*sigh*

I have nothing to say at the moment.
I believe this is called 'writers block', I call it 'Exasperating Insanity'.
However, I will say this; Variations of Static by Ólafur Arnalds is an incredibly beautiful ep. Especially the last track Himininn er að hrynja, en stjörnurnar fara þér vel.
Pretty much, it sums up how I feel at this juncture.
www.myspace.com/olafurarnalds

the land of fire and ice.

Reading through this again I have realised how much of a negative picture I have painted of Iceland. It is bad here, but I don't think they are loosing as bad as I have suggested. Things are bad here, and it is astonishing to see how the financial crisis has hit this country and pulled it to pieces. However, I have furlongs of admiration and respect for the attitude of the people. I would not be at all surprised if by the end,  they come out on top. I hope this is so. As ever, time will tell.

Richard x  

This town is dying.

Nobody is sure what to do.

Or how to fix the problems.

how to carry on.

And so,

This town is decaying.

Falling apart,

From the inside out.

Sad and sorrowful.

Paint chipped and derelict.

Rusted and weather beaten.

Heroic in its fall.

Victorious,

In its lack,

Of giving up.

And who can blame that?

That admirable last gesture.

That which humanity is built upon.

Struggling through,

Hard times,

With your head,

Held up high.

A beacon to fellow man.

"Come follow me",

They say.

"Do Not Sink,

With your head under water,

Sucking in death,

Through sodden speech,

And ill placed worry",

Needless and painful,

It is diseased,

And it is fighting,

Do they have any other choice?

I do not know.

But they are here,

And they continue to be here.

As victory falls through,

Their fingers.

Slipping like sand,

In an hour glass.

They smile upon black angels,

Cursing the scythes,

Of dark purpose.

Humanity at its strongest,

When it is weak,

And futile.

The land of fire,

And of ice,

Speaks to us.

An example, 

Of hope.

Found in a dark hour.

magpie

Magpie sitting upon,

A twisted tree.

Tail feathers,

Wagging at me.

Black contrast,

Against the morning sky.

Blue shimmering,

down side feather,

Catch my eye.

White tarnished glasses,

Mildewed and worn.

Natural ladder,

The bird in the tree.

Awakens the smell,

Of spring in me.

bike

The gentle clunk of gears,
Brings me joy.
Winding tight,
A spring in my tired legs.
Speeding down,
Through a mild spring morning,
finding nothing,
so instantly enthralling.
The moments of time,
Slips past,
As the wind,
Trips through my hair.
On a bike,
I have no care.
Its whimsicality,
Is a familiarity.
Such is the nature,
Of a flippant cad.
But I am glad,
Glad to be on my bike,
On this morning,
Bathed in this low sun.
The hint of newly open flowers,
Fills the air,
And my lungs.
This bike makes me breathe,
It makes me alive.

I don’t want your sympathy, I just want everything to be ok

It has been a little while, but here we go. more saddness for you;

I don’t want your sympathy,

I just want everything to be ok.

But it’s not.

And I don’t see how,

It can be.

So what the fuck should I do?

My skeleton is clawing,

At my flesh.

Talons revealed,

Scratching with flashing ferocity.

My soul is disgusted,

By this pathetic body.

Turned away,

And with averted eye.

Ignoring the hideous wreck,

Of a former man.

Crawling through glass and nails,

Toward a solid wall.

What escape can there be?

I do not see,

Past the misery.

Past the pain of feeling,

From this awareness,

Of insecurity.

Like a whip crack in the night.

I awake in a sweat.

Shaking and scared.

Not of my death,

Fearful of this life.

No relief in this mind.

No relief in this head.

Just emptiness,

And a little withered plant.

Dried up and crying out,

For the rain to come.

So, let the flood barriers,

Age and crack,

And pour down my spine,

Into every heavy limb.

Lank arms and legs,

Dragged forth from a hellish bed.

And in this nourished theft,

I could revitalise,

My roots, perhaps?

Perhaps not?

I don’t want your sympathy,

I just want everything to be ok.

Tell me how I can win?

Tell me to cheat,

And I will.

I need to be ok now,

And I need to be still.

Pamphleteer

'Pamphleteer' by John K. Samson
I'm standing on this corner.

Can't get their attention.

Facing rush hour faces turned around.

I clutch my stack of paper, press one to a chest,

then watch it swoop and stutter to the ground.

I'm weary with right-angles, abbreviated daylight,

and waiting for a winter to be done.

Why do I still see you in every mirrored window,

in all that I could never overcome?

How I don't know what I should do with my hands when I talk to you.

How you don't know where you should look, so you look at my hands.

How movements rise and then dissolve,

melted by our shallow breath.

How causes dance away from me.

I am your pamphleteer.

I walk this room in time to the beat of the Gestetner,

contemplate my next communiqué.

The rhetoric and treason of saying that I'll miss you.

Of saying "Hey, well maybe you should stay."

Sing "Oh what force on earth could be weaker than the feeble strength of one"

like me remembering the way it could have been.

Help me with this barricade.

No surrender. No defeat.

A spectre's haunting Albert Street.

I am your pamphleteer.

stop the clocks.

I think everyone knows of this poem. No doubt because of Four Weddings & A Funeral.
But still....

‘Stop The Clocks’ by W H Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He Is Dead’,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

There's a reason

'There’s a reason' by A A Bondy
And I gave my hand to the fates

And they took me around

They showed me the seven wonders

The sights and the sounds

There was a man with cinders for eyes

There was a girl with a dress made of flies

And there's a reason

There's a reason

And it's love that's tearing them down

And it's love that turns them around

Say it is so

And the ballroom is filled with the joy

Of making old friends

And jukebox girls trip the light

They wiggle and they bend

Blind Joe, he's feeling no pain

Sweet Georgia, she dreams of the rain

And there's a reason

There's a reason

And it's love that's tearing them down

And it's love that will turn them around

Say it is so

When the moon follows you where you go

And you cannot hide

And when voices of doom ring your ears

And horsemen do ride

May tomorrow the land be anew

May every bird sing unto you

That's the reason

That's the reason

That the love that's tearing you down

Is the love that will turn you around

That the love that's tearing you down

Is the love that will turn you around

Say it is so

Are you drinking?

‘Are You Drinking?’ by Charles Bukowski
washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook
out again

I write from the bed

as I did last

year.

will see the doctor,

Monday.

"yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-

aches and my back hurts."

"are you drinking?" he will ask.

"are you getting your

exercise, your

vitamins?"

I think that I am just ill

with life,

the same stale yet

fluctuating

factors.

even at the track

I watch the horses run by

and it seems

meaningless.

I leave early after buying tickets on the

remaining races.

"taking off?" asks the motel clerk.

"yes, it's boring,"

I tell him.

"If you think it's boring

out there," he tells me, "you oughta be

back here."

so here I am

propped up against my pillows

again

just an old guy

just an old writer

with a yellow

notebook.

something is

walking across the

floor

toward

me.

oh, it's just

my cat

this

time.