take away the
thoughts and
douse them in
warmth
stench of hot death
always and
forever
because why else
would we be here

Missed by the bell

Each of the frames
moments
caught in reflection in those spare
seconds

hands
touching the face, now that its
real
at least for a moment

and inside
voices

a radio heard
for those times
and these
and the future

What happened?

So. That went quite fast then; faster than I expected, and so I didn't quite get chance to see in 2010 with any more than a shudder, and then, well, here we are in a new year. So happy new year to one and all.

Thus far, I have managed to break all of my new year's resolutions, since I am neither sober nor fitter, and yet still retain a fear of social contact such that here I am, on a saturday night, compiling details for a tax return rather than doing anything more interesting with my life. We went out today, though, and I took photos. That is the new mission: to overcome the loss of creativity that took its cancerous grip in 2010, and to photograph, maybe to write, and perhaps sometimes to set fire to buildings in a particularly artistic way.

2011 brings with it the promise to shoot my second feature film. This is truly an adventure, and those can be good, once the panic of existence is put to oneside.

Perhaps poetry will come back. I miss the lines, and still compose, sometimes, in my head. But they rarely make it out, staying instead in the prison of imagination, awaiting the release of the iceman.

Welcome, then, to the new year. Welcome to the new old, to the promise of change and the reliability of not. Welcome to the hope that sometimes lasts until almost the end of the first month, before the self delusion is drowned and the new year turns to carbon of the past.

May it be happy, and prosperous, to one and all.

New

New blogger pages

Happy New Year

Its 2010. The world has not yet collapsed under the weight of man's stupidity. I think it will be saving that until at least February. I have many invoices to send. Well, 2. And I stall probably distractg myself slightly, by using PuppyBurger again (unless I change the URL to something new for this new start).

Happy new year.

The only lesson leaned from school days was of hate, blame, and grudges. The fantasy of escape supports this, as the notion of best days of life takes second place to the countdown to the end, of the days and the contact with others. In the early afternoon minds wonder from recycled teaching plans, and head towards the gates, the busses home, and the fist in the face of that week's hated favourite.

Of course, this is the best preparation possible for the office. Vacuous games continue with the politics of well dressed backstabbing and self importance.

Chaos thory

If I had a mind
like yours
I'd keep it at home
in a box
locked
away from the prying eyes of
the others
after all
its far too precious
to get broken

Dualistic requirements of the voice

He sits
in his head, a thought
trapped
that if escaped brings
unintended consequence

They sit
listening
perhaps it will go
a possibility
in existence

Heard from the next room

Very nice.

The voice of the help from outside. Not directed at or against him
the voice was engaged in
private chat
of the sort that was possible when you had no concern of your world

He had no concern either
had barriers, though
but that was the norm.

Still, it was Tuesday so perhaps
They's let him play a record
or make a record
the longest fucking time in the place without going off track
but even if it was possible
he didn't think that they'd believe it

Sometime or whenever

Please ring his mobile
requested again
and then some
on voice and e
mails throughout the day

and she
looks away

nervous as to the call
the cause known
in mind at least

On the misanthropic society, and my refusal to reply to the invitation

People create societies because they want to belong. There's strength, see, in numbers and a shared opinion that saves you from thinking for yourself.

A contact of mine, who fancies himself as a bit of a wag, created the misanthropic society. And he asked me to join.

Such an invitation created a distopia of feelings. Whilst its nice to be asked to join a group, no matter how facile the subject matter might be (or, in this case, perhaps how anti-facile since it involves avoiding the majority of the gene pool in acknowledgement of their inadequacies), extending such an openness would be missing the point. And from the very people who are supposed to embrace misanthropia.

I clearly cannot join a misanthropic society that has any members. Membership is contact, human contact, and an acceptance of value. I cannot be part of this.

and then we looked over
he called
you and the group left
to a cafe void
trapped on a trip
for the journey home

Guidelines to your success

They say that ambition is good, and that you should
work hard now
so that later,
you can work harder
at a bigger desk
and
for more money

They say that
this
is chasing the dream
and that you should
live it now
before
its too late

They judge on
money, and
class, first,
appearances
and
inherited meaning

Barnsley driver

Barnsley driver, originally uploaded by Alex Veitch.

In Barnsley, dogs don't walk.

18.12.02 (amended)

At the end of another day, in th equiet off the alleyways, the side streets, and in the ginnels - and in the most lonesome and empty rooms of the houses - the universe unwinds. The noise is like the all the conversations you've ever heard, all the sounds of the day, slowly being reversed, out and in again, the sound of a giant's great slumber. You mustn't wake the giant, for he needs his rest
Some forget this. And when it happens, the giant deals with interruptions - say, the child who wonders about his parents' house after they have gone to sleep - with quiet efficiency.

Untitled

Her voice carried a laugh
wrapped in a smile
she'd won the lottery
wouldn't be back
for a while

7.6.02

Thoughts that need a home

go hunting, then
to search out
in
and thereabouts
for whatever
and however
the point being yours

hide, then
from certain truth
or dare
to dream about, or
live
in times
places
yours alone
again

A poem about Cartesian duality and the beauty of an expansive soul that sees more of the world as it grows, and not, as some claim, about selfishness.

Your soul is like
the force
guiding a balloon

floating higher to view
life's tapestries
and rising
for greater gain

After Simon Rae

I
it
wit
twit

After the airport

If you were to
put me
in a white room
with a white door
and floor

nothing to do
see
touch or
say

Somehow
I would still
fuck
everything up