Some people NEED change NOW

Wednesday, 27 August 2008

In Toxic 4/8/96

Image by julkastro via Flickr If only you would help me see
this mad, intoxic fantasy.
This head so full of twists and doubts,
this mind that reels beneath the lights.
Grab hold of judgement that tends to stray
and lead it to the light of day.

Prismatic semblance of some truth
dark convenor of some proof
that man is made to stand alone.
This body, this bloodied bone,
this tissue that sports, at best,
far-off transcendence
like the rest of humans tide.

Alone? Separate from the crowd
help usher dreams and thoughts aloud.
Find the strangers bed within
and still the ever present din,
calm this bath of noise,
this fearsome tidal reach
of screams, the howling hell's
of conflict play.

No gods or GODS.
No triumphant whole release.
no dismissal of this madness.
Inchoate, incipient.
Babbling epileptic fits
of mental confrontation-
the child and the adult vie
for this man's domination.

Old Man's Shoes - 01/10/1996

Image by
More than you can
Shake a Stick at
via Flickr

9:09

Radio 4 Call Nick Ross

Distort.

Old man's shoes. Old man's shoes. I'm getting all grey wearing old man's shoes. Cigarettes and coffee change my pace, leaves me wound up with what I've got to face. the day walks on, my mind's gone back to bed, all of mydreams stay locked inside my head.

9:22

Ten minutes on. My thoughts are astray. the radio man takes my line away. The lady in my life has taken my children to school and I sit and key-tap like a lost old fool. My day gets arranged, parts for a car, walking intotown to sort the business machine, nothing for something makes me feel unclean. Fags get rolled, coffee gets made, money gets spent and the bills get paid. Old man's shoes. Old man's shoes. I'm getting grey and worth less wearing old man's shoes.

9:31

Seductive filth. The radio's line. Politics and honesty make my dreams fade. Northern Irish sadness, money and plans. Interviewing ruthlessness- eviscerate the man. My old, old shoes fit me better than the collars of the radio men. There's a juvenile sitting inside this skin wondering what to do about the world it is in. I can walk this way, I can walk theirs. I wish there was a cleaner path that allowed my mind to clear. My old man's shoes fit me better every time I look.

9:40

Round and round in circles. Dizzy with the dance. I've had opportunities and I've had the chance to change the way this world works, to make the day less grey. I've sat and thought for far too long and thrown it all away. My shoes walk to the kettle, the current adds the heat, I turn round and sit back down in my old man's swivel seat. I tap the keys and listen to the radio's droning tone- BA and Burt, politics and reportage chewed into a mess, downright lies and offices, elections and the rest, Ghandi and respectfulness, Brighton and it's conferences. Round and round the radio talks and nothing gets done. Next week, next year, a decade further on. The people change,get older, the discussion lingers on. Tune in 2023 and hear it carry on.

9:58

Deja vous. Old man's shoes. My lady's back from taking the little ones to school. It's time to join in. My old man's shoes are just that. A pair of old man's shoes.

Coffee 'n Fags... Yes 2/4/96

Image via Wikipedia caffeine in the morning

caffeine in the morning

caffeine in the morning, yes,

light up a cigarette

and make your life a mess

(-:

Bomb - Canary Warf - 13/09/1996

A picture of the A34 road - Newbury bypass sec...

Image via Wikipedia

Are you really sure that you don't understand why the IRA have re-started their bombing campaign in the United Kingdom?

On the morning after the Cannary Warf bomb blast I was watching the TV. It was the time when children's programmes should have been on. The were late by an hour because of the discussions on the bombing, which my eight year old son and six year old daughter watched because their grandmother lives in London and because the kept expecting the cartoons to come on. The discussion ended and their programmes came on. There was no mention of the bombing- why should there be? These were programmes for little ones, how can anyone expect children to know anything about such things? OK, a possibly valid point, leaving a aside facts such as the numbers of children my sons age who shoulder guns and fight wars in countries world wide. After these 'kiddies' programmmes came programmes for the adults who like to watch tv in the mornings. Taking it for read that the bombing was THE major event that has happened in the UK for some time it was surprising to me how little there was on this event. Lot's about minor life items- it was as if the bomb had happened in another country.

