Ideas, Man

I feel, at times, that I should be doing something
something magnificent, to forward the human race
producing that single idea that pushes others
into acting, and striving to better themselves
and others

I feel, at times, that this should be my sole
focus in life
should be the focus of everyone, everywhere
the betterment of the collective
pushing the boundaries, seeing what we
are capable of

I’m an ideas man
I have so many ideas through out the day
that I can’t keep up with which ones are
good, and which ones are useless
I used to write them down
but apathy set in
keeping me from even caring if anyone
hears, or sees my ideas

This extends to my music and my writing
if no one hears, or sees it
will it change anything?

If no one hears or sees it
will I ever be able to change someone’s life?

The Push

The static
of an old LP
sizzles into earshot
the kick
slowly reveals itself
through the foggy haze
of filter suppressed
impact
the hats
tinkle and twitter
panning left and right
the snare
completing the beat
rockets in
but cuts out
just as soon as it
started

twinkling
shimmering
the synth line
gives new meaning
to the beat
off-kilter
jarring the body
into arrhythmic
jerking motions

in the pit
of the stomach
it rises
from the depths
of
the ocean
sublime
pulsing
soothing
the bass-line
commands
drives forward
pushes the cacophony
into a coherent
submissive
melody
slushing around in ear
binding it all together
completing the euphoric
journey
pushing towards the edge
jumping off the cliff
into the ice cold
emptyness

Fragments of what used to be

It creeps up on me
nostalgia
hitting me with
waves of the past
fears, hopes,
dreams
they all collide
with imagery
a smile, laughing eyes,
tears running down
a soft, sun kissed, cheek
a taste, of forbidden lips
a bare breast, nipples erect
As my fingers caress
heartache
anger
betrayal
knowing that life
has forever been changed
it all comes back
as whispers
in the back of
my mind
it can’t be stopped
unless I stop my mind
from being idle
even then these
fragments
slip through the cracks

A dream…

I was at some military school/college, and we were excited about something.
Hundreds of people milling about. It was a beautiful early evening, and I was going
to cycle home, but couldn’t get through the trhongs of people. I sat on a rocky
promontory with some friends, wondering what was going on.
The moon started to rise over the water, slowly,and then it all of a sudden shot
into the sky as if it was being yanked out of the water. It flew up, winked at us
and then plopped into the water, bobbing about.
Just then strange white signs appeared on the dark blue sky. We had no idea what
they were, but they slowly came into focus and became references to Monty Python
sketches; dead parrot, holy hand grenade, giant foot, shrubbery, gumby men,
huge terrible beastie rabbit, etc.

They all disappered at the same time, just as hundreds and thousands of arrows
flew out of the sky towards us. We weren’t afraid, and when they hit I felt a
little tickle, but they didn’t hurt and disappeared on contact.

I fumbled for my camera, tried to turn it on to the movie setting, but I
couldn’t understand the symbols, as they had also changed. They had become
ancient greek statue shapes, and I thought “Must’ve been that firmware update.”
The screen was also strange, as it had changed into a double screen, with two
different images on each one, I had no idea whre the second one was from… I
finally figured it out (this was all in a matter of seconds) and started recording.

We wanted a better vantage point so we drove around to the other side of the
building to park, but we were told to move as that was VIP parking, and they were
expected very soon. So we backed up and pulled off to the side and got out. At that
moment we heard the sound of engines from down the road. People thought it might be
Terry Gilliam, with all the Monty Python references, but I knew that John Cleese
was on the West coast on tour.
Some cars appeared through the trees, and the excitement rose. People started
murmering as these 1940’s model Mercedes came around the corner. There were quite
a few of them, with one larger one in the middle of the convoy.

I readied my camera… and felt a dog licking my face as I had over slept…

Praying for lunch time solitude

I sit here
trying to block out
the incessant click tap click tap
of the office idiot
beating his keyboard
like it’s trying to kill him
the phone rings
constantly
the voices invading
my caffeine fueled haze

but that damned fool
keeps typing, typing, typing
Tolstoy would be proud
if it wasn’t full of typos,
misspellings and general crap

the brain buzz of the caffeine
keeps me on edge
ready to unleash torrents
of abuse

but I hold it back
keep it in
channel it back into
the work at hand
causing me to speed up
and complete even more
work
praying for lunchtime solitude

End

It got to the end of the day
before I realised that she
hadn’t come home tonight
no calls, no texts, nothing
just this sinking empty pit
in the centre of my being
it was at this point that I
realised that without this
pit, this empty soulless pit
I wouldn’t be aware of the
fact that she left me

She

It boggles my mind
how she can be
here
and then
there
in the blink of an eye

I try to
follow
but the leaps aren’t
logical at all

It’s up
It’s down
Happy
Sad
Angry
Fragile

The peace and quiet
that comes when
she sleeps
is
sometimes
the best part
of the day

But it won’t stop me

I’m pretty sure that I’ve
gotten over the shit you
put me through
It’s too bad it has taken
fifteen years of my life
and has tired my resolve
Life has moved on
and I have new people
to turn to
I will never forget
and the hate will not
subside
but at least I know
that you will never have
this happiness

If

if it comes
down to it
I will enlighten you

if it comes
down to it
I can show you the way

if it comes
down to it
i will
hold your hand

when it comes
down
to
it

you won’t like
where I’ll lead you

Words

words flow so much nicer
on paper
than they do on the screen
the touchy-feely is lost
on plastic squares
the feeling of paper
rough, with edges like a knife
the ink flowing from the pen
the lead
shearing from the pencil
the smudges
from my left handed writing

it doesn’t quite
transfer
to the cold
digital edge