Sunday, 30 September 2012


The newspapers scattered on the kitchen table, the ring slipped on her finger agitating knuckle, the slippery surface, the freshly rolled cigarette perched on the edge of the ashtray. And as she looked up, the sun shone through the window on a bright new crisp day.

Inside, her reality. Outside, a brand new world aching for her revival. Inside, comfort familiarity and mess. Outside, energy and purpose, function and response.

And she lingered, ventured a look to the great skies but sun's glaze concealed beyond tall willow tree was distorted through sash window.

Inside, the smell of ash and stale booze, clothes strewn, books and papers, used glasses and wrappers awaiting cleaning or disposal or both.

There she waited, there she dwelt, there she awaited her renewed spirit, there she picked at books listlessly, there she found no form, no function that satisfied, there she stayed and idly wondered....

There she picked up her coat, retrieved her keys, opened the door and emerged.
There the world welcomed her.


      The days are getting longer,
      Summer is approaching,
      But the old wind of regret is surely encroaching.
      The sun hits the trees that cast shadows in the midst,
      As the sands of time begin their churning,
      And in my heart that old familiar yearning.
      In the current of the rivers the wisdom dwells,
      This time of year, season passes, never tells.
      And year on year I ponder it and find no great response.
      And year on year it dwells,sinks, passes all at once
      Leaving only a dream and remnants of dreams now drifted. 

The Energies in Ancient Sanskrits

The Ancient Sanskrits tell us of energies intrinsic within us, that form our connection to time, space, to the absolute.
Our implicit connection to the physical realm and that of the metaphysical, whatever that may be,
The absolute.
The Sattva of illumniation and nourishment, of innovation and inspiration.
The Rajas of action, of activity, creative force.
The Tamas of regulation, inertia, discipline, form and rest.
My soul complicit with yours, our souls complicit with the universe
And all of the self-same source.
The Absolute.

Lovers Row

'Well what do you want? I love you'
'Love, ha! What does that even mean to you?'
'Acceptance? So you accept me? You barely know me! You mean tolerance and I don't need you tolerating me'
'Attraction then, I dunno'
'Yeah, ya know, I'm attracted to you, like magnetism, that's it, there's a magnetism – you know what I mean?'
'I'm familiar with the repellent side'
'What do you want? The fucking sky to fall in, rainbows and stars, cos a regular bloke loves a regular girl'
'Oh, so now I'm regular!'
'No, you're not regular, you know what I mean'
'I'm sick of it, the lot of it, sitting in that pokey little flat, paying for it in that pokey little office, I want adventure, freedom'
'But that's not reality is it?'
'Why should we be realistic?'
'For God's sake love'
'There you go with that word again, what does it even mean?'
It was about this time celebacy was well-worth deliberating.

Sunday Morning Street

On a Sunday morning street, bleary eyes under shades, and the church bells ring and the world is calm, on a Sunday morning street.

On a Sunday morning street, stagger and swagger, heads ache, muscles ache, eyes ache, keep on moving, maybe hair of the dog, on a Sunday morning street.

On a Sunday morning street, mothers tending to babies in pushchairs, parents getting the shopping in, friends heading for breakfast, on a Sunday morning street.

On a Sunday morning street, visions from the night before forming, guilt nagging.
Memory fogging, brain foggy, body fogged, on a Sunday morning street.

On a Sunday morning street, the sun hanging high, the birds singing, and all the world is at peace, on a Sunday morning street.

The Dreamers Compassion

The dreamers dreamt while the sleepers forgot to wake
And the wind scratched the rooftops and circled and swirled.

And in the mist, at the heart of confusion's fog, lay their connection to the whole.

The doors of love, compassion, joy and equanimity burst wide open.

And the red rose of the nightingale's heart bloomed and blossomed and rose with it their spirits.

And while dreamers dreamt and sleepers forgot waking

Compassion dwelt in their souls.

Art Review

'Did you like it?'
'I didn't really get it to tell you the truth'
'Didn't get it?....Have you got a lighter?... Thanks... Well what's there to get?'
'Well, it just didn't make any sense'
'Darling, it doesn't need to, did it appeal to your senses?'
'Erm, I don't know, it didn't really appeal to my rationale, I can tell you that much. I mean, what was it all about?'
'Ofcourse feminisim, the deconstruction of self, it really politicised the personal'
'I'm pretty sure that's what you said about the last piece we saw'
'Well a review doesn't need to be bespoke darling.'
'I dunno, do you want a drink?'
'Yes, red wine... Its art, there really is nothing to “get” '
'Blinding! I've been looking for my vocation, from now on call me an Artist'

Satire and Politics Collide

When satire and politics collide
What should we call it – Solitics? Patire?

Headline news for days on end -
The Prime Minister eating a pastie.
The Deputy Prime Minister's apology now available for download.
Andrew Mitchell on his bike
The 'plebs' standing by
Not using the words attributed to him
Yes, let's keep it that vague.

When patire and solitics collide -
When we appear to be well and truly 'in the thick of it'
Well, on second thoughts, perhaps we shouldn't name it.