Space

I was a star like you
but I then imploded
I was a grand light
now I am a dull dwarf

The gravity we had
swung us too far

I am now an exoplanet
I am like Pluto
You’re still Jupiter
Your winds churning

My star
was black
unholy
sucking
tainting
the space
Killing
the light

My meteor mind
has crashed
down to earth
with force

and it sits
staring
at your
blinding light

I wanted our mutual orbit
to last for eternity
Now I must wait
for the rotation to let me see

The Shadow Rises (I Fall)

Layers of filth

accumulate around me

My skin becomes dirt

my limbs embed in ground.

I can’t be cleansed

it won’t go away

I am being swallowed

I am being buried

I once was human.

I once was whole.

I’ve been broken

into pieces.

I am broken

because I break others

I am not human

I am not human

(I’m still here

I’m still here

I’m still here

I’m still here)

Under the weight of who I am

the weight of what I’ve done

the weight of what I’ve not done

the weight of failure.

(I’m not a bad person

I’m not a bad person

I’m not a bad person

I’m not a bad person)

Compressed into the crust.

I fossilise in this pit.

I turn viscous

and melt into the core.

(I’m trying to fight this

I’m trying to stay alive

I’m trying to stay solid

I’m trying to stay here)

I taint the molten rock

cooling it

to a blackened husk

(I’m not toxic

I’m not cold

I’m not selfish)

I eat light

I eat life

I eat dreams

(I can bring happiness

I can bring joy

I can help)

I swallow the core

grow bigger and multiply

flooding the planet

with my disease

(I can’t hold it all in

It’s taking over

I am becoming

This disease)

The trees die

cancerous beasts roam

the sky falls down

the atmosphere shatters

Everything I touch

turns to dust

It all falls apart

under me

this world is left barren

by my toxic touch

those I love

will suffer for me

I leave this place

twist into space

shut the stars off

all at once

I eat planets

just for fun

The shards of me

splinter off into the void

and all that’s left

is the empty blackness

(I wish…

I wish I’d not begun

to exist

to live

to be known.

to be loved)

Cold War

I’m left feeling cold

by this apparent war.

A crew torn asunder,

yet this thunder

has no storm.

This broken boat

has cap sized

under size large heads.

Kevin and Perry like kids.

Not heaven sent,

no holy smell.

Just spiteful noseless Parkers.

Peter pied pipers pepper pot,

is a kettle

black, tying a knot.

Like a Windsor,

but you’ll never be royals.

Left feeling flushed,

this lush needs soap.

Dope clean bars,

fresh new rhymes,

past times tick away

off the clock.

Facing away from featureless creatures,

with monstrous energies

and beastly vibes.

This beastmode scribe

writes a paper,

an essay.

Viewing your news as spam,

fake.

I’m not on the take.

No corrupt MF transmission

my mission keeps me woke til the AM.

I’ll slay ’em.

Don’t need payin.

Cos it’s not about the money,

but it is about change.

So I’ll resist,

until fuckers desist

and stop.

I’m hammering at heartstrings

and they’ll sing all the notes,

In short,

my hand will write,

my words will fight

and there will be blood

boiling in that kettle

you call black.

Fuck your nettles.

I sting back,

Like a bee.

We could have shared that flower.

but you cross pollinate for power

and you want it absolut(e).

Like Russian vodka.

Gushing like Niagra,

about the fall.

You prats.

Everything you do like a pregnant pause.

Everybody wants to be a cool cat.

But, you’ve left me feeling cold

and that’s that.

The Wheel Spins: a passage

I’m in the midst of writing a spiritual sci-fi/psychodrama. I’m drawing a lot of influence from Hinduism, Zen, Gnosticism and the Upanishads. It’s got psychonautics, genre-hopping and Jungian psychoanalysis. It’s like Cloud Atlas meets Valis.

Here is a passage from the book. Working title: ‘The Wheel Stops’.

(For a bit of context, this is from the chapter that takes the form of a journal. The character writing is Sophy, the daughter of a (illicitly) psychonautic psychiatrist who has suffered with psychosis (with strong sci-fi overtones) since the death of her son.

John is her father in law and current psychiatrist, Jim is her estranged husband and her father, Phil, dissapeared after she lost her son. This follows a psychedelic sci-fi chapter from the position of another character who sees Sophy in his dreams.)