Now, look for a moment at another major happening, The Scott Report. 700 people thown out of work. Directors and their families dragged through mire of public criticism and social disgrace. Machinary supplied to a country that has a proven track record of atrocities against ethnic groups and known affiliations to terrorist groups, including the IRA. government guidelines changed to fascilitate the sales. What happens? Nothing. It is as if none of this matters. Who cares if lies are told in parliament? Who cares if moral values- caring for lives, believing in honesty and straight dealing- who cares if these things can be thrown aside when money and government policy dictates that they are now a block to further goals?

Another seemingly random jump of thought takes me to the Newbury bypass. What has that to do with bombing and maiming innocent people? Think about this. If I belonged to a group of nature loving travellers and we decided to move into the woods that the bypass is going through how long would it be before there were shouts of anger from all corners about us despoiling a site of special scientific interest? Would we be allowed to live in harmony with the wood? Would the law be enforced, and even changed if needs be, so that this site could be cleared of our unnatural interreaction with it? The laws relating to this SSI would be all important. The SSI would be all important. So how come a swathe of it can be completely destroyed? Why is the site of no interest suddenly when others deem it so?

Cold Kid - 3/7/1996

This file is licensed under the Creative ...

Image via Wikipedia Too long.

My age can be measured

in blundering dents

made in the armour of other lives.

Immature cruelty.

ego thief

of others space.

Tall.

But stunted innards

of a mental babe.

The wood was too cold

for real growth.

Clever.

But neglect after birth

kills the clarity

as the small hands

grasp empty air

and eyes perceive,

as yet unlabelled, 'disgust?'

behind a mothers gaze.

Fed. Watered. Cleaned.

The maternal caress

that should be there

is more a janitorial absence-

Hired help- duty bound

to perform basic tasks

for little pay.

The small child could not bankroll

better staff.

Other children,

siblings,

make the lady smile and,

deep within receding caverns,

this child vague remembers

radiating warmth

aimed at him.

Breathless

umbilical drowning

thrashing arms try to swim

against the stronger flow

of dark now and darker now.

Terror.

Movement blocked by fears

of other inappropriate

norms.

Reactions suppressed.

The over-watch of every move begins.

What this unknowing child did

to warrant such rejected pain

must not be allowed

to happen again.

Spying, prying.

Dishonest moves?

The other children, loved,

advance with ease.

Each move of this one

now diseased

with inboard nightmares

of what might be

if this next step is wrong.

Ever watchful,

needs to find

that unknown '?'

that will turn the matriarchs blind gaze

to open joy

and words that praise

instead of finding fault.

Time trips the birth-day switch

with thoughtless dispatch.

Growth occurs,

it has to,

death has yet to intervene.

Other lives, other lands.

Different minds and different hands.

Still the shivering, unknown wrong

keeps hold.

Each possible move dissected

for its maybe end result.

Subconscious creatures

whip and thrash

in the mother-created

mud-filled pit.

Self torture.

Self disgust.

Lack of faith.

Lack of trust.

Plastic masks to match the rest

are placed in front of all this wasted space.

No one person sees within.

Lovers come and lovers go.

Each comes close but, always, no.

This unknown '?'

might be justified in its hate

of this persons inner state.

Words are words.

Meanings are another thing.

Warmth of touch,

Depth of need,

These are tested till they bleed.

And die.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

Time and time again

would-be friends are left behind

as this uncertain person

knows his wrongs

have damaged once again.

Age creates an anger

that trains this man

to work his damage from the start.

Banal stupidities create

a smile distorted hate

that wreaks its havoc

while gentle outer walls

deny that anything is wrong.

It is always them

that does the harm.

More time crunches underfoot

broken glass and shattered hopes.

Each mind-distressing row

brings forth the now familiar cry

"there's something wrong with you"!

Inside his head

the words are stencilled

in poisoning lead

'I know'

'I know'

'I know.'

"We can help"

Society proclaims.

but each time help is sought

they're out.

Year after year

as help is shouted for

those that offer help

are somewhere else.

Helping others no doubt

to learn how not to shout

and cry

To find out all the reasons why

they are in the pain they're in.

Help for them

so they lose the din

that carries on within.

This man's act

is just that.

A face change fact

that renders help for him

null and void.

Twenty years go past.

Middle aged and separate

from family and kin

by this inner unknown thing

that breaks forth every month

to have its tortured, sadistic lunch

on all the love that lies around

because he still has not found

the bad thing that he did

when he was a tiny kid.

Death is visible now.

Am I always going to twist

the love of those around me?

Will I die still not knowing why?

Help me understand.

All I know is guesses

based on nothing.