Absolutely Miles Away …too many clouds, too little time…

flight to spider island

I climbed, as fast and as paceful as pins could carry, to ride atop crownest and row by row of glinting, gleaming sapphires and emeralds, swaying, shining and foaming to the tune whistled on bright breezes swept scantly between these vast clouds and their pinprick lights between. The view from below whips the essence of saltmire into skin and bone and hulks of metal creaking and stumbling their way through this oft-used passage. The whitefeathered birds soar into heavens and beyond, but for now, race their engineered companion toward the start of time.

And out, out into this thin strip of seawater between lands; the land of all future behind and the land of all’s passed in front.

We sway, dancing to the ripple beat. Hands grip wetly, clinging to perilously perched edges; anticipating a world away. Hold tight; the ride may swim and spin away…

a long road

haven’t we met before, under brighter skies?

i don’t know, i was swept away under this spinning tide…

verse thirst

In five
Fleeting seconds slowly dive
Take ten
The world may spin around from now ’til then
at that point of low
Try not to work out how deep and far depths go
Just dig, clawed thin
Don’t try to dislocate this mess we’re in

For once more this will not escape
Just as one glimpsed glance can write books
Full to the brim, pages dripping with zeroes
A shiver still holds true through these years

Don’t listen to this burble now
And don’t heed my advice; heed no-one.
Make your way where you need to be
And leave at where the past meets your future.

Watch the shadows in silhouette walk away
As from a distance, this could make sense
Up close, brushed to one side. No.
The clearspace makes the view lighter.

a wide nib and thirsty paper.
A quiet word, underneath the cover of rain.
Repetitive situation, iterating it again.


don’t listen to me.  i’m a ball of nerves.  i’m a pack of lies.  i’m a forgotten never-was, lying at the back of your cupboard, the words you might whisper into discarded tissues, before throwing them carelessly from car windows, to skip on the breeze and fall foul of an oncoming face.  On falling and firing, whispered words can get lost in the wind.

Why are you so calm?  How are you so serene?  For the past days I have been starving for energy to rise from being more than a listless mess of stinging cells, bashing about together, confusedly.  Where is the direction?

Again last night, I saw your shadow gently imprinting footprints onto my thoughts.  You distrubed the delicate chemical balance of brains the world over and caused television screens to rattle to life and broadcast the same message on them.  The weight of a kilogramme has decreased by the weight of a fingerprint.  I had the feeling you were stealthily stealing through nights the world over, and your fingers were carefully and skillfully taking the prints away.  You’d never believe me, no matter how it could be said.  But I know that it was you.

You’re responsible for all the magic that’s been flying in the air recently.  I know we can’t speak of what happens when we fall from the safe ledge of sleep and into the other world, but next time…next time i might even bring a torch so i can secretly skip behind your feet as they tread water through greylined cloud.

I just have one simple request, next time.  Next time.  Maybe the next time.  Maybe all the previous versions of yourself should not shatter into one if others come near.  Maybe one day, next time, perhaps, we will spend the time with some simple glue, or even sellotape, if you like, and create an angular monster from the small pieces and fragments we find that have chipped off, along the way.  Glue them and stick them and plaster them into a tall creature, demurely accepting its being as the fabric of dreams, of nightmares, of people.  People who don’t want to be like this, or like that, any more.

Even give it a name.   Affix wheels to its large base, fit it with a collar and chain and take it for walks along the rickety streets, parading down hills, around built-up bends smelling of rubbish and vomit and Saturday Morning in Soho.  Everyone will be proud.  This is what they didn’t want us to be – all of us that is, not just you and not just me – a collection of the discarded parts.  Sewn and hammered and juxtaposed and crammed into a new form.

And think of the glee we could share, to push it into the deep end from a diving board, and watch the screaming vulturous offspring paw over it, shattering it…slowly being infected, one by one…

…and back to the start.  and back to the beginning, to the end, to the miracles, to the sights gazed at upon the way and the wrenching displacement at the end.  And begin again.  To stay, to go, to leave, to return.

This time, when I leave, tell me not to go.  Tell me not to come back.  Tell tales of mystery and dream and excuse yourself from any reprehensible argument and time and space and….

excusing yourself into nowhere, once more.

i know where you are.   please find me.

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