All the pictures joined the blog, two by two.

In sight of your saviour, your so called saviour.

It’s the same old news,
The same old views,
The same unchallenged opinions,
Given freely as fact.
The same old need,
To be,
Lost in the sea.
And drowning clearly,
Visibly,
In sight of your saviour.
Your so called saviour.

William

William has gone back to the motherland. In this instance it is Finland. Generally when will goes away we set up a Facebook group to show how happy we are that he has left us in peace for a while. It might happen again. Perhaps I should be the instigator, and jump right into the role of Admin. Perhaps not? I think it was I who took the job last time William went away.
In honour of him….

fleur

Denial in a pub.

Isolation in a free house.

Bitter hop mouth.

Dark wood floor.

People to ignore.

Sunlight and fake light,
Spread equal shadow,
On green speckled walls.
Soon to be a home for the arts.
For my arts?

An attempt at conversing,
Is not worth anything.
Simply awkward,
And banal.

Perhaps in denial?
About what? I do not know.
But isn’t that the point,
Of denial?
Well, not the point,
But the experience.
The journey.

A road you don’t know,
You travel.
A sense of confusion,
That you cant quite reach.
Put up on a shelf,
And, even on your toes,
You’re too small.
Too naïve.

Denial.

A few Latitude Festival images.

Sleep could never have happened.

Sleep did not happen,
Sleep could not have happened.

Not while liquid snakes,
Streamed through the porch,
Of my tent.

Not while bees swarmed,
Deafeningly on the canvas.

Not while a strobe of lights,
Pierced the sky.
And the Gods applauded,
With red handed cheer.

Sleep could never have happened.

And now, I sit under Victorian sky,
With squinted eye,
And a head like a,
Cracked walnut.

With dirt coffee,
And a green tea pot.

My wellingtons,
Two sizes too small,
And a breeze,
Which is cool.

The grass dries slowly,
Under the mildest sun,
And my spirits are lifted,
And the specs of rain,
Still clear on this tent city,
Become small.

As if strewn with ants.

The world is waking up,
But I,
Never slept.

Darkness displaced and a calm sea.

For now I sit alone,
And I am really at a loss,
To explain how I feel.
I know my body is hot,
And the evening is humid.
But this body is not mine,
And this evening is not mine to claim.

My brain and heart are detached.
They are in limbo,
Until you return.
And I yearn, to see you!

Stuck in suspension,
As if captured in a photo.
And I know you had to go,
And I know you’ll come back,
And not everything is white and black.
But the contrast of your absence,
Holds no immediate hope.
And as such, I feel hopeless.

That week was the pinnacle of my year,
And it is clear, I am empty,
And as fragile as a shell.
These brittle bones crumble,
Like waves breaking down,
On a sand castle.

The rainy weather seems so apt,
But the sun will come when you’re done.
And while the sun will put many smiles,
On many faces,
You will put a smile on mine.

But until that day,
Until you return,
I yearn.
I am frozen,
Unanimated in a frame.
I feel warm when I read your name,
Imagine how I’ll feel,
When I see your sweet face.
Darkness displaced,
And a calm sea.

If that is what’s meant to be,
I hope so,
So be it.

And I don’t think I am holding a solution.

Is this real life?
Or is this just one example of living?
Which brings up again,
The question of normality,
And I suppose conformity,
And needlessness,
And me.

And am I living,
Or do I just live?

When I look down upon this page,
What do I see?
The inky thoughts,
Of a burnt orange man?
Or the obvious philosophies,
Of a delusional fool?
It’s a grey area.

And I don’t think I am holding,
A solution.
But, if not I,
Then who?

Again I say.

Rain of rain,
Come down again,
And drench my skin.
Let your subtle magic,
Cleanse my sin.
And let the future cold,
I know I’ll feel,
Never in.

This leaking sky,
Has not passed by,
And the day is vivid,
Under a gloomy sheet.
The covering clouds,
Show only yielding ways,
And I can’t wait,
For another sunny day.

In sun and rain,
The world is made new,
And that brings joy,
To us all.

But for now,
Rain of rain,
Come down,
Break on my crown.
Make my newly dry,
Head of hair,
Wet again.

