Subconscious Universe

These images are from a painting series I have been working over the past couple of days. They are images of the universe and of the balance and equilibrium found in it. They are also representative of misguidance and ill information within people’s interpretations of everything around them. The colours and shapes are evocative of not only the cosmos but of the subtleties found here on Earth. The composition, I hope, reflects the juxtaposition of our lives and effects on the planet and even greater; space or the heavens.

The photographs of this new painting series look horrible. I wish I knew a better way of capturing the paintings and doing a little justice to my work.

Subconscious Universe I – naïve

Subconscious Universe II – fickle

Subconscious Universe III – incoherent

Subconscious Universe IV – idle

A reaction to our environment.

I initially posted this poem in July 2008, almost a whole year ago. Recently I rediscovered it, and in my vanity was impressed.
So here it is again.

All life appears to me,
To be the same,
Wandering sense
Of instability,
A repetitive reaction,
To our environment,
We move forward,
Staggered in our views,
Unwilling and stubborn,
The more insightful we become,
The more short sighted we are,
We always wait too late,
But then, why switch on a light,
When it is not yet dark?

Why is existence so easy, and yet, life so hard?

I have an unhealthy working relationship,
With my head.
Always leaning on the wrong side of town,
And nearly always thinking,
About the wrong sort of people.
And if I could leave my head,
Alone in a secluded village,
I would.
In a village,
Where no one knows my name.
Where, perhaps, I could steal,
A simpler souls mind,
From someone kind.
But I don’t suppose,
They would have any less problems.

And if I could leave my heart,
I would.
I’d tear it from my sleeve,
And leave it on the ground,
With all the rest of the dirt.
For my heart,
‘aint no heart.
Its just a poor excuse for a pump,
Clogged up with illegitimate love.
And it always starts on the wrong beat,
And its always out of time,
With the rest of me.

But conceivably,
Only one need go?
And which do I chose?
My liar head,
Or my heart abused?

Why is existence so easy,
And yet, life so hard?

Desire is weakness.

Desire is what makes us weak.
So save us, one and all.
Block out envy,
Like the night blocks out day.
Not for too long.
And we’re flooded,
By that weakness again.

Save this day.
Save every day.
Save every moment and memory,
In a mason jar.
Air tight and clean,
In the deepest recess of your mind.
And we’ll pick away at the contents,
Until nothing is left,
And those thoughts leave us.

And one by one,
Sheep leading sheep,
Blind leading blind.
God knows what we’ll find.
Probably something else we want,
But can never have.

You have dominion.

You have dominion,
As I look out,
At the bay of Teignmouth.
My head is drunk,
On the ripples of silent sea,
And the hills; black and green beyond.

My body aches and sways,
As the carriage gives way,
To gentle discrepancies in track.
And I watch sheep now.
Gazing on the slopes,
Down from my position.
And you still have dominion.

Even as the sun peeks out,
From the blanket clouds.
Shinning its light upon,
The woollen coats,
Of these gentle beasts.
And I am happy to see the sun.
And I smile as shapes form,
Unaware on their backs.
And in all this,
Serendipitous glory,
You have dominion.

And now, the journey steers right,
The sun moves left,
And slithers through a thin passage,
Directly onto my face.
And in my arrogance I think,
This sun was made for me and me alone.
And the clouds pull themselves over,
The suns might.
This unique warmth is stolen,
In quick and fickle fashion.

Nothing but steel and stone,
Can hear my joy.
But in all of this,
In all this fake and short ambiguity,
You have dominion!
And I press onward west.

Such is life.

I move slow,
Through warm wind.
Cutting a meandering line,
In no particular direction.
I amble quietly,
Under still skies.
Feline like agility,
With quick soft step.
Such is life.

I sit away from the window.
Light straying over my back,
And silhouetting my head,
Upon the page,
Of an old dejected book.
I am getting cold,
So I rescue my jumper,
From its hook.
And then, im too hot,
And need to remove it.
My heads a crook.
Such is life.

Life is a façade.

Life is a façade,
Peace lies just beyond its walls.
And here we can meet our maker and say
“Oh God, why did you let me,
Live so long?”
Today I am pissed off with God,
But that’s ok.
People fall in and out with their friends,
All the time.