“November 12th: John and Jim keep telling me I’m strong and wise, to hold out hope. I don’t feel strong or hopeful, and I have no wisdom. I am not like my Gnostic namesake, Sophia. But my God, my Father, is gone. Like the Deus Absconditus of their myth.

November 14th: These visions. The shadow, the light in my hand, they hold some truth. They hide it, obscure it, occult it from me. But the concealment implies the truth. This place/world/reality does not compute. I am not of this place.

November 20th: Sometimes, when I write, ideas appear to come from nowhere. As if they dropped into my head like rain. I get inebriated on them, giddy on the inspiration. I forget who I am, where I am. My mind wanders into the shadows. Am I the shadow at my hearth?

November 22nd: I read some Alan Watts, and he said “Lunatics frequently resemble saints”. Maybe I’m the patron saint of Lunatics. Maybe it depends on the day of the week which one I am. Later in the book, it said that Satori (“a sudden, intuitive vision”) comes coupled with an ‘overwhelming feeling of doubt’. Maybe I’m not mad. Maybe I’m becoming enlightened. Maybe I have an enlightenmental disorder.

November 23rd: Shamans would be seen as psychotic by men like John. Irrelevant, babbling madmen. Only that which goes through the ‘proper’ channels is valid. What have these ‘proper’ channels ever done for me, or the millions like me? The undulating masses of shamans labelled insane. I’d rather be mad than a one-dimensional, egotistical and shallow academic.

December 1st: John knows about the journals. Jim must have told him. I have been betrayed by every man I have ever known. John tells me I have ‘Hypergraphia’. ‘An obsessive need to write notes and diaries’, he assures me and that my ‘intense emotions and quasi-religious rants’ are indicative of my failing mental health. I wish he’d shut his mouth and open his mind. He says my theories are ‘layered illusions, moving further from truth’, that they’re ‘truisms based on errors, which are based on errors ad infinitum’. He says I’m ‘weaving a veil of illusions’. If so I’d like to throttle him with that veil. He went on (as he does, ad infinitum). I’m failing to ‘filter out all of the data I’m picking up’. This reminded me of a theory my dad had. We filter through reality with out sense of time and space. When we hallucinate, we see unfiltered reality. I’m seeing a truer picture than he ever had. But, if I AM seeing the truth; does that mean I AM an automaton. that the shadow IS there?

December 22nd: I lit a cigarette and became completely engrossed in it. I watched the flame, the curling smoke and felt the regulation of my breath. It felt like the most important thing in the universe. I can’t have a smoke without going nuts. Yet, being immersed in that moment, I felt at peace, like I’d realised something. An intuitive feeling that, like the smoke, everything is ephemeral.”

Self imposed hermitude

in response

to the spreading

of the self-sanctified

across all the spaces

that were not theirs

creating trenches

and loyalties

there are no sides

just mirrors

there is no game

just an act

telling stories

spinning yarns

catastrophising

between yourselves

ignored the need

of a needy friend

huddled around

a vampire instead

familiarity

breeds contempt

manufacturing

consent

you speak of ideology

of being outspoken

whilst you expand

into others places

ever spent

two seconds

thinking maybe

the problem is within

Of course not

that would require

seeing beyond

the end of your own nose

which you cut off

when you cut friends out

and get stuck

in a quagmire

a bed you made

stealing all the duvet

and leaving

everyone cold

no heart

no art

childish boys

and wet farts

In stating my opinion
I have been frank.
But, it holds little water
outside your think tank.

Unless the word is capitalised,
my opinion is null & token.
Unless I’m part of your group,
I’m not allowed to be outspoken.

Whilst fingers and thumbs
embed in many pies
embed in others events
embed in people’s eyes.

Sore subject to you,
about what is art.
The message was simple;
it’s what’s in the heart.

But, please twist my words.
They’re open for interpretation.
I clearly have ideas
way above my station.

Because I’m not allowed to say shit
without the need for censorship.

However, I will take heed
And use art however I need,
And fight against an ideology
that says I cant say what’s true for me.

What part of this list of damning things did you
find ringing so especially true?

I’m sorry that I SpokeOut of turn.
I’m still yet to learn
My new word order place.
I’m such an utter disgrace.

To poetry, to art, to the memory
of doing art for the sake of artistry.
So whilst you self anoint
I’ll thank you for totally proving my point.