Magic is a shamanistic rain dance
Heard on desert island disc albums
Found in our summer seasons.
Higher consciousness is vanity disguised
When proclaimed by celebrity gurus
Seeking engagement from public eyes.
Perfection is the ant-eye-climax
Seen in tv advertisements
For the female pursuit
To be younger than their waistlines.
As I sleep I breathe in a dreamer’s dream
To seek rapture in uncharted pathways
And make pilgrimage to the forest of Arden
Against the wits of winter’s end
And find solace in the golden world.
Here, I am guided like the ink written on a blank page
Driven by the hand that holds the pen.
Eyes open at the first dawn of today
And grey mist holds the sun’s rays to ransom;
Suspending breath across the world’s stage.
I walk through a cobbled town
To hear the klaxon howl the echo.
Revealing relic remnants of the old Victorian philanthropy sound,
That gave rise to the ideals of social responsibility,
But now a hollow distant memory
Shackled by the irons of the privatised trickle down economy.
Cadbury’s workers’ village,
Scattered garden cities;
All once held the promise of a society
To encompass the poorer communities.
Now they lay waste to myth and urban legend
Cascading amidst a daydreamers vision;
A landslide of Utopian ideas
Found in alien derivative alternative dimensions.
27 years surfing rapid rapids declining local skylines
Of working class young adults.
Forced out of London’s
Mathematical formulaic enclosed price brackets.
Eclipsing our stars and the sun and renting out
Cardboard box rooms to gaze at the moon on pay per view.
Honest conversations with dishonest hands
Watch with itching fingers to pull socialist triggers,
That rough the winds to shake false foundations.
Inhibition takes flight and lands on the stage dressed in moonlight.
Place my heart to rest with the anarchists, bandits and thieves.
I remain pacified with a book of prose and verse instead –
These scriptures write better truth
Than the parliament of owls pecking at borderline, bottom-line threads.
Time is a deceiving song;
Manacled constructs that constrict the flow of the now.
I cannot perceive the past or future;
It is inconceivable when living moment to moment,
Hand to mouth,
On a knife’s edge;
My thoughts are consumed by an unceasing melody.
I live life like a musician, who composes a song which falls on deaf ears.
I write by the stream of consciousness
Like a bird who scours the heavens for food and shelter.
The power of my conviction,
My will to create shares the same forces
As the tides of the sea’s tempest.
I am an enclave of soul and rhythm.
My poetry is improvised jazz that stirs to orchestrate
Hidden universes residing in the cerebellum.
Aligning your spine and opening the third eye
To see what affronts your internal remedy.
I don’t know truth but I do know the art of lies.
I can dress a beautiful lie and sew golden laces
And fabricate fiction if that’s what you want to hear.
I cannot strip day to day truth; it remains hidden from view.
Time is a deceiving song,
But now is my gift to you.
This wall is not merely bricks and mortar:
A thousand hands, flesh and bone, aches and cries, son and daughter
Reside pressed against this towering intruder.
Their fingerprints mark like signatures
Embossed across his cloak in blood red torture.
Leaving traces of souls unable to penetrate his formidable armour.
Before I go and delve into the ocean
Of time lost and time forgotten
Sink into the unknown depths of unsound mind
Cast adrift in vague untamed commotion.
Before I go and wander
Through the twists and turns of lanes
Like veins of my aged hands-
A wild and organic maze-
Each boulder, each ridge, each line
Marks the lands of memory’s haze.
I gaze at this foreign landscape uncertain… dismayed.
Before I go against the desert storm
That disperses each grain of sand
Trespassing thought with unwavering command.
Lost in meandering internal discourse
My thoughts drive the insurgent waves;
A tsunami of scattered and convoluted connections.
Wide eyed at my unfamiliar surroundings:
Unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar boundaries.
Where am I? Who am I? That is the unrelenting question.
In my room I examine trinkets, pictures and books to reawaken
Perhaps this will rouse the promise of adventures once taken.
I hope for that one single revelation.
Before I go, scrutinise this frail faced canvas once more.
Does this worn portrait express my life’s score?
The passages of time imprint upon the surface
Marking days of raucous laughter
Days of frantic and wild resolve
Days of hardship and tales of woe.
Before I go
Know that I was
Know that I am
Remember this before I go.