Square Root of Zero

I find myself sitting in a cold, empty house, drinking beer, listening to The Pixies, Inspiral Carpets, Spaceman 3, Catatonia…A soundtrack I accept was not my own during its age. My “era” ran parallel but, like a walled garden, kept to its own devices. There can be no lying about how I really grew up, really, not under the circumstances. All the frozen surfaces outside do is remind me how natural things are, how God decrees the lives of each leaf, stone, and indeed human.

Another new year, then, and where better place than here to evaluate all things? Well, I know of a perfectly good place, but that diary remains tucked away amongst paperwork and bills, similarly ignored. Unfortunately the whispers of ghosts are growing louder. Static turns to screams. It’s no good.

The heart remains a child, so to speak. To coin a phrase, all that. Friends remain close…The “but” can be seen from space, right? Maybe this is not so a perfect place…

It’s understood. We grow up. We grew up. Suitcases cannot be packed so readily, so enthusiastically, without warning. Horzions cannot be reached so breathlessly. Peaks so hurridly. The heart remains pure, for all its worth.

Spirit of the age

This should not be written. Had my mind been completely saved from the flashing lights, the ”cuckoo tendency”, this laptop would be closed, my pen and paper technique revitilised. Within these fingers I can feel the spark of imagination, within the brain the taut eagerness pressing against the complacency…Black flurries, flames within the stillness…

A magpie, with its boxers confidence, sparring across the green opposite my window…The hungry cocky stare…A flash of white, black, feathers…

The first Christmas since the death of my gran was not too emotional…There was a sense of loss, a noticable missing element, if only it was the voice…She was mixed-up, tired, perhaps we knew this time last year that she was not well…The illness did not make itself obvious to anyone, not until it had taken hold…But the love we displayed across the year remained unspoken, just present, there in the eyes and the bitten tongues…The best advice is “to move on”…

Somethings are lessons willing to be re-learned. Or forgotten, best left alone…A new dawn to be broken, for there is more than eagerness in these words…

Elephant in the Room

Clearly, I need to write things down. Document. Measured. It is not just my personal views, my opinions. On the hill, there are monsters. The pound sign animated as a demon, a grossly arrogant, violent beast, teeth spattered by tears of blood. All in my hands, the control of which. No spells to cast…

The problem comes from my own behaviour, but this has been described before. I am aware of the money issues, I face the figures every day, each thought is balanced by their foot-tapping, their heavy sighs. And yet letters are dismissed, reminders forgotten. Somewhere in the head is the reality button, ready to be exploded…I should not be trusted by others, clearly…

Unfortunately I cannot be deemed anonymous or unique in this regard. My diary is blank because I have determined it so. The excused are examples of revisionism. I am not innocent. Consequences will probably come later, like shadows, like the movement of a sundial, the passing of inevitablity. Encroaching, there’s a term. On my heel turned, footsteps away from the one route out, or the one route deeper within…

Somewhere in this room sits an elephant. He seeps through the letterbox, hangs from the windowledge, lies under the bed amongst the computer equipment and coffee cups. I should be acting responsibly, or more than this.

The previous twelve months have had their certain character. One wonders what beasts will be unleashed come January…

Good verses evil

All that is left is the cold,
a folded coat,
the sharp wry shrug of the anecdote

told with the over-rehearsed timing of a wheezy old joke

All which remains in the rain, are statues
quartered by shadow.
Signals and signs behind bus shelters, stripped and
teenaged and guilty with sweat.

The playing-card leaves twist
stuttered arguments, stop-start sighs in the doorway,
an awkward excuse for a kiss
dressed up as a goodbye.

All that remains is the optimism,
that not all beer mats are palimpsests
not all walks home will echo footsteps alone

not all walks alone will lead to your home.

All that remains is the cold, a shrilled bell reminder
of the weakest of ends,
too much time for thinking, not enough friends.

All that remains is the cold

Month follows month. I have witnessed the passing of leaves, river strengths, icing and thawing of puddles. And all which remains…

All that remains is the anecdote, the dry chuckle of the joke. A darkness brewing in the still breeze, car-alarms and dog barks which pass, all that remains etched in glass…All the remains of thoughts without end, not enough friends…

All that remains is the cold. Of handshakes never offered, statues quartered by their own shadows, and shadows lost by their own journey.

Month has followed month. There has been so much happening, but no record, not officially. And there is so much I could comment on. The conduct of my own stupid behaviour, for one. The dirtiest of expolits, in the cover of darkness, among strangers. Generous bursts of lust, hunger at its most basic. And I pay the price, not just financial, for every day since the memories (largely tasting of guilt) seep into the other parts of my brain, leaving everything polluted, all that remains is the consequence.

Consequence rather than consience. There is a deadline, of sorts, for these thoughts to be adequately articulated. The filtering of thoughts for my own satisfaction, and then for an audience, which has the taste of unfortunate irony about it. I am only pretending to have no interest in recording the events of the past 4 months. In reality, such as it is, the lack of an official record hurts.

All that remains is an invisble mirror, a splinter of time curled around its frame, stretched grey lace. There is no ‘suddenly’. Morning has been coming from the pouring of the first pint. All that remains is the punchline without an end, too many regrets and not enough friends.