Diabetic Dreams

A fog hangs around the room with a definitive musky scent, it develops from the embers of my tobacco roll up and spreads itself in grandiose swirls around the place. I move slowly so as not to disturb their dancing and shift the curtain slightly across so as to let in a strand of sunlight. The effect was as to be expected, although the way the light shine off of those little smokey particles is always astounding. I feel like I'm in a 1950's cinema, smoke obscuring an Alfred Hitchcock picture, I see John Williams mouthing but the sound is a bubbled muffle.
 The door opens and a police officer steps in explaining his urgency to get me out of the house, something about carbon monoxide. Across from me I can see Ed J. Carlson slowly falling unconscious to a sleep we all know he never wakes from. I grab my mac and head out the door with the police officer.
 In his car he explains that he is no longer an officer of the law, but instead a contributing member of it, he tells me how his past employment left him with vertigo and a debilitating acrophobia. As he speaks I can see the road getting longer and longer as if I were not moving but instead the world moving around me.
 I blink and Maggie is standing there in the middle of the road speaking to a man, I see the words "Jealous" and "Skipper" pass her lips but again no sound utters free, another blink and I gasp for air.
 My room. The same cigarette burning through to the filter tip that all now hangs ever threateningly over the whiskey glass I often use as an ashtray. My eyes sting and my throat is a pin hole in tin foil, each breath tearing through with a sickly tasteless sensation. I drink a water bottle dry and pull up my shirt revealing my stomach. I jab a needle into it counting, "1, 2, 3, 4..".
 As I lay I listen to the silence that engulfs me, I can just hear so distant in my own head a music only I can understand, the guitars, the drums, the piano, the violas and the cellos. Somewhere a glockenspiel is driving it.

- Max
Yellow Journal, 17/12/1983

Sex, Drugs and Positivity

Lately I've started to get those strange feelings again. I'm sure I've mentioned them before. They're like little nags of nostalgia, except I would accept that the nostalgia is less nostalgic and more expectant. It's very hard to describe it frankly. Sometimes I would say it feels like I'm in a book, stuck on a particular page that I'd hate to turn in case I lost that feeling of euphoria that a particular set of sentences inspired. Other times it reminds me of sitting in a newly refurbished room, suddenly aware of all the amazing things I could do with the new space. But really, I can only describe it one way, which is unfortunate because that way is so very undescriptive to anyone who has not had the pleasure of seeing through my eyes and thinking through my mind, and that way is thus: Streetlamps and Dusk.

I feel awfully static as of late. As if however much I seem to spur myself forward, the more I am pulled back. I feel ever more impotent in the face of an exceptionally average society which only leads me to the conclusion that I should have indeed chosen to find some place to build my hermitage in the forest.

I soon remember this is England.

I really should have been born in the goddamn rainforest.

Strangely, I'm feeling startled by those of late. Before they were mentioned, I'm sure. Those little nags of the nostalgic, expectantly accepting of it's nostalgia more or less. Frankly it's hard to describe. 

The Magpie

Hidden in the heath-lands and mires of southern England, in an old forgotten wood long since trodden by human wandering, there stood an old proud oak, so ancient that, like all other things having reached an age of wisdom and patience, they flourished a mane of silver, camouflaged by the auburns and greys of autumn's flavour that permeated the woodlands, lingering on the leaves, hanging from them and weighing them to the ground.
 It was here, above the overgrowth, that there stirred a wind that lifted those lost leaves into a flourish of colour, then twice and then a third time before a sudden gust lifted the forest floor. Mice and voles scurried from the unexpected nakedness and squirrels watched careful and curious from the tree branches.
 When it all settled, it could be seen, directly beneath our great silver crowned oak, a small opening had appeared, where it's roots had become torn from the ground and pulled with it the earth, where below that earth was a lack of earth that stretched far beyond lights uncanny ability to cast itself, where below, thought one curious eye, must have been something.. Where below must still be something.. Where below, one magpie found his path lay.

London and his butterflies.

I keep them in a jar, just big enough to hold a few but small enough for my pockets. They keep fluttering, dancing, spinning in the dark. Hey whatever, I got time on my side still, I've a spirit yet to cultivate.

Slow and steady, slow and steady, slow and steady, slow and steady..

Spiders don't scare me anymore. Well, not the little ones. Everyone has their limits, you know. I wonder when the line blurs enough to cross? Regardless, I love those little bastards like I would any bird, cat, dog or fish.

And hippies? Come find me in nirvana.

What the hell am I?

So my dayjob's as a barman, yeah, you could say that.
but I'm a musician, I play guitar and shit for the sake of it. I go busking without putting out a hat.
or am i a writer? 2 blogs, a million songs, poetry coming out of my ears and too many novels half finished..
maybe I'm a philosopher, maybe I'm an artist, maybe I'm a game critic, maybe I'm a political satirist.

You know what? I'm me.

Tomorrow

Sunlight broke over the canopy of a modest woodland. With it came a breath of post-nocturnal air that brushed across the dew, lifting it to a peak where it swirled in an almost everlasting cycle of movement that slowed to a ghostly stillness and shape of a mountain before it came cascading minutely back to the surface of the meadow, littering the webs of the sleeping spiders with droplets of moisture so that it would seem to the untrained eye that they themselves still hung above the earth just as thier grand parents did in the heights of the atmosphere.

  Away from that, where the sunlight had creeped across the surface of earth, to find its way to a garden where it descended the tall hedges, snuck over a lake of grass and leapt a bush to the foot of a deck chair, whereupon it gently roused the habitant from a cold and restless fatigue.

His eyes open, he saw a sky so blue. So clear, that he scarcely believed it the same sky he had witnessed for so many years. His eyes closed, then opened, then closed once more. He took a breath and exhaled slowly. He imagined his breath rising like a stream of vapour, culminating into a small but elegant nimbus that, once disconnected from him, rose into the sky like a balloon to hang in the atmosphere. A single puff of blank across an entire ocean of blue.

Gigs, tours, libraries, wine and women..

I write this enlightened by those magic numbers. Fleet wood mac comes around on the Xbox playlists (thank you charity shopping, you have blessed me with a library of CDs and computer games). I'll be having too much fun.. Ahh but it's gone.

Sleep? The patterns thereof? Who needs either but then who could live without? Questions and rhetorical. Libertines shout my angst. Hey what's to lose when your born south of the banks of London. No time for you but enough to scrimp and save. Lets not be late for work today.

But I got a hunch, that its not over yet! Gigs heavy on the practise list, short of my temper and the horizon reeks of a crush, secret hopes and lusts and tomorrow I will learn that elusive tongues that strangles me at bay.

Je serai poète et toi poésie.
Kandaa