Lost Track of Time

Golden supernovas blowing out in the depth of dark
sending light and energy out into space
light years away, only getting to my eyes too late
an event horizon years in the past, hitting now
giving a sense of what had happened
all behind me now lost in time
the tracks of which I have no longer a hold on
derailed, off into the wilderness
a train without a track does not make progress
on track its one man in control of the fate, lightly adjusting
speeding up, slowing down for the bends and twists
sometimes not slowing down and letting it be
the journey is long and tiresome, we can see what happens
when people are not scared of a worn path
they see what they know that the world is as it is
that everyone will go down the same worn track
or at least stay to the side they allocated each one to be
I would be the first original, without the effects
to move to change, to make the attempt to decay and then build
return again anew, a fresh, a chrysalis built and broken
turn all to liquid and reform, hardened, ready to take flight
away and out, away and over, away and away. 

Loveable Loser

I pack up my troubles in the old kit bag, turn a blind eye and I forgive, but I can never forget. I will never forget. I don't want to, I am given talks and looks and it is becoming worn. It is now my judgement, the cut, I move on, I leave them and I let the it go through behind me. I cannot stand it, and I hope they know why. They may not realise it, and I may not be clear about it, but they are gone already. I don't want to go back to that time. What is there for me? Those that go back beyond this point there is nothing but woe and heartbreak.

Can something be made of this, am I learning, am I growing. Maybe, but then again, probably not. Does it look like it to the outside, I don't know. The face I have built is still there in my bag of tricks, it is a bit cracked and I can only keep it on for shorter and shorter times. There is some showing of wear but I am able to do the required maintenance. For how long, I am not sure but I think I will be able to long enough. Do enough to get there.

I devolve but I don't divulge, nothing can stop that now. I have been constricted, like a big snake coiling and coiling till lungs are crushed, till no breath is left. I am covered, my mouth and face are being swallowed by it. I dream of a time with none of this happening, it is not a morning's story I want to wake up from. Even the ritual of that is getting old. No more tricking myself, no more playing the dunce.

I will go until there is nothing left of me but that loveable loser.

How Do I Turn it All Off?

How do I turn it all off?

modern lives
crappy rhymes
daily grind
amazon prime

How do I turn it all off?

social pages
want for wages
power gauges
corporate cages

How do I turn it all off?

battered hens
bikie dens
coffee blends
matchstick men

How do I turn it all off?

soundbite grammar
frontman stammer
cloak and dagger
sickle and hammer

How do I turn it all off?

smartphone stare
scandalous mayor
receding hair
Shandong pear

How do I turn it all off?

felonious priests
darkened streets
sugary treats
dubstep beats

How do I turn it all off?

budget condition
Dylan renditions
jihadi missions
Irani fission

How do I turn it all off?

plastic fantastic
measures drastic
life nomadic
love's sporadic

How do I turn it all off?

Quote

"My dear,
             In the midst of hate, I found there was, within me, an invincible love. In the midst of tears, I found there was, within me, an invincible smile. In the midst of chaos, I found there was, within me, an invincible calm. I realised, through it all, that in the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer and that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there's something stronger - something better, pushing right back.

Truly yours,
Albert Camus."

Failing to Hold

Sound has turned into a source of white noise that plays into my life like a buffer, something to make my conscious full

I am taken with the image in front of me, like I've seen it before, but something is different, my mind reaches for it but falls short

There is a chance, but only for the clever boys the ones with patience and truth and power in their actions, the white noise begins again

Filling the gaps the little parts where I can hear something and my conscience is breathing again, in the space left free

Grace is an ideal I have all but forgotten, placed on a side table, cast to the floor, largely forgotten, its now placed safely and neatly in a chest of drawers

Left there until accidentally discovered at a time not panned, at a time of extroversion that is then converted to filler, gaps again appear

They've seen it, I've seen it, my face tells of the battle I have fought and with all war it is futile, something given to young men for the old to exploit

The thoughts with which I am left, even if i gave them to my enemy I would not be proud, mutually assured distraction

The images seen and not able to shake, if I try and hold onto something I might be left with a sinking ship, one that cannot be righted

Then I am the musicians on the Titanic, going down in one last ending song of grace, of self sacrifice, the symbol and the anthem of my melancholy.

