Addictions, things that make me happy.

Things that used to make me happy are now my addictions.

I was a few bizarre episodes in, triggers called for introspection.

I reviewed the list and there are some additions,

“Just one more”, procrastination is a binding spell for all.

Its five cans deep without recognition its a blind habit,

“I will stop” this is a review of hypocrisy, it's...

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Late sleep has been deprived,

Most nights are spent on trying to decide what to do next,

What is best for me or worst, planning moves.

Going through a list of movies, I'm barely interested in.

Look at the ceiling try to look in my heart, 

And find what I concealed away,

and try to find something to feel about.

And think about my doubts.

Am I alive or just living? I don't kn...

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I'll have to be okay.

It will have to happen.

If it doesnt,

then I wont:

the sound of one hand clapping.

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The Poet Laureate reads his commemorative poem on the 200th anniversary of the founding of the Royal Astronomical Society: BBC ‘Broadcasting House’ 12 January 2020

(Today 13 January, coincidentally the BBC reports the oldest matter from a meteorite 7 billion years in the making. It carries dust grains, ‘star dust’, formed before our worlds existed).

When I heard the lauded Laureate*

...

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i am as a sapling in the shadow of a hundred year oak
try not to breathe, not to stir
i wish to remain unnoticed at the edge of your meadow
here in my solitude
i dare not disturb this perfect silence
inexplicable and deeper than night
nothing casting it
a black shadow wavers in the bright sunlight
it covers the the meadow floor
pulling at my curiosity I am lost in it's mystery
forgetting...

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relax,

now start breathing,

everything around is around for the same reason. 

Catastrophe, catastrophe its all the same feeling

i'm too old to move on, i'm too old to keep dreaming.

When to move on is to grow and to grow is not leaving,

in a promise land we grow, and speak of the same reason

we speak of heaven and hell like they're not the same demon.

Well to move...

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A black pen, a worm chewing through

wood, waiting for flesh.

Crunching its way through shadow.

Candle wax on skin

setting hard in its way.

A flick of the wrist

and the ink scratch stains.

Trying to find a way

to communicate with vision.

Spew out, eat up, digest, reset.

Calculating the way with mind

set to epip...

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Shite they say is such a dirty word

It conjures up all sorts of images

Brown, sticky and smelly vestiges

But can you polish a turd

I think you can, it is not absurd

To think you can make something better

To think you can improve the design

To think you can create something new

From something which reminds you of poo

It took a long while for ...

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`






There are days
that songs are stifled
or the throat hoarse and weary
No more do notes glide softly -
raking leaves strewn across
the littered lawn
their butterfly wings
hung up in the wait
for another sunny day.


There are nights
that stars squander
their luminescence
on unappreciative lovers
roaming listlessly by
a moonlit shore
their br...

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`

i will not be scorched
by the flame of another
i shall keep my fire
fueled only by the pure
kindling found deep
within the terrain
of my wooded home


the sun shall bring
enough light by day
and a torch well-lit
shall provide steady
footsteps to tread
the dark by night

[as I search for what
I cannot find or name]

no light save by the moon
...

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