I have weaved a fine mess.
Stranded hope entwined,
With horror and despair.
And as life mirrors vulgar truths,
I am left alone.

“Put me out! I am aflame!”
I scream,
And you come, drenching my burning body,
With cool love.
And when I am recovered,
And my burns are soothed,
You move on.

Life sets me aflame again.
And laughs with the rage,
Of all spirits.
And even they cower,
Scared by life.

Life and fire are fickle,
And as I am burned,
And forests are lit up by the same torch,
They survive,
They thrive.
And this again is an example of human weakness.

If I were as a tree,
The fire would help fuel my seed.
But I, not even a man,
And defiantly not a boy.
I am cut off in limbo,
And life sees the funny side,
Of this.

Segðu mér sögu (Tell me a story)

Sól það né vissi hvar hún sali átti, stjörnur það né vissu hvar þær staði áttu, máni það né vissi hvað hann megins átti.

(The sun knew not where she had her hall, the stars knew not where they had a stead, the moon knew not what power he possessed)

Gold light baths my bedroom,
And makes these photos gleam,
With amber warmth.
Photos of memories,
Which are not my own.
And yet, I feel nostalgic,
And happy to look at them.
I lived in a past life,
Paralleled with my own.

Tell me a story,
With light and paper,
And let your tale fill me whole.
Let the content of your simple saga,
Be a beacon in my eyes.
As golden arches spread through this room,
And spill over the face,
Of distant yesterdays.

Tell me a story.
Let the twists and turns of fate,
Unwind and wind again.
Tightening on a mapped out truth.
Let the simple sophistication of knowledge,
Be passed about,
Like the gift that it is.

Tell me a story,
So that it may continue its journey.
Lip to lip.
Heart to heart.

Honor Oak Park.

The sun always shines on Honor Oak Park.
Even now, in the dark,
Clear skies prevail,
And stars blink blessings on my head,
And the sun shines on in my memories.
What an evening!
Birds thieving spoons away,
To concealed playing fields.
New pots and plants to grow,
And yield a harvest for a summer meal.
Crunchy carrot and pepper,
Sweet pasta pie,
Not too dry. Thank god!
My misdemeanour turned out ok it seems.

Little Moke cat is all big and strong.
And playing and prancing,
And losing all balance to his head.
And instead of his usual toys,
He had new gifts and joys.
Peachy shrimp and a wicker cradle.
The deck outside,
Needs a new table.
Kentish cob apples,
And mushroom wood stand.
Not what Laura planned.
But a handsome addition,
To a charming planked yard.

And now home and I’m sad.
I wish I could have stayed,
And played.
Brockley, New Cross Gate,
The stops along my way.
Noisy passengers need to shut up!
How can I concentrate on writing,
A decent set of words,
When all I hear is
“Are you sure? Are you sure? Are you sure?!”
So I shall stop and remember,
A wonderful evening.
I shall look up at the these same stars,
Smiling down on Stillness Road.
Amen brother stars and god bless sister skies,
I’ll see you in my eyes!!
And smell the sweet scent,
Of Lauras goodbyes.
And I am at once at peace.

Night follows day.

If I had a penny for every original thought,
Then I would have a few more pence.
If I searched in an old worn chair,
Maybe there?
Maybe this is where originality can be found?
Or on the ground?
Pushed into the dirt like mirrors.
Reflecting the bleak hope,
In the atmosphere.
People these days,
Are like rubbish in the alley ways.
And only a faithful few,
Want to clean them up.
So what to do?
Search for pennies.
Search for pennies my friends.
Search until winged angels swoop down,
And take you from this life.
Unpredictable luck in finding a penny.
Predictable luck in finding a way home.
And don’t groan,
Don’t be afraid.
It’s the only true fact in life anyway.
Night follows day,
And sometimes we dream.
And that seems to be,
A pretty good analogy to end on.

The woods on the television and not in the world.

My window,
The view of the world.
And yet, this television,
My current inspiration.
How funny, I say.
How very funny.
A programme about the poetry of nature.
And yet, here I am on my bed,
Watching the television.
Ignoring the natural beauty,
Which stares me,
So blankly in the face.
I shall ignore you for now world.
I will take solace in the show,
And not in what you show.
And so, as the black and white images,
Of MacNeice grace my screen,
I still ignore all that can be seen.
And as I learn about ‘Woods’,
I ignore the trees,
The sky,
The lights,
The earth.
Our mother be gone,
The televisions on.
And for tonight,
I am hers.

