Wednesday, June 08, 2011

Success....a relative term

As an avid follower of the river that runs down to the source that is misery, the coming weeks are fraught with confusion. That period between the denounement and the hope a new beginning brings, made sufferable by buckets of sun and sandcastles built on shifting speculation.

As in years gone by, from my lofty perch in Ellerslie Road, the palpable expectation of those around me constantly singe my reality. Those fools entranced by red top mischief really do believe in the promise that is borne on the back of subterfuge. Soon to be drowned in the poverty of affluence, subsumed to the ambition and politic of those in loafers and brylcreem, they query my pain.

With so few summers left, I on the other hand am content to wallow in expectation of another sort, breathless in my pursuit of the sublime I scour the moment. For what is success save the gestalt of minutiae dressed up in size nines and snoods. I once saw Pythagoras, Block H, Row T Seat 112............................

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Tick tock......

Tick tock, tick tock, the caustic drip of time erodes. Scale and memory is embedded through fibres frayed on the shirt sleeve of obvious. Hearts ripped and torn by the flailing knives of thoughtless innocence.

The lingering pain of ignorance passed down until it no longer has any resonance to that time and place from whence it appeared. The remedy is to know there is no remedy, no hiding place within the cardboard sole that works but for a moment, the exercise so futile.

The stench of piss, the ignomy of separation between a rasher and a joint leads on to the house where no one lives, the hole in the roof shines no light into that soul so pure. Fighting to be heard above the silence, the deafening silence. Do I hear anything save that of the knock on the door that brings disappointment and delayed promise.

Get back sweet misery, the fruits of the fear sit here now and yet cannot ever gild the lily that wilts so readily before the reckoning.

Friday, January 07, 2011

Living in the darkness

Hunkered down in the foxhole of insecurity we keep digging. Fingernails splintered, lungs inflated, panic standing on the nape of your neck driving you further down into the detritus of memory. Are we consoled yet fooled by the promise of redemption, the lot of Camus' dream. Oh that perfect boulder balanced upon the edge of reason and hope. If only the love of here and now produced more desire, was able to colour these bleak short days where damp and decay exist. The sleep we sleep is temporary, without finality, yearning for that connection to the perfect dream where suckling consoles before the rape of safety. Will spring ever return ?

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Moving on....

As you may notice, it has taken me over three years to post again. During that time my life has evolved into a place where I now have the space and inclination once more to explore the possibility of taking this risk. The risk of following the road I have limped alongside for the fifty odd years I have existed on this earth. The road that may lead to fulfillment, joy and purpose. However I have written before, bearing my heart, my soul, my pain, my anguish, and have suffered the judgement of others, so I withdrew. I hope I have more courage now.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

The beginning

Because I have no education or terms of reference, save fear and insecurity suffered as a consequence of a misaligned childhood, I have decided to exist and make my guide for life the tabloid press and their philosophy of life writ large on a daily basis. Not for me Homer, Wittgenstein or Marx, The Mail, Sun and News of the World are my comfort in this journey.

Up to now I have lived a confused and isolated existence. My inate survival instinct managing to adapt and bend to whatever the situation dictates. Extrawide, a spiv like existence. Whatever I have gleaned, and the articulate expression displayed in these pages is ghosted, is to be subsumed and surrendered to the educated scribes forming our view of the world.

My gutteral pain would never translate. I have been a scholar, a priest, an aristocrat, in fact anything you wanted me to be. However this type of life can only last whilst the energy of youth burns strong. I am worn out, and at an age closer to bypass and buspass I need to rest. Find a way to machete through the jungle that are those years of wisdom, and yet I enjoy the possibility of confusion. Abstract has always been my thing. My seed has been sown, another generation in place to suffer the influence of isolation minus safety. The time to take risks are over. I need to trust, and who better than Paul Dacre, Rebekah Wade and Andy Coulson.