Once we were good friends
But now
all that is left is
my regret
that I never seem to learn
Category Archives: 1996
Power cut
Screen space.
At last .
A revelation.
I can just think about the
treasure
and the
pleasure
which awaits us both
Harmony of man
and machine
we work together,
the chaos bringing art
until the power cut
One Hour in Hell
Waking fills me with the horror of being. The duvet is a comfort that I do not want to relinquish and I have my usual morning struggle, whether to enter the consciousness of the day or hide in the darkened chamber, blackening my insides with the first fag of the day. This morning I get up, although not before I have taken half an hour off my life.
A shaft of light enters the room from the murky window that had somehow avoided my rages, where every other breakable item in the room had been proven so. The dark blue curtains are partly open, although I do not remember even getting them so far moved. Last night must have been another bad one but the memories have vanished, and only the hangover remains to haunt me. I cannot remember where I was or what I did. This is good; I probably don’t have too many awful consequences to answer for. It has come to something when this is the only thing that I can be positive about.
I dress slowly, concentrating hard as I fight with my clothes. I am already late for work, unless I’ve now been relieved of this burden. It seems not to matter, although I decide that it would probably be a good idea to phone and check. I shall do it later. Slipping on an old pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and spraying myself liberally with deodorant (and instant sex appeal if I could only get myself to believe the adverts) seems to be good enough preparation for the day.
Phone work. I have to clean my teeth first, as I do not want them to smell the alcohol. Mustn’t give a bad example. I enter the bathroom and survey the carnage. Bloodshot, fuzzy eyes, tangled long hair, the weeks growth of beard and the bruises (always the fault of gravity I find, it tends to get rather strong on the walk home), all reflected in the remaining corner of the mirror.
Today, as I have come to expect, I am not needed. Such are the troubles of a part time contract. A plan is needed, for I cannot afford to spend the day as well as the night in the pub. The prospect of making my liver explode seems a good one, but lack of money is a problem. Another Marlboro could help? And a drink.
A cracked class is next to the bed, and I drink to the remains of last night. The bottle is sadly empty. Somewhere there may be another and I must find it. Not in the bedroom. I go to the kitchen, but I cannot see anything, least of all a litre of poison. Focusing is getting to be a problem, pain has returned behind my eyes.
There are mixed blessings to the kitchen. Water is good. Hard floors are easier to mop. Cutlery is bad. What reason to add to the web of scars? I am awake, and so I have the reason. Today I have a red letter day, and I quickly wipe the envelopes before the insides are covered as well.
I find the whisky. It was behind the cornflakes. I celebrate this, and drink to my success. Whilst I am hunched over the table the phone rings, and I wonder who it is who has remembered that I am alive. A blast of ten year old courage hits the back of my throat, and I answer the phone.
Naming tears
The clock moves, desolately onwards,
weary in its heavy toil
Shelf over shelf describes
life’s movements, and the
shadows of a long forgotten past.
A new arrival, proud
addition to life’s archives.
Father, young and forgiving,
Mother glowing
forget
as they recount detail
the future;
the movement of the clock, and the buried
decay under innocent earth
amended 1 May 2005
principles
the tear, tattooed upon my cheek, stares back at me as
meaningful as my natural reflection from broken glass.
Greater than me, My existence, My purpose that
I know nothing of.
Revised 3 December 1996
Poem to a half empty biro
I used to write,
Flowing in sentience –
Long into the night.
I used to write
deep
powerful verse –
Meaningful to the
extreme.
I used to write,
a virtuous,
human task.
But then my
pen ran out.
Problems for the biological nature of function
I make appeal to the past
pleading with might
for
explanation of my beliefs
The long term of memory is
no saving grace
just continues
false, mechanical function.
So is this the same for us all?
Nothing distinct just the
implausible equality of
biology alone
Amended 11 January 2003, 1 May 2005
Poem
Untitled
Unheard of
Unwanted
Unfinished
Unread
For emotion
A dozen red roses?
Chocolate poisen
and card.
Wait for the knock,
knock, knock;
and “Hello?”
Before setting down the
carried ideas
and the return
in drenching rain,
feeling the
pulse of
the beaten heart.
Revised 12 November 1996, 1 May 2005
Snail
Your body glistens
naked
moist
quivering
You move
slow
deliberate
gliding
I see your pale
skin
and know
your path
My own path
careless, brings
gargantuan
foot
crushing down