I right, and I am not.

I write, therefore I am?
I wrong, therefore I am.
I right, and I am not.
Not even a twist of phrase,
Can bring about a turn in me.
Eternally yours,
A broken a man.
I wrong, therefore, I humanity.
I think, all too often I think.
But what good is another thinker?
I am not a man of change.
Not a man of revolution.
I am a coward.
I, disregarded and useless,
Space of air.
I am the reaction.
The flesh and bones of indecision.
The bricks and mortar,
Of all that can not and will not,
And should never be.
The shadow cast,
From tumultuous walls,
Will bring grave misfortune,
To all.
So, don’t know me,
And know no other things.
Become as the water,
And envelope every coverable object.
Meld into the cracks of earth,
Surrounding your feet,
And enjoy the world,
For what it is.
Become one.
Do not stand apart,
Solid and bold, like I.
Never to be a part of sky,
A voice in your hands,
Or a leaf on a tree.
Be better.
Be not me.
Be liquid, and flow free.

En mass green.

To be trapped upon a great green mass?
What is that?
Suffering the desires of a twenty something man.
When we learn we are inspired.
But if we forget,
We have no intellect.
And again the sand slips away.
And what is that?
Bright white distilled sky,
The birds fly by.
The trees wave casually in the wind.
And still en mass green.
And still those desires bore a hole.
And still,
Im a lost little soul.
What innocence can be found,
In someone of my age?
And what rubbish is this?
Still on a mass of green.

Paradox, am I.

I am wholly a paradox.
I am here.
Yet, I am not.
And, as a child needs tending,
I need mending.
Caught on a line,
Stuck in time.
Today I am at odds.

Uncannily alone again.
Sifting through the leaves,
Of long dead books.
Here I am awake,
And I dream as if in sleep.
And a paradox, I am.

No shepherd to count me in,
Lost sheep, am I?
A tree top vision gives view to this thought,
But I need to be rooted.
To a feel a whole,
And not a hole.
Paradox, am I.

And thus normality is my companion.
But I don’t try to give credit,
To this common of foes.
This bringer of woes.
Traditional perhaps?
But what good is that?
Musing on a subject,
On a busy street.

I shouldn’t have come here today,
I am so far away,
From everything good.
But I can write.
And what do I write?
Trite!
Drivel!
Unassailable boredom!
Where is my tangible phrase?
My want for praise, too strong!
I am a paradox.

A modern man.
A player in life.
A sleight of hand.
We humans no nothing of life.
We question our existence till death do us part.
And in death we will ask,
What is the point in this?
But im starting to realise,
There’s not point in it anyway.
So, with this in mind,
Should I be dead?
Perhaps I already am?
Or am I asleep?
And is this the cruellest of jokes?

There is no escape.
No place to hide from all the living I have done.
My mistakes are many,
But I will not run.
Can not run.
What point in that?
Paradox, am I!

You, awake and holy.
And I, in deathly sleep, am lowly.
So, brothers and sisters of the world unite!
No juxtaposition need give fright.
No flight, please stay.
We shall celebrate our differences.
You the living, and I asleep.
In absurdity,
We weep.

My birds lament.

This is a sort of ode to the composer Moondog (pictured below) and lyricist Aaron Weiss (pictured elsewhere on this blog). I have borrowed a few notions and turned them into my own.

My birds lament,
Oh, and im singing,
And im lost for words.
You were a song I could never sing,
But im trying,
And im still lost for words.
A lost cause may be more apt.
And nothing as fitting,
As you and me.
But you don’t see,
And I don’t know how I can make you.
How do you lead the blind to their sight?
And where might I find,
The words which are right?
You are a song I can never sing.
The words are written on the next page.
And you not ready to turn the leaf,
To take things to the next stage.
So im left humming,
And eager for a peak,
You leave me lost for words,
You leave me weak.
I’m full of passion these days,
And I can’t explain it,
But you created it,
And I’ll never show it.

Double Fun Plant