The Lowlands

Floating in the lowlands with a lovers prayer
Doing nothing but push the day and breath the air
Storms descend on grey clouds falling
A valley wall to block means they are stalling

It rains in the mountains on jagged peaks
Slowly chipping as each drop seeks
to descend onto the dry ground below
chased all the way by the suns strong glow

after the rains the water cascades down
fills the valley, soaks through all the open ground
Its long after the rains that all the damp recedes
the soaking is not a memory that easily leaves

In between mountains the days are shorter
there is less light to let in to dispatch the water
the smell of damp seems to linger around
spores fly and the smell of mould abounds

I decide to try and get a better view
I push up the mountain towards the blue
climbing through rocks and then sheer walls
nothing will quench that yonder call

To get up and over to see whats beyond
of imaginations conjured I've become quite fond
mountainous terrain in between me and this dream
of people, of coastline, of a wide cleansing stream

a place that has moving water, but still in the mind
visions of people receiving, gentle and kind,
a man from the lowlands with a lovers prayer
but with less of a harshness and no cross to bare

What, When, Why, Where You Know

There was a time when I knew, the bells rang and the sounds of those metal monstrosities rang, and rang true, vibrations reverberating through me, through every cell, felt as if almost a part of me, the feeling of endless energy filling my soul with its power, as if Tesla's theories were true, as if the energy of this world could travel through the air. 

Did Clemens tell him about the energy of the written word, that the right combination of words written and read make men and women do things, give them a greater understanding, how to use energy effectively, how to be a lightning rod of ideas, of electric debate and inspiration for anyone they love, to help push them into action, that surely most of the energy truly is transmitted this way?

Did Johnson tell him that the spoken word of a poet turned words into images, images of feelings of overwhelming memories, of which the listener had not even had the thought of in their head before. That this was a wireless transmission that also caused a person into action, producing water, tears, of both joy and sadness. That pushed the listener to take stock, to re-evalute how they influence the world, that surely energy truly is transmitted this way?

Did Dvorak tell him of the sound of music, that could be used to connect to multiple sources of this energy generation to create a power source much bigger than one on its own. A cacophony of wireless energy, pulsating, pausing, cutting, deafening, harmonic, polyphonic, unplugged sound for all to wonder and rise to, in pride and in dance, a sound that would make this energy seem transcendental and inspire them to move and seek out beauty, that surely energy truly is transmitted this way?

Did Rontgen convey the truth that beams of light are transmitted through air that this energy can be absorbed through the skin, that an image can be held on the back of the retina that the viewer can process that image, that they would be able to recall that same image at a moments notice, to push them on, to give them a spurt of inductive energy, if the view is of a vision of beauty, one that stirs them deep, so deep they wonder what kind of beauty made this world that we live in and see, that surely energy truly is transmitted this way?

Words read of wanting, of life, of hearts searching and finding, poems written of love, delivered in twirling prose around a heart string and pulling just enough to move, a sonnet of untold beauty, music heard, of rising and plunging like a heart beat speeding up and slowing down with the nearness of its inspiration, a vision seen, a sight, an image of pure beauty, the feeling of warmth conveyed in a smile.

All these forms of energy transmitted, in this humble mans experience, when he reads her words written for he and he alone, when he sees her enter his vision filling his senses, when he hears her name as if it has become the song of his love, his heart is sprung into action even if the rest of his body is not, his legs stuck to the floor, his mouth unable to form words, a reverberation throughout that disrupts all normal transmission, what else can he do but to send 1000 ships, take over half the known world, write 2000 sonnets, play the music of his soul, chase her until his energy is gone, even when little is returned.

Why then does that energy suddenly dissipate into a whimper, why do we build resistors, place them in sequence, always scared of an overload? 

Sometimes a man knows too well his short comings, his self doubts amplified, he uses the energy stored and held in that capacitor, energy once received and never dissipated, held inside, sometimes he would steal some of the energy he was trusted with, he held it from transmission, he transferred it to store, something to keep him warm when alone on a cold night he knew was ahead.

But he learns nothing good comes from stored energy, it must be generated fresh, sent out and received with sparks, lighting the soul, turning to more words and and speech, more music, more light and visions, sending the vibrations back out into the night into the hearts of others that need stirring. In truth though it must be generated and received in equal measure, it must go back and forth for it to be an effective source of energy in this world. We all seek a sustainable source.

Fossicking

Broken down and held at a pause
Left to wallow in self imagined flaws
traded out and left for dead
a shrunken heart, means no more dread

to go out on a selfish cause
find something to end the pause
golden of light and golden touch
taken with laughter, smiling and such

yesterday it was arms wide open
but then I told her of outlaws olden
now her hands are on the grips
of pistols holstered at her hips

I made a sound like a lawman
telling her she is a no good pan hand
I draw a beat on her with my mind
defence against a life of peace and kind

but the chance of finding chunks of gold
are low for the smart but not the bold
cautious live on the path that's narrow
they pan for specks in the shallows

the bold go deep, they know no better
they don't really care that they may get wetter
grabbing at rocks, one will be
what they always dreamed to see

Devolution of Battle

First Contact, feelings are shown, a lot is unknown, finding their feet

Peaceful Talks, setting up ceremony, affairs without acrimony, initially meet

Miscommunication, words are all failing, the sentiment's sailing, something's offbeat

Talks End, talks aren't resolving, and no one's absolving, empty the seats

Declaration, a fight is what's needed, if measures not heeded, ready your fleets

Battle, war for the young, punishment's flung, drums set the beat

Momentum, it might be shifting, troops not resisting, time to retreat

Resigned, stand to the side, too much to hide, gracious in defeat.

