Post-Nightmare Morning/Thinly-veiled Roman à Clef (Thought Two)

He supposed he grew up in conditions of some emotional deprivation, he wasn’t sure and the shadow of introspective uncertainty and self-consciousness maintained its long, sunset omnipresence. Again, he wasn’t sure. Of the shadow analogy and if the opening was, in fact, true.

No one had to read to him (the only book in the flat was the yellow pages) and his first memory he was sure was his mother and a male (his father surely, why did he doubt himself?) screaming across a one room ‘hostel’ in Edmonton with him behind the bars of cot, crying, the reasons unknown, the descent infinite.

Was writing the mere pathological conquest to be adored? The authentic affirmation that was so manifestly absent? Why didn’t he pull down the curtain of Roman à clef. He was the stony-faced loner who never showed his tears. No one could unravel this mystery, because even he did know himself. It wasn’t so much a blind spot, as a conscious baseball-batting of the car mirrors projecting the emotional traffic, which he deceived himself from. Smudged crudely away from cognisance into the darkest shade of black unintelligible swirls. Wasn’t it? Meta-layers and bastardised simulacra of memories, mental images that he had consciously swallowed the entire edifice of the originals, only a hall of self-deceiving mirrors. Who the fuck was he, ‘did he think he was’ but a bunch, a bundle of memories, feelings, political alignments, love and loathes? And a dry, decaying bunch at that.
The descent is infinite.
Emotions are only subjective mental states aren’t they? Perhaps I only felt this nebulous and much disparately experienced emotion known as ‘sadness’ is felt with quasi-sociopathic detachment for me? Or the innumerable occasions of kleptomania were an outlet? He didn’t know. He was tired.

‘Tell me about school…’
‘What about school?’
‘Do you want to draw a picture of how you’re feeling?’ an almost paternal voice echoes from the past…
He gazes at his navel for a moment in which all of time collapses. Sleep and failings again.
He dreamed of the abyss in reverse, where you only fell upwards? Only she knew she was the affirmation.

 

The White-Trash Experience/Never Let Me Go

The White-Trash Experience/Never Let Me Go

Foxes nose needles
As Squirrels run back to trees
I gaze
Out of the window
Averting emotional blackmail from within
The inability to escape the urban
-13th floor
-Will the squirrel come back?
The urban landscape’s irreverisble change
-Decay
But an immutable smile remains-
Sandy hair and Verelstian flowered bag
Beautiful-
Bottled in memory in the shutroom of psyche-
Never let me go-
Pacing up and down the cell-
Waiting to be released! Crying-
Never let me go-
Without language or education I crawl back
(I can only stand alongside)
Back to the estate-
Never let me go.

Lost myself on the New Brighton Peninsula
Lost you and I’ve lost everything
The Mersey waves wash over my head
Will squirrels come back-
Failed with fear-
I mumbled without language-
-Lost all sense-
Lost everything-
Never let me go.
Language and peninsula erode-
Empires rise and fall-
Dazed and dissociated
Stumbling without word or smile-
Grey vistas save street parties-
Distant-
To cuddly oppressors-
Within or without-
Never let me go.

All day and night
Save Winter
Every Weather
Never let me go.

Ecstatic Disorientation (Ad Infinitum)

This one contains near saturation of sincerely felt cliches and platitudes.  I thought Bright Eyes’s ‘First Day of My Life’ was an apt accompaniment.

Ecstatic disorientation 

Eyes azure blue

Skies azure blue on the 11:03 to you

The first Friday

Coy glances

Heart dances.

 

 

Diaphanous white dress

(with flowers)

A guide to a London address

to circumvent distress

I confess-

A curling desire to kiss

And caress

Now 

I profess

To cease the rhymes of -ess

This is somewhat terrible so far 

(I guess you could guess?)

I’m doing my best.

 

 

Softly surrender

to a Life present and tender

The inability to live in the moment is crippling

Succinctly sliced snips of my own silence are delivered

Accompanied by smiles

(Why didn’t I say anything?)

Hand on train window

(Why couldn’t I say anything?)

I love you.

 

 

Chasms that keep us apart

Chasms away

Behind train windows and instant messaging windows

Intangible

Unreal.

Unsure if I’m selfish

For I want one thing

And it’s You.

And Time Ad Infinitum.

