‘Lies will flow from my lips, but there may perhaps be some truth mixed up with them; it is for you to seek out this truth and to decide whether any part of it is worth keeping. If not, you will of course throw the whole of it into the waste-paper basket and forget all about it.’ - Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
Prologue
Darkness, I feel as if I am blinkered
But this year January is already a spring
Which is eager to begin.
Start anew with the buds and the blooms
And the seeds which we scatter can make the birds fatter,
The seeds which we scatter will surely grow.
The further we winter fall, the higher we rise
With the sun when winter is done and spring arrives.
January
Perfumed tea enrols me in the day,
Started early and still awake.
The aroma haunts in subtle heat
Calming the rush of heart blood beat.
Soft as cotton pink candy, woollen clothes encumber me.
Plush and flush, the kneading cat’s claws as she purrs in peace,
Still as day in the shadow of silent night.
I have moved into myself without
You or her or him or him or her{8}
But the cat
She yawns and smiles in full
Embrace of the warmth.
They implore you to arm yourself and
Prepare to enter the arena,
Soon is the time to vacate your chrysalis
As holidays come to an end,
Birth from your own renewal.
Spread open the wings, who will you be this spring?
Dismiss the cries of Capitalist lies,
Ideologies of who to idolise.
Come from a place of peace, love and not fear.
Ignore the concentrated competition zone,
I do not and will not call that place home.
Snow
Feeling low, feeling low
Going to take a walk in the snow.
Glinting opalite
Glowing opal light
Feeling low, feeling low
Going to take a walk in the snow.
Pale Goth
Wouldn’t do love,
Not again,
Not that sordid, surly friend.
Wouldn’t do love
And lift the bride’s veil
To a cracked eggshell world of frail.
To love never would find
That psychic manifestation outside of mind,
Not that meddlesome connective kind,
Telepathic head fuck time.
Wouldn’t do love for all it’s worth,
Wouldn’t say yes if anyone asked,
If the gift was presented would send it back.
Masquerading as lullaby,
Switching split, no longer an ally.
That yin to yang
Murky subconscious forest,
Foraging inside yourself
When the mirror mirrors a mirror
And you just don’t want to know.
Sick of heart, of every hurt
Of sodden, swollen soul.
Wouldn’t do love
In its bipolar mess.
Wouldn’t take love,
Would not say yes.
Wouldn’t do love
As it chips away, gouging a hollow through yourself
As identity disintegrates.
Wouldn’t do love,
Have been there,
Have done that,
Been swallowed up and later spat.
Have already been in that place,
That chessboard, checkmate and erase.
Don’t need it again,
I now know what it is,
What it means to be
And the power of this.
Have been there and have come back.
Lived through, tried to repair,
Bandaged up but failed to mend
Sickly, gooey fudge fully digested
Through to its sad and sticky end.
Eden
Thursday colours,
Rainbow reflection of gold
Sitting in the sun
On the windowsill.
Light pool of fool’s gold,
The gemstone’s gentle amber outline.
Strand of stray illumination,
too fragile and fine.
The vibration’s echo resin ates with the
Hardened sap which bled
Apricot jam-blood.
Piano music softly padding away
As light enters the room
Through the crack that filters dust in.
The frequency your hazel eyes have adjusted to today,
When I was little I would try to catch it,
Reach out to touch it.
Rubbing eyes for phosphenes,
I used to see angels in my dreams
And drift through, gliding
Thinking I could fly downstairs
Like anything was possible.
Smooth, swiftly sailing, the wind’s
Lightest tickle would always be soothing.
We are not so different,
Does your heart carry not just love,
But the kingdom of God?
Thursday colours,
Rainbow reflection of gold
Sitting on the windowsill.
Cleansed by the sun,
Cleared by the rain.
She’s gone back to herself again
So you’re free to be manic
Or at least not to panic.
Residing on rainbow,
Live on air today
And resonating once more now that
You like the shape of the picture
Through the frame of the window pane.
A painting of songs on the radio,
A canvas of music’s own colour.
Listening to everything,
Hearing, seeing, touching, knowing.
Taking on everything
Without any more agony.
No resistance, no frustration, gliding along
On the slow boat ride,
Slowest tide of trickling honey.
Not some life’s greater meaning
Only the sweetest sweep of simple slumber.
After an entire year
I could go back to sleep,
I can once again, eventually, allow it.
No one will know what we’ve been through,
Will never talk of it,
will never talk again,
As though to talk could do it justice.
My eyes will smile in sun,
Something I thought was impossible,
Never to be done
And the depleted energy which you have struck me so hard for
Has replenished itself so that the cup is over-brimming, full.
The font is filled, the tap is dripping,
The fountain overflowing.
Thursday colours,
Rainbow reflection of gold
Sitting on the windowsill.
It goes up, it comes down,
I am here still.
When that one and his friends are
Confused between rejection and admiration
I will sing, carried by light, floating in
The warm of will.
I haven’t sung all year.
January has come in,
It leaps and bounds.
In the not too distant future the sight of spring,
The freshest sprig of nettle sting and laburnum smell.
Silver birch branches in the garden,
Water in the well.
Fruit, the bright, boundless bananas,
Plums of various shades on bending arms, so heavy.
The aroma of cut grass, so thick and green.
Sneezing out a wheat field, filling up your nostrils.
Not an extended winter this year,
An eager, early April.
I’d like to say to that one there
Thank you for being careful, for taking care.
I know he is a friend of yours, I know he’s easy to scare,
I know he knows who I am too, he’s free to be aware.
But back to them and the memories I often find you in,
Back when we were living together in the dirty bed.
Back when I would arrive mid-morning dream,
Lazily wrapping arms around, ghostly and unseen.
Neon skies aren’t cruel this year.
It alternates you see,
From life and death
To love and fear
But never in between.
I love so abundantly
As if bouncing on moss.
I miss you so terribly.
Everyone who’s ever been there,
They sail in subconscious, they never disappear
If I know inside my heart
They deserve a place in the mind.
That’s why I dream, dream of you
To try and imagine what you’re going through,
Running from chaos unravelling.
It’s only natural, don’t be afraid,
Don’t be anxious or agoraphobic,
Don’t taint yourself with malaise.
Your criticisms were beautiful.
I dream of oriental softness
Swimming in seas of ease.
Drink tea with quiet fortitude.
Romanticising the dirt as if it was Egyptian cotton,
Luxurious satin shining.
Holding reverent sovereignty,
sweat oozing oolong.
It’s been too long, call me on the phone,
I dream of you still, I think of you often,
I wonder if you’re well as I lie alone.
Meditating to sleep in deep inverted. Convex,
Concave.
He’s better than me, I’m glad to have known it
And she forgives me, we all forgive each other
We won’t forget
But do forgive finally.