Money Lenders

When the money lenders are in the cathedral
spouting that they are the voice of the people
whispering the universal language like the old tower
promising wealth, influence and all that power

leaders are weighing up the benefit and cost
a little bit of that power they were after is lost
eroded for the next one who comes along
now change takes someone again more strong

Standing at the edge looking out over all you see
thinking that all your money will make you free
power generated in the dark, a system done and unravelled
lungs breath in what was made by the road most travelled

a wholey crusade to make the good better best
let the scraps fall where they may, for all of the rest
continue and pretend nothing is the matter
keep consuming as your waste and balances get fatter

like the king Canute holding back the tide
its not fair on the beached he cried
there are whales coming in and cant get back out
so they head to the hill with their teapot and spout

making it rain on the centre of power
no more utes when you want them to cower
behind the scenes there is more to the eye
setting up meetings on the stealing of pie

leaders ask, why cant we roll back the last 20 years
that's no way to deal with change and your fears
where is the great leader, the voice of our times
there is no singer of folk anthems and rhymes

Were Levi Stubbs' tears all for nothing
did we put down our tools for this drubbing
or will we leap forward in human endeavour
i have lost all faith in that, lost it forever

How Do I Turn It Off

That quiet hum, a buzz, always there
in the background, asking if i notice
forever asking, probing, nudging
grabbing at straws, pulling the loose thread
one line of fabric at a time
I see the weave as it was before being made
imagine a million tiny hands
pushing the miniature thread
back and forth, to make the plain fabric
that holds it all together
It is strong when built
one tug and it can all unravel
who chose the colour it was dyed in
to cover the plain, and obvious
white, clean, pulled from its birth
i can still hear the buzz the familiar noise
there it seems forever, even after the fall
Its like the noise would follow
you can pretend you don't hear it
it lingers yet
you feel like it would be a welcome distraction
at some other time
when you are not in the middle of it
you've played into the distraction
it has been the whole plan for you
to buy it, to feed it
white noise in the atmosphere
you can only deny it so long
but how do i turn it off?

Golden One

Broken down, holding back
knowing its all something that cannot be
better, worse, trails of self doubt
cannot hold in my sounds of uncertainty
bold bold bold, come on now
feel through the forrest, push off those trunks
move forward, cut through the cover
the trees must end, the jungle must subside
there is a path, someone has been here before
maybe they are at the other end
what is there cannot be guessed
i dont want to know, i push on
so many times have i seen a shortcut
each time trials of worth
each broken moment
i forced my heart to shrink
it beats against me
like a fist, fighting
less to fear when you are strong
betrayal is foregone
again, the intensity is less
again, the brave are favoured
I still pan for specks of gold
others grab rocks looking for fortune
I envy them
they can sink down
humble, to nature, to others
I am peerless, on my own
my mind grows much larger than a fist
it spits out many things
at first I am nourished
but I would like more
I build an idol
golden and lovely
but first i picture it in my mind
that is where it stays
i will not give up a speck of gold
for the chance to see that come to life
its too much
there is no chance of it standing
i cant afford to waste anything
once is enough
no more hiding from the image
the golden one

Thoughts

Thinking of home and what that means
the sounds of mum in the hall
the phone being used, the notepad filled
a chest of gold with treasures spilling
a wave, a bracelet, a carousel spinning
an elephant, a wondrous circus
something to want, to play, to look at,
to live, to escape and live un-judged
the smell of earth, outside adventures
hiding from the inside, house and heart
they would all count to ten
no one would search, I'd happily be alone again
alone to my world
a boy and his thoughts, is there any more free
went from then to 15, when you find yourself
first brush with the end, hospital nights
laboured breathing, a whispered word
taken back to then by a feeling
raised voices through the walls
still not a man, scared of the night
then at 18 another brush
you find out you are no closer
nothing to understand
make it about you
sleep only wakes into remembering
cover it all, keep busy and entertained
there is no time to change, too late
that has become you
the snake turning and every time
less breath, squeezed harder
Whenever I feel a little fight I lose
one day I may over come
but for today fear wins again