Late night, early morning

Lights firing inside my head,


perhaps, afraid one day they will go out.


I follow her constant breathing, with envy at each effortless sigh,


hoping soon my mind will wander or be distracted by morpheus touch.


I turn, torturing myself,


shifting weight.


Processing, clearing, exploring yesterday and the day ahead.


I hope for rest, but a pretension lives on,


where this malady is some inspirational disease.


I fear it is a curse.

 

Writing and running – part two (I hate self-discipline)

Resorting to poetry, I can barely breath,

having captured an hour, to move less gently.

For this one I warmed down, but feel shaky legged,

insecure heartbeat, ice-cream pain, intense.

A talk about dogs, some nearly hit cars,

colder, but brighter, and still not too hard.

Building it slowly, but too fast for me,

phone slapping comfort, keeping a beat.

A rhythm, de-synced to ventricles furred,

ripping the filth that from torpor it learnt.

Inaction made steady, can easily seduce,

that part of me wanting, to without effort produce,

all that I hope for, with no courage put in.

A teacher once told me, I lacked self-discipline,

I still hate him.

 

Pause

Amongst a crowd of people,
speaking words I do not understand.
I never make a sound,
but know many things in the quiet of a beer glass night.
Watching as the clouds turn black
and laughter stills,
there is a peaceful pause.

Squashed two

I am squashed between two worlds
and though grown from my roots,
trying to maintain some clemency.
Hoping to think and not offend;
I was raised too cautious,
but in awe of heroes;
I fought inside my mind:
I did not step on grass.
I did not talk in class.
I did not sleep around.
I held back most I felt.

Understanding is the rarest thing,
a ghost amongst ideas.
And when the call was sounded
and as usual I had no heart,
but on hearing violent voices and
displays of casual threat,
the petty digs and schadenfreude,
provoked a hidden rage.

Speaking a little louder,
at risk of unknown change
then in a moment critical,
SMIILING.

To share an open feeling
of honest lost belief,
where no one is a victor,
but everyone is heard.
Better loud than silent
I suppose, or else I’m wrong,
to roar my thoughts ferocious,
as I retreat in to my cage.

Squashed one

I don’t agree with all I love,

but love those who don’t agree.

If my mother taught me anything,

it was how to be contrary.

Mourning the dodging of many bullets

If I survive to be old,

I hope that by then society will have learnt that experience does not equal wisdom,

and that survival may only indicate the dodging of many bullets.

If they treat me with reverence,

let it be for my achievements and not from any misguided sentimentality,

they should chide me for my follies

and ignore my foolish advice, but without cruelty or intention to cause pain.

Leave me alone when needed and expect me to function as best I can,

it is a wickedness to control through care,

or to diminish through sympathy.

For now I shall run towards the bullets

and try not to wince if they scrape my skin,

I might need it when I am baggy.

Where is the fool?

Where is the fool who hides in the man?

To question the passing of time,

without which his wisdom does suffer the most,

splintered from protection, it fails.

When spoken in tongues, we see through the lie,

no reverence without ridicule,

subjected to fancy and flowery prose,

full of praise and no sign of ill.

The masses await, enthralled by a day

will question the purpose, not a bit.

Lucky are they who simply feel free

to give up their token of wit.

But suffer the bastards who stand on the hill,

by base, on the heath or beside,

a river that cuts between regal and muck,

who treacherous slogans cry.

Knowing less than they speak,

speaking more than they ought,

and spending much more than they owe,

plagued by such doubts, with no sense of pride

as seeking the truth ain’t no good.

But stand up for bastards, fools and the one

who shake fists in rage at the moon,

as lashed by the storm, in fear of it all,

ungrateful for what they are thrown,

go naked to war with ideas and no more

with knowledge they are alone.

   

(Written between 11am and 12noon, 29th April 2011, with thanks to another William)