 

 

I could only think of the end-

The sadness- 

From the very beginning-

Brevity clamps my smile.

 

 

(an unpoetic 209 miles away)

Run away from this estate-

This unreal prison of melancholy-

Fiscal and physical decay-

To light ad infinitum-

No delay-

To something marginally-

If not- 

Something-

Infinitely-

Transcendentally-

Real.

You.

UNTIL THE STARS COME DOWN (quite possibly the worst thing I’ve ever written)

An odd concept: A poem incongruously dedicated to feminism and equal gender rights (fiercely anti-misogyny, anti-patriarchy etc.)  and the indifference of the cosmos as well as something of an unashamed tribute to Wittgenstein too (I’m over reaching here) all compounded into one virtuoso (or not) poem. Stanley Kubrick in a 1968 interview (ironically with a surprisingly philosophical Playboy magazine, no less) once spoke this of the seeming Nietzschean nihilism of the universe: ‘The most terrifying fact about the universe is not that it is hostile but that it is indifferent; but if we can come to terms with this indifference and accept the challenges of life within the boundaries of death – however mutable man may be able to make them – our existence as a species can have genuine meaning and fulfilment. However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light.’

This could potentially be the worst poem I’ve written, particularly the ‘supernova sacks’ line. Anyway enjoy, it’s poorly saturated with unnecessary references to psychoanalysis, philosophy, neuroscience and all that. Enjoy. 

UNTIL THE STARS COME DOWN

Discord

Dissonance 

Screaming lullabies 

Punch and kick

Green

Purple

Brown Goodbyes.

Midas more

Golden Black 

The Lacanian abyss 

Bearing these supernova sacks

Let’s have some more.

She swings from the  Event Horizon

Vertically

 Kitschy sycophancy

And collective infancy (of the hedge funders)  

Thinking

about thinking

about thinking

about real emotion

Meta-layers of madness 

Across a cognitive Kingdom 

>

The circumstance of brain drain 

Rhizomatic  and Emblematic 

Demystify every sign 

Multiplicity and  emphatic 

Until the heart ceases 

Eighths and quarters  benign

Remember  when you sought her 

Object Petit a

And found nothing but inky darkness?

>

Cosmic Justice

A grand jury of Stars watching 

Bearing this leering injustice with patience 

Until the Stars come down

The Human Limitations

 

An agglomeration of factoids 

The inexorable march of thought androids

Wearing the latest hubris

On the steel lapels of cognition

A digital rendition  (Daisy)

The Creator’s face sagged somewhere near perdition

 

The  Trumpets in Leaves

He breaths, thoughts weaving

Chest, heaving

Trumpets in dreams

He beams

Out of REM: An idea?

Troubles in dreams

The page remains white

 

Bicycle thieves, escape

Blowing Trumpets, triumphant

Eternal Wonder, snatched

Past the concrete Watchtower, barbed wire and CCTV

The inconsequential suburban street. 

 

The Nocturnes play

Moribund and grey

Turn away from it all

He clutches his temples

and prays

To Two Gods of Two Dead Doctrines.

 

Litigate to placate

Piles of  paper have grown 

Virgin and untouched

Looser looser

‘When did I loose her?’

Parochial tee total 

The cracks in the  wall

Crumbling

Tighter, tighter.

 

The nihilistic swirl 

In an unreliable container

Utter senselessness 

Running through heavy rain

He dies screaming.

Mushroom Clouds (VIDEO)

Video

Verses can be found here

[Shameful quantity of typos amended]

I’ve taken the liberty of using and editing some Soviet H-bomb test footage found here as well as a quiet sampling of Joy Division’s “New Dawn Fades” (unintentionally ironic, yes?) for its atmospheric qualities in addition to a foreboding BBC transmission standby card.

The poem itself, is up to you.

Mushroom Clouds

Image by Jonathan Ducruix

The Quiet New Born

“His name was Alexei”

They mourned

 

Under a silent sigh and a cobalt streaked sky

(no stimuli)

The lights of every city run away

(no laughs)

On the last train out

(no cries)

The inconsequence  of 100 Billion Lies

 

Under a treacly black dome

Tracks should rattle 

Where a vacuum inhabits

 

The space and time 

Where fleeting fits 

of joy


Loved and boomed

Lived and bloomed

 

Now button-pressers prattle 

Hush: Ignore the reasons.

It blooms.