rain

(originally uploaded by bullish1974.)

why on windy days do you come down at an angle?

comic relief

man goes to the doctor.

“doctor,” he says, “my friend thinks he is a chicken.”

“really?” says the doctor. “then you must get him to come and see me immediately!”

“i can’t,” says the man.

“why not?”

“we need the eggs.”

does god see his shadow?

fascination: questions that
do not require an answer,
not merely rhetorical though,
they do not contain one either.

the interest arises from what is evoked,
in the positioning it achieves
placing concepts side by side
god and mortal
mutual exclusivity

within a sentence they are bound.

buxom

to hate a word is nonsense but to regret it is conscious, and i regret buxom.

but you were. beautiful, too.

later you would scream in your boyfriend’s face, telling him he was nothing, a fucking waste, and that he was the most amazing person you had ever met, but a fucking failure because of your own expectations, you who are happy to sit and smile and watch the planets, a fucking failure.

he took it in the spirit in which it was soaked. i lose my tenses.

torn between two, you relayed the details of a friend’s wedding, a confusion of priorities, one half of the service riddled with conflict–pagan misnomer. you are perfect in many ways, contradiction though that is. without denomination, dominated by love and empathy you survive through the warmth of strangers.

i get bitter on my own.

low light

we all shed advice, like loads on a carriageway, discarding our situational thoughts onto the floor, five live travel news. the bridge could be seen from the window during this and on occasion, intermittent blue lights and dull emergencies raced past, glistening in the miserable weather.

somewhere, however, it all got lost. sentence structure bloated and etiquette fell, knocked from breath by urgency. the cursing began and the pointing followed, dogmas were outlayed and conscience disclosed with aggression and imprecision. the fire began to fade, the lights glared at points with electrical surges, a sympathetic wiring providing its own fallacy, the ether of healthy debate.

and in the midst of all of this, one girl took authority, the troubled girl. buoyed by her admission, a secret fear revealed and deflated, streaming with the confidence of surety and acceptance, she rested her head against the vertical wood cladding, the musky brown of age, and crossed her feet, stretching.

she instigated and beamed.

lower case revolution?

vocation
we are the acoustic petite
sounding out the small things
while others bring home
a working day’s wage.

i go to therapy and say
it is the small things
like conversations
that really scare me.

tv drama
sad, moving television
your grandiosity is known
to be a hum of red green blue.

headline
death comes quick!
it says so here
in the guardian.

poetry petri
this non-entity
is devious, cemented,
clever, cultured, experimental
but a non-entity.

what an end!
foolish man with too much debt
ignores sensible precepts by
unfurling extension cable
turning on plug-socket
and getting into bath
while clutching toaster like baby.

tangible variations

i throw paper onto flame by accident, not candle in plant pot but another one, i simply wasn’t paying attention. then looked to plant pot to see it on fire, wax had seeped into the soil and the wick had fallen, lighting and burning the plastic gently.

today is a recording of vitality, defiant living following notions that if something exists then nothing is an impossibility, thus hating quantative measurement and the ideal of “been done”. today is a precedent, an islanded precedent, a singular that seems all the more remarkable from my chair as i watch two vehicles nearly collide and the silent fury and relief within the respective vehicles. my interpretations allow. there are barely any marks on the road however, only me and those that saw, saw.

we as humans, are unique as humans.

next minute, taking stock of bed-linen and enjoying having something to look forward to, a confirmation of my independence, the rub of cotton and detergent against my thighs as tangible as the revolving record, always reassuring the linear crackle and muted static pop soundtrack, like a penance upon the music reminding me of material form. i like to see it spin and spin and spinning.

variations upon the horizon come quick now, not brought by the lunch-time traffic, but near enough. neither were present and then both were present, stalking my window and you have probably never seen purple like the purple in the creases in this evening’s sky. watching it feels like being present at the forming of words, not just their sound but the connection.

i can beat anything

(originally uploaded by bullish1974.)

because i can remember when you had still flesh on your bones and hopes in your heart and great ideas in your head. and i remember when you stopped. and i kept going.