And the grin on my face,
May seem misplaced,
But in truth,
I love a warm storm.
And this may be at odds,
With what you think,
I just said.
But it is not.

And so,
Again I say…

I have these little voices.

Do I just fall,
For every girl I meet?
Am I so desperate,
That I need to clean my feet?
Clean my body of all,
This dirt.

This dirt is my sin,
And my sin can never,
Be washed away.
No amount of running,
Or exercise,
Will tone my attributes.

So, why do I fall?
And why am I always falling?
And at what to point do I stop?
I’ve never known,
Less to be more.
And more or less,
I never will.

But, never say never,
Never talk in absolutes.
I can only hope my sin,
Is unnoticeable,
To those I fall before.

And I have these little voices,
Whispering pains to my ears.
And they tell me what I know,
And what I know is this…

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

A little lost part of hope.

I’ve lost a little part of something.
And if I knew what it was,
I don’t know if it would bother me or not?
I wish I had an inkling,
Of an idea.
A theory to test,
Or a moment to think.
But I have a spell on me,
Right now im locked.
Incanted in righteous emotion.
And when I sleep I am there.
I am by your side and I am running.
We are running toward waterfalls and metaphors.
Two tiered cliffs with cascading water,
Spilling over like the eyes of a lost child.
And I suppose I am lost.
I suppose im confused and scared.
And I suppose this is why I feel,
I have misplaced the last trace,
Of my understanding.
Because I don’t understand,
And like the water in my dreams,
I am forever falling.
And like the child in my heart,
I don’t think I can see the way home.
And this is where I need hope.
And I hope I don’t do a stupid thing again.
But I will,
Because I am human.
And humanity is filled with stupid mistakes.
But I suppose that’s ok.
That’s normal.
Felling lost and scared is normal.
And there is that hope.

I might just die with a smile on my face.

I might just die,
With a smile on my face.
And what a change,
Of pace.
Nowadays,
Im only floating through life.
Eyes held up high and wide,
Sucking in the subtle magic,
Of the late spring weather.
Revelling in days of sunny splendour.
For a change I am happy,
And it’s all down to you.
You are a freshly stoked fire,
Rekindling a belief in hope.

Another pattern shape.

This is called 'All The Shapes Of My Shirt'

A little something i did while i let my food go down...

...but, now i must do some turfing. Bank holiday gardening is an enjoyable thingy.
This is called 'My Many Faces In My Room'.

The Fox, The Crow and The Cookie

I cannot help but be utterly impressed and humbled by these beautiful lyrics. It isn’t often I find something so pure and untypical in such an often banal world. MewithoutYou and in particular Aaron Weiss have been an unfaltering influence and presence in my life. I can step forward, cast cynicism aside and be proud in the enjoyment of this achievement.



Through mostly vacant streets, a baker from the outskirts of his town
Earned his living peddling sweets from the ragged cart he dragged around.
The clever fox crept close behind, kept an ever-watchful eye
For a chance to steal a ginger spice cake or a boysenberry pie.

Looking down was the hungry crow, "When the time is right, I'll strike
And condescend to the earth below and take whichever treat I'd like."
The moment the baker turned around to shoo the fox off from his cart,
The crow swooped down and snatched a shortbread cookie and a German chocolate tart.

Using most unfriendly words that the village children had not yet heard,
the baker shouted threats by canzonette to curse the crafty bird.
"You rotten wooden mixing spoon! Why you midnight winged racoon!
You better bring those pastries back, you no-good burned-black macaroon!

"The fox approached the tree where the bird was perched, delighted in his nest.
"Brother Crow, don't you remember me? It's your old friend Fox with a humble request.
If you could share just a modest piece, seeing as I distracted that awful man.
"This failed to persuade the crow in the least, so the fox rethought his plan.

"Then if your lovely song would grace my ears, or to even hear you speak,
Would ease my pains and fears." The crow looked down with a candy in his beak.
"Your poems of wisdom, my good crow, what a paradise they bring!"
This flattery pleased the proud bird, so he opened his mouth and began to sing:

"Your subtle acclamation's true! Best to give praise where praise is due.
Every rook and jay in the Corvidae's been raving about me too.
They admire me, one and all. Must be the passion in my caw!
My slender bill known through the escadrille, my fierce commanding claw!"

