“The dark night of the Bowel”
Oil painting expressing the healing process of Ulcerative Colitis. Out of the darkness comes shit, blood…then light.
I am not old
But at an age
When the dawn is already day.
I meet the moon in the morning
The sun still on her way.
Pink clouds flush with her soft sweet rise,
Blue spreading out his arms to embrace the daytime skies.
Bats waft through the sky
As though wading through dimensions
Macabre into morning light
When did I retune my circadian rhythm?
So cicadas marked the time for bed,
And the dawn birds choose the wakening?
Not long ago their early call was feared by my generation,
Late nights melting into cold hard 4ams
Stirred confused communal hesitation
We stumbled home to face the consequences of
Our circadian law breaking.
Now I join the dance macabre
Of nocturnal navigation.
With closed eyes I rise from bed
Lured by some subtle sense of cessation.
I watch and let the day reveal itself,
We wake up hand in hand.
She leads me to my cup of tea
And fills my head with plans.
And I prefer this subtlety,
this flowing with the forces,
I think of generations gone,
When daylight was a resource
Electric light has charged our bodies
Jumpstarts our inner engines.
But the dance of daylight into dreams
Or stories into legends
Takes time to change,
To wake, to waft,
Like dawn becoming day
You may say
My habits are like those of a little old lady
But I’ve a head start daily
So when the sunshine’s fading
Circadia will lay me down
To sound subconscious realms
And I’ll be dream deep in the darkest hour
Before the dawn starts breaking
And when the time is right to shed the night
I can begin awaking
The silence of the morning light
Smiles at our secret meeting.
A tryst in sweet Circadia
A place and time to start creating.
One rain occasion
The rain spat down
Like a stamped foot
30 seconds flat, if that.
Not a minute of drama
But a moment of madness
Softer drops soon followed
Crescendoing again into a full body
belly flopped splash fest
Going out required, not a brolly
But a bullet proof vest!
It tapered after three minutes. Max.
A mere moment
for a mini monsoon.
Near silence ensued
Only simple squeaks
and rustlings dripped
And filtered into ears
And then up the nose, that smell…
A gorgeous gust of new dew
To welcome us back outside
Mamamania: An artistic interpretation of Alzheimer’s Disease
For high res images see:
Stories for Samhain
Give me your leaves
Hand me your gifts
Grown from soil and seeds
Hand in hand
We’ll replenish the land
With skin and bone
From every hu-man
Sussex Sea Shanties
Back in Brighton
A zinging zephyr spurs at my heels
swept up on a zeal of mercurial camphor
I hover over familiar feeling pavements.
A minty fresh mayhem quips at my heart
like a mischievous sibling chatting through laughter.
I’m reminded of a hot, cold
ebb and flow;
an energy so fast, in slow mo
On the go, in the throws, anything goes
Where wild lip shades walk, talk,
kiss and blow bubbles of pure hope
left over from last night’s giggles,
The best dressed competition everyday,
the worst just a footstep away.
I sit softly to see the sea-
a personified sigh.
A human in the hole of a holiday.
Wind wars with wave
sun spills out of whetted wounds
Thoughts are pulled out of my ears by the hairs on my head.
Flossed with fresh air
Blessed with fresh starts
Intoxicated with memories
and knee deep in broken hearts.
I’m thirsty for the sea,
for it to drink me in a reciprocal quench,
to be drenched in that sparkling ice cool collation of H2…
O to bask in that reverie of sky blue.
That salty stench distilling then filling
my sensory flue.
Filled with ephemeral particles
my warm skin is startled
as the first toe dipped intro sends shivering sparkles
up into my innermost centre pole.
Ripples send nipples on end,
hard enough to slice through this surface of diamonds.
Not a warm, but a wincing wet welcome.
Submerged, immersed, merging
cell to cell,
sea to sea
sea to me.
My Space poetry (fourth worst poetry in the universe after Vogon)
S P A C E
S urrounding all the mess and matter, a
P erfect place for peace to shatter the
A ils of crazed consumerism
C hannelled through this spacious prism, shines
E ndless light and possibilities.
SPACE creates infinities.
Space is a piece of peace.
Give me space to release
Fill my gaps with emptiness,
Nothing is worth more than nothingness.
Inside and outside the Clay Pot
It sits on your skin
It holds you
You breathe it in
You fall through it
It moves through you
We’re made of crannies
Full of nooks
You breathe it out
it’s full of stuff
Does emptiness exist?
Is there enough?
Space is a resource
It can be exploited
A hole, an orifice, it can be violated
in which it strings hang
If you can’t swing a cat
Throw a stone
Hear a bat, hearing
You are alone
Now it fills you
It’s the same element
Dabbling in Drab
Inflammation for the Nation
Fire in belly
Find your voice
Follow your heart
Working for the NHS
A long day so easily forgotten
Like a patient after a traumatic operation.
Yet I return in one piece.
Achy feet, a pang in the back
It’s all part of the service
The bags show we care.
Then, with a soothing smile,
and a cold cheeked embrace
Biomedicine is biorhythmically outplayed.
I am cured.
So I eat without thinking of flesh and blood.
And sleep like the dead.
A painkiller is not
The same as immunity.
You just don’t feel what is hurting you.
The Stress Economy
May owe its creation
To the idea that ideas are put into actions
And so the foundations of buildings were laid
By countless slaves
Whip cracked, broken backed
Lorded over, spat at.
Systems formed, cultures cultivated
But the forces of stress are never sated.
More and more is always wanted
And someone’s got to go and get it
So others can flaunt it, have it, and own it.
The building blocks of civilisations
Made of stress, demand, impatience
Are downfalls of us all, as people fall, ill
As inner systems strangle,
Hernias and guts entangle
Worry worms of work tomorrow
Tunnel through our souls
As anxiety and fear prevail.
And the mind cannot suffer alone
So through the brain and spinal bone
Nerves are knackered,
Veins are blown
Jaws unhinge…the mind, it helps my friend
Some gallows humour about being mad
But no one will admit to that!
So deep down muscles wrench
Friction in the bowels commence
The stomach pit is set alight
Fire! Fire! Fight or flight!
But there’s no where to go
And no one to punch
Just a pine lined corridor leading to lunch
Where sloppy seconds revolve on a plate, and
Your boss licks sour lips as you try not to hate her
And intangible tannoys of meaningless data
Spur on paranoia as they seem to berate you.
So salaries splurge on doctor’s appointments
Where nothing is found but self-accusations
That money is squandered on social occasions,
And occasional beers, fags and drugs, illegal?
Take 2 3 times daily with every meal
It will clear up in no time, just try and relax
But it keeps coming back
Mutated and cracked
You’ve spent your pay packet
And can’t even sleep
To stop all this racket
The NHS is free? Well who’s helping me?
My pockets are emptied on the stress economy
A subtle slavery
Killing me softly