Category Archives: Musings

Repeats

Putting the pieces together
And then taking them apart
Frustrated by symmetry
And a semblance of art
When all around is confusion
And chaos on demand
The schedule is nightmare
A sentence without remand

I’d like to change the picture
And bring it more in line
But as you know tracking’s touchy
And the bells don’t always chime
Whether we like it or not
This shit’s always on repeat
So don’t bother with the timer
It’ll be on again next week…

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Surtr

The Norse fire giant Surtr lived in a small electricity power station just outside my primary school. The bringer of Ragnarok was a distinct presence around the playground, with tales of his wanton destruction and grief-giving the talk of many a troubled playtime.
Once an overzealous goal kick led to a fly-away Frido football pitching up just outside Surtr’s modest home. I went to retrieve the ball. As I approached I was gripped by a sense of pure dread and dark foreboding as if this was it, the phase of all-consuming fire. A warning sign of ‘electricity – danger of death’ glowed hypnotically, radiant with the full fury of the arch-demon. I stood there, entranced and with a feeling of impending doom.

And in the furthest reaches of my brain I heard a bell sound and a voice, stark with intensity:

“Oi, Rob, where’s the Frido?”

Birds

The birds are not singing for you
The birds are not singing for World Peace, an end to oppression or a return to the Godhead
The birds are not singing for workers rights, libertarian values, social mobility or true sexual equality
The birds are not singing for a slap-up lunch, a boozy weekend away or a 2 for 1 deal at the supper club
The birds are not singing for hacked elections, the virus in your hard-drive or the End of all of these Days

The birds are not singing for you 
The birds are singing because they need to.

Diluted

From pupils being dilated
To culture being diluted
The underground’s running all night
But there’s not a party in sight
The clubs and venues closing
To make way for global cloning
The ambience gets peaceful
If you can afford it
It all gets a bit more ‘nice’
And wildly overpriced
Time to make an impact
A declaration of intent
Music and clubbing is part of the Fabric
Of what makes a city a city
Keep it alive

http://nightlifematters.com/

Motorway Spirits

Here I lay
Struck cold by a van
On the motorway.
Still and quiet
Like a dead bird or rabbit
Though getting hit by cars
Is not in my habit.

I turn and wave
As each new one
Passes me by
Bits of bone
Bits of flesh
Blowing from tarmac
To sky

Got proper stuck from A to Z
So chucked the roadmap instead
Drive on or walk on
There’s nothing left to see
Abandoned dogs listen
I promise them:
We shall run again

Threats

Picturing a bird
Brought down by a sniper
And wondering what
The fallout will be

I thought travelling light
Would make the most sense
As I need the strength
To remain free

The threats to our lifestyle
Are both real and authentic
And test what
We want to see

The Page Left Blank

Accusatory, judgemental and often just wrong
The lines that fit the rhythm
But upset the song
A reminder then…to sometimes leave
The
Page
Left
Blank

Daymare no. 99

There’s an opening… near my bed
It’s an air vent…to my head
There are flies buzzing around it
And ants crawling along it
I think something should be said

Well, I went to a doc
They gave me honey drops
Smear it round your head crack
Put it in your bed sack
All in all, the advice seemed tip-top

But now I’m dealing with wasps as well
And that’s really less than swell
A sting would mean personal death
And terminate my faltering breath
These are anxious times, can’t you tell?

So, I wiped away the nectar
And constructed a deflector
Those insects don’t stand a chance
Denying their existence I did a joyful dance
This is a singular psychological sector

I still like honey though
On bread
And in drinks.
Just not
On heads
honey drop

Blue Bag

Blue Bag

Sometimes, when I take a pause for thought, I will notice the outside world.

For example, there is a tree located in one of the backyards of the buildings two or three doors down from me. Through my window door I can see that tree. And in that tree there is a blue plastic bag.

Blue Bag has been there ever since I moved back in – over a year ago now.

Blue Bag seems to be firmly stuck; it has survived thunderstorms, hailstorms and rainstorms comfortably and easily. It has braved occasional attacks from pigeons and gulls with smile firmly fixed.

Blue Bag does not ask to be accepted.
Blue Bag does not ask questions.
Blue Bag just sways in the breeze, hanging on to the branches, surveying the scenery.

I wonder where Blue Bag will be another year from now.

Still in the tree, or down on the ground?

First Profile

First Profile