I got a walnut brownie brain, and molasses in my veins,
Crushed graham cracker crust, my powdered sugared funnel cake cocaine.
Let the crescent cookie rise. These carob colored almond eyes
Will see my cashewed princess in the swirling marble sky.
Will rest upon the knee, where all the visions cease to be
A root beer float in our banana boat across the tapioca sea.
When letting all attachments go, is the only prayer we know,
May it be so, may it be so, may it be so, oh.

www.myspace.com/mewithoutyou

Wolf Sun.

I miss the feeling,
Of hugging someone you love.
The intimacy of human touch,
Is warm,
And just what I need.
Instead I listen to Moondog,
Under a howling wolfs sun.
And I think of sorrow,
And I think of what I could have done.
What I should have done,
Perhaps is more true.
Alone with the stars,
Glistening night eyes.
Blinking madly,
And swallowing my thoughts,
As I drift between sleep and wake.
I am desolation,
Make no mistake.
But drum beats soften me,
The percussion sinks,
Through my hard skin,
And mimics my heart,
Pounding in the night air.
The bedroom is cold,
And I miss human touch,
I miss it so much.

Perhaps you were right all along?

Perhaps you were right,
All along?
Perhaps this glass has overflowed,
And spilled onto,
Something which was wrong?
Perhaps I miss an embrace,
Or a kiss?
Or perhaps I miss,
Skin on skin?
I know I cant follow,
Where you’ve been.
Or where you’re going.
This glass is overflowing,
And as wine spreads,
Further from its carrier,
Perhaps you were right?
And perhaps,
We should not be together?

2000 words

Karl Brummer asked me to join a group on Facebook. The group was for a new publication he was putting together. In this publication will be a collection of literature etc that people have submitted. It had to be around 2000 words in length and the subject was open to choice.
This is my submission:

