Told you so

The world does not look to writers

for answers to the big problems

If it did we’d all be living in chaos

We are self-serving and ego driven at the best of times

But some would never admit that

They masquerade and live normal lives and

Write terribly in the process

They work normal jobs

Drive normal cars

And have normal conversations about

The larger problems of the world

With normal people

Most

Of whom, are the cause of said problems

And they are published in some journal

A piece now/then

In some bi-annual magazine

But they have no answers

And nor do I

Not a single one for you on straightening

The twisted wire of the world

Because I don’t truly care about that

Or them

Or you

I remain capable only of caring about my survival and

The survival of those few closest to me

The all-knowing writer is a myth of academic proportions

Drowning in research and statistics

Desperate to prove their worth

To fund more publications

Pored over by a committee and yet

Becoming ash no later than the rest of us

Proliferating mediocrity

They endanger the very souls of those of us who gasp for air

In order to scratch down words that both defend from death

And carry death along with them

As finally we all run out of breath and black ink.

Fast forward

There is only rewind and pause

No play

No fast-forward

No consumption of page after page

Character built meals of meat and stock

None

There is the first page

When it was all to come

And the last

To be ripped out and shredded

Eaten to ensure no one ever discovers

The screaming hilarity of your tale

Now is a mist

A smoke

Now is a million miles an hour

And choking on the fumes of it

Now is an instant memory

In a head already overfull

Now is fury become silence

Because the world cannot allow

Fury

And tomorrow is expected

Predictable and easy

Then the thousand more tomorrows_≠

Bring weight upon their sullen mornings

So you tense up and focus

Leaping with all your might, to the end

Unchanged from the start

Unevolved and making all the same

Mistakes

Hiding your journey from them all.

My god, what happened

Were you not once great

Boastful and scarred with hubris

Did the world not revolve around

Your gold hearted presence

And women would sing

And drinks flowed

Cars crashed and

Nights fell

And inside there was a soul

Underneath the sounding fireworks

And hormonal chatter

A soul aiming straight and true

Were you not once waiting

And given up

And sodden with autumn rain

Orange leaves a portent of

Your secret shallows

But a little curse

Of an ordinary life

Has now killed all that

One

Two

There are no mistakes in life

Some people say.

Anything

In a moment of fleeting sanity

Caught between the door closing and

My opening it again

A pause

And as though a fervent prayer

Escaped me via sacred breath

I looked to the ceiling and simply exhaled

anything

To nothing and no one

With no expectation of

Response or favour

And then it was gone

Like a bottle in the ocean that holds

A one word note

And I have to no avail

Spent the remainder of today

Trying to understand what it means.

Tenacity

Such tenacity is required

To even tolerate

These single-celled creatures

It is our impotence

And not our pity

Or love for them

That prevents a massacre

The ability to withhold

To suppress and fossilise this

Hatred

Of such abject stupidity

An unenviable skill

Allowing us to falsify our

True intentions

The further down you dig

The deeper into silence you go

Words becoming piss in the wind

It is only now action that counts

And like the Zen masters of old

If you are unable or unwilling

To act

Remain in sacred silence

Until the time to conquer arrives

Such tenacity is required

To even tolerate

These single-celled creatures

What tenacity

It is often too heavy a burden to bear.

The chase

There are dogs on his tail

They are old and failing

But always

There

He need not run at

Full speed

But must keep

Moving

They never gain ground

But are within

Earshot

Growling

Teeth clear with

Spit and blood

He must keep moving

They are old and failing

But still

There

And

They run him through town and

City

Across country road and dust track

Always the same

There is no sleep

No rest

But there are

Dreams

His great idea is this -

To stay that little bit faster

Be not quite as old

Fail just a little less

But that’s not really living

Is it.