there's nothing for you here;
Life shouldn't be some
Unrelenting menagerie.

They put thoughts in your head;
Words in your mouth.
They advise you on how to think,
And in time it all goes south

And tumbles into the sea.
This is what might be.
They say: 'This is what will be
If your eyes fail to see.'

Don't say, my dear,
That there's nothing for you here;
Life shouldn't be some
Unrelenting menagerie.

I miss you.

I miss you.
Since you've been gone
I barely sleep;
Not even a wink.

Are you up there?
Oh, my childish imagination.
I long for cessation
Now.

I miss you.
The things you said
Made me.
Please don't unmake me.

I'm feeble.
I'll have to carry on
This upheaval.

It's peaceful -
Since you've been gone;
I just gaze at dew and hear bird song.

And your voice
Echoes still in the hall.
I miss you.
Will you help me to carry on?

Will you help me to carry on?
Will you help me to carry on?
Will you help me to carry on?
I miss you.

The fire.

The fire never died;
The ember's still burning,
Deep inside.

The late 60s were real,
But they felt like a dream;
Peace is never as placid as it seems.

The fire never died;
It burns on still.
To get my trip I need music;
I don't need no pill.

I don't need no weed -
Although I find it helps.

The fire never died.
The pearl's still resting amongst the kelp.

Lord's prayer.

Dear God,
Lord and protector of all that is imaginary;
Lord of my dreams -
Of my imagination,
In the sky,
Eating the pie;
Wielding a huge glistening ball of unreason;
With the beard;
Please protect me from my sister,
And her relentless attempts to commandeer my laptop.

Dear God -
The sky God -
With the zombie son
(Who is also God, apparently;
Something about a godhead -
I dunno),
Please protect me from
Giant custard monsters
And other pretend creatures
Advocating bigotry, infanticide,
Genocide, slavery, rape, incest and
Prostitution -
Creatures like you.

Amen.

P.S. Please don't send the Holy Ghost to kill my children - I've done nothing to you, so stay out of my life, you egomaniacal, genocidal, megalomaniacal prick!

Snow.

How we treat you

like an unwanted guest;

shaking off our shoes

in jest of maintaining the sanctity

of our precious hallway carpets.

O, but once when

we bore smaller,

keener smiles

we danced with you;

and you danced in return,

like a jester plying for to receive our folly

in recognition.

So now,

the roads are thick

with grief

that has no place

in the heart.

The cars become stuck,

the people feel unstuck;

the people just sit in armchairs -

on sofas -

and wait for a time when

they can more happily wait,

and idle their days in warmer climes.

But the old,

though cold,

observe with both

joy and apprehension

the white blanket,

falling like old, crushed bones from Heaven.

One day,

I might dance with you.

I will fall and rise with you,

and maybe you will coat

what humus I make

with your winter will.

Kaleidoscopic mind breaking down into fractured colours.

The Lengf,
And breadf,
And hight
Of my mind
Is braking down

Into some sort of
Tapestry
Of pretty patterns
Wich I cant read;
Cant understand.

I tri to cry,
But feelings are nummed.
Where has my mind gon?

The lengf,
And breadf,
And hight
Of my mind,
Is becuming a singularity.

Everyfing I wunce new,
Wich was wunce blue,
Is now red,
And ritten
In a language I cant understand.

Im trapped
In a prison
Of my own constructshun.

Its not my falt.
Everyfing is ugly,
And becuming unreadable.
But the skys still so beautyful.

Hearts.

Hearts are soft,

but can be made frozen,

and used to smash you to pieces with all the ferocity

of a mind 

hell-bent 

on a type of revenge

that only the creulty 

and majesty of life 

can stir.

An unknown face.

An unknown face.

I appear in all your stories.

I walk in;

I walk out:

The unacknowledged.

I leave the scene

And ask for no raised heads,

Or polite smiles,

Or fiestas in my name.

I partake in everything

But you scarcely know I'm present.

I arrive,

And I'm gone;

Before you even know the present's present,

Or reflection has cast its hands upon you.

An unknown face,

With no requests,

Will burn on inside you until your stories

Are buried with your crumbling vessel.

An unknown face

Will be cast to the wind

In an offering to some memory

That passes through you

As a brief shudder,

Which you soon discard.

An unknown face

Makes unknown bones

But permits a quiet dignity,

Existing on the fringe of all you might ever see,

That those of fame will never know.

I ask only that you be,

And smash mould against mould;

And from the dust make new moulds;

And never live by example,

Because example begets lame children

That know not the fullness of reason or purpose.

An unknown face

Will never haunt your dreams

Or infect your nightmares;

It will only pass you by,

Quiet in all its triumphs and horrors.

An unknown face is yours,

And mine,

And theirs;

As we stumble in the dark,

Searching the features.

One day, I will pass you by,

And you will not know me;

But you will feel my actions

In the ripples I make in the world.

I make few ripples:

My ripples are absorbed by the features of the Earth.

Evening.

I wait for the evening to bleed away.

I wait for the evening to die,

in hope of being greeted with a more fruitful morning.

I wait for the fog to clear,

for colours to appear -

streaking the sky like they mean to impress.

I wait for night to envelop me

and steal me away to a land of dreams,

where maybe I'll be gracefully interred;

just for a little while.

I wait for you

like a lame child

waiting for medical care;

waiting for his parents' interventionist God to commit him to death

I wait for the evening to clear;

the air to settle,

and the morning to kick up the cobwebs,

which will soon re-form.

I'm waiting for the evening to inculcate in me some deep yearning

for a time when night-time means more than just shambling ghosts

and a longing to be refreshed.

I wait for the evening to leave,

not knowing that it lives within the dark of my soul;

morning, too.

I guess I'm waiting for a more pleasant happening to arrive,

and bring with it a routine with no items:

just a blank space,

like night.

I wait for the evening to give peace to the wind-blown,

although it will only heighten their coldness,

and leave me feeling like being warmed up might kill me,

or turn me into some creature wandering, lost, under the Sun.