Writing 2000 words is harder than I thought. I have 10 so far. Not enough. Writing 2000 words in context with a worthwhile subject is even harder. I have 29 so far.
Is it wrong to simply write 2000 words on the subject of writing 2000 words? Updating the word count every now and then? 55 words scream yes.
If words could speak, what they say? Would they all gather round and say “volumes”? I did hear once that words speak volumes. It makes sense to me that this is what they would say. “Volumes” all day. 97 words agree. I know they agree, they all sit on the page smiling at me and saying “volumes, volumes, volumes”.
118 words now.
From here on out I shall write with a little more point. What point? What is the point? Not very optimistic, a little more realistic. Slightly cynical even. 149 words herein.
On the subject of pictures; one picture is 1000 words. So, why not add a picture and half the number of words needing to be written? 178 words.
Why not add two pictures and scrap words altogether? Why not change dictionaries to photo albums. Rather than look for definition, look for an example of the word being used in context. 212 words disagree. They want to be heard. Heard, and not seen.
Small children do not have as large a vocabulary as adults. They should be seen, but not heard. 242 words speak “volumes”.
In the dead of night, if you visit a library, you will hear the deafening bellow of words. Each book is a nation, each letter a limb. The words cheer and laugh “volumes, volumes, VOLUMES!”
And so, 283 words make up a small country. But like all civilisations, the population will grow. The number of words will double, treble, quadruple even. And then, the end of the page, the end of the chapter, the end of the book.
It seems interesting to me that society is reflected so blatantly in words. 337 words is a small amount. The longer and the more complicated words are less used, less welcomed by the masses of people who use words on a daily basis. This is because people are scared of intellect I believe. People are like words. Words are like people. These 386 words on this page are individual creatures. Every one with its own purpose and place. People, humans, on the whole, do not find cleverness an appealing trait. Why is that? I do not know. I do not know if it is a subject I wish to dip into just yet. But I shall say this; it seems to me that people should speak volumes. We should be as words are. Like the 459 words I have writ.
Not that I am suggesting, for one moment, that I speak wisdom of any sort. Or rather, that I speak more wisdom than you, the reader. The mere fact that you have read this far would give me indication you have patience. A virtue which has skipped the shorter words of the world. However, these 519 words are not misplaced. Like all societies there is a collection of long, middle and short words, there are common groups and structures. Again, mimicking the world. The class systems of our country are like the words on a page. They all have their importance and their place in a book. But perhaps the types of books or types of places do not marry in the same way. Longer words seem to fit better with longer words. But then again, they would not fit at all if it were not for the shorter words. We are all words. We should speak “volumes”! 622 words now.
I am getting somewhere I think. I had no idea such an analogy would come from me, nor did I think I would write a piece of satire. But, the unexpected is to be expected. 660 words are not unexpected, we have come this far and you have taken them in on some level. Nevertheless, there are words to come and they are in an unknown space.
And so, words speak volumes. Children should be hidden. Adults should speak a greater amount. We should not shy away from the intricate and beauty found in a problematic word. The phrases and expressions discovered in an uncovered collection of little letters. Put side by side in a proud and fixed regiment. Words are our leaders. Words are our armed forces. 753 words at present.
The Pen is mightier than the sword. To a word, the pen is god. When you write for an extended period of time and you have cramp in your hands and you find you can write no more, you stop. This cease in writing is the word Sabbath. This is their Sunday, or Saturday, or Friday, or whatever day it is. I think it depends on the font.
Is the pen mightier than the pencil? 832 words don’t know. I do not know.
Writing 2000 words certainly isn’t easy. 846 words are not even half the amount required. 855 levels of “volume”. Mass is as relevant here. Mass is what makes up the volume. The word is volume and the collective noun of a volume is mass. A mass of volume is a mass of words.
I have realised, I have written nothing of sentences. I wonder where a sentence would fit into this puzzle. Which part of my little quandary is the string of words known as such? 926 words, but I wonder…. 63 lines, this is not the same. A row of bricks may be measured in lines and bricks have common ground with words, but the word transcends the line. The words are a mass, a line or more, or less. A mass of volume stretching with endless potential. Unless, you are me and then instead of potential you have struggle. You fight and fight to think, and when you finally think you have found a tangible thought, it seems contrived and empty. Or worse, it is not your own.
1020 words, from now on it is the short run home.
No single word has ownership, or rather, should have ownership. To own a word is to own a voice. Each word with its own volume and own voice cannot be bought or sold. In this sense plagiarism is a concept that I disagree with. To say that a string of words can be anything other than a string of words is nonsense. What right do we have to put a boundary in a field we do not own? Words again, prove how they are like societies. Currently there is trouble in Sri Lanka, I won’t begin to claim I am an expert on the subject but it seems that it is a fight over copyright infringements; it’s about ownership and the plagiarism of land. 1155 words, and slowly we slide further into the absurd.
This writing is becoming noisy. The 1171 words are each talking over one another. I can’t work out what manner of event these words are attending. I would like to think it is social. Perhaps alcohol is involved? This would explain the turn to the ridiculous in subject and the whimsicality of some thoughts I put across. I would also give an explanation for the noise. We all become loud and brash after a few drinks. All shouting “volume” over one another. 1247 words, drunkenly spewing forth their simple quantity of word.
Words are used incorrectly on occasion and words are often misspelt. These words are deformities and mutations. I do not know if they are for a positive or a negative. Is the change in a word a good thing? American English differs from English English. Only today I questioned with a friend the way whiskey is spelt whisky, and visa versa, depending on the region. Is one wrong and one right? Or are they just different?
1333 words all different and all the same. All part of a possible picture waiting to be painted. They existed in an ether of mystery, hanging in a wardrobe waiting to be worn like a familiar jacket. But as styles and fashions change, words are forgotten, thrown away. People are forgotten, places are forgotten, words, books and everything are all forgotten in time. 1396 words will be forgotten, probably very quickly. We only really remember what is relevant to us and what we can connect too. I don’t suppose this is relevant to anything.
1427 irrelevant words, each is brilliant as the next. Each as pointless and important as anything else in the material world. But, words are immaterial. These words are certainly immaterial. But that is beside the point, which in its own way is exactly the point. How funny circles are. The extremes of poles bend round and end in the same place. Do words end at the beginning or do words end at the end? I do not know. 1505 words do not know.
It is interesting that each word is made of characters and every person is made of characters. Emotions are characters and letters are punctuation of feeling. Small details in words create anger or love or any one in a range of sentiment, sometimes more. We are words. We are long and short words. All tangled in definition and context, we are sometimes irrelevant, sometimes misspelt.
8470 characters, in 1578 words. An average of 5 or so personality traits per person. But nothing is really average. We are all our own. Words are all their own and alone.
1607 words alone on a page together.
Words are like people, how many times has that been said so far? I am not motivated to count it. Not in the slightest.
Words need to be cultivated and groomed. They are like plants also. From words come fruit and like fruit, some are easy to find and some grow in lands far away. Fruits can be combined and cuttings can be made so new fruits are created. Like words, like people.
1687 words combined into one text. The page is the ground on which the words grow. And we, the people, are a fertiliser. But words help themselves. Words spark thoughts and the discovery of new words lead in new directions. 1727 words are a new direction.
I am losing my thread. Do words ever lose their thread? Do they ever look from side to side and wonder what the hell they’re doing stuck between hell and doing? I think not. I suppose a word is not a conscious being and as such does not question itself. We, the readers of words, question their value. In this we are better than the words. But one example of greater awareness is not an example of superiority. If anything it is verging on paranoia. Do we praise the paranoid for their obsessive qualities? No, we do not. We lock up their minds with drugs and therapy sessions. Should we lock up lost words? The nonsense words? No. not at all. 1854 words here like the company of one another.
Gibberish words are equal to the significant. Words beat us in this way. They’re unbiased and unprejudiced. They rely on one another to tell a good story, to convey a message or to simply to make an idiosyncratic noise.
1902 words based on the charismatic thoughts I have had on the concept of writing words. How interesting it is the amount of chit-chat you can deliver when you over think a problem. And now we come to an end. The exploration I took is dwindling as the word count begins its last few steps. 1957 words. Not long now.
A conclusion of sorts would have been best here, but what can I conclude? Nothing really, just my talent of procrastination and capricious study. 1986 words. Would it be terrible if I were to do a count down for the last section? 2005?! Shit.

All is grey slate.

Is there really nothing in the world?
Everything seems to me,
To be at such extremities.
The clear divisions,
Were once so bold,
And now…
All is grey slate.
Cold to touch,
Flat and unloving.
The tips of my fingers are numb.
My lips are white.
My eyes are swelling geysers,
Ready to explode in boiling ferocity.
A fog this morning,
On my walk to the train station.
All the world is asleep,
And drenched in dreams.
Is there really nothing in the world?
I think of you constantly,
And have premonitions,
Of my death.
Is there really anything else?

i have been painting a little.

Sun of Sun.

And now,
Beauty blooms.
Limp leaves,
Hanging like velvet,
On proud branches.
Still yellow with youth.
Camply lagging,
In the breeze,
Of a spring morning.
And now,
Rose tinted sun,
Spread on the ground,
Fanning profound,
Harsh shapes,
On an unholy grey,
Concrete urban floor.
Sun of sun,
Come down.
Drench me in warm,
And crystal air.

Bat For Lashes - Daniel

Like the wind blows through the tree leaves, this is blowing through my thoughts. Please enjoy Natasha Khan aka Bat For Lashes…

I am suffering with an addiction.

I am suffering,
With an addiction.
Itchy skin,
And sweat soaked brow,
Creases on an empty head.
A need for fixation.
What happiness is there?
What happiness is this?
Overspent longing.
Long forgotten smiles.
Silent clutches in the night,
Stolen kisses now gone.
“Empty houses are lonely”
And my heart is an empty house.
And my head is an empty house.
And hands, eyes, feet, teeth,
Empty houses too.
I am suffering,
With an addiction,
To you.
But you don’t fix me,
Like you did.
I don’t think,
You want to.
No sunrise, no sunset.
No clouds, no sky.
No earth, no heaven.
Just empty houses,
And lost silence.