The Prince of Dalston

Dalston
funny how
i came to you,
in my time of need.
i was, i think,
five or six, i can't
recall when it was
exactly.

Mum brought us
in the tank called "Princess".
Designers had
humour, it was far from
regal. Broke down a lot.

There was me, you, him,
her, scraping down the M1
(via the M6 and the starved
spaghetti junction).
All our Problems stood
scratching their heads, in
the North-west: "hey Poverty,
where did they go?"

New dad greeted us,
big grin, hairy hands and
a golf jumper. His embrace was soft,
happy and smelt like brut. It
was protection, forever.

One small room, followed by one
small kitchen, with one small bath-
room in between. It had one big
heart.
Her, him, him, him, her and me;
one happy, dysfunctional family.
For a time, in Dalston.

This place was a firecracker
to my insides.
Curiosity sat on every street
corner and greeted me as I
walked by.

It was the deluxe Dulux paint chart
of colours, smells and sound.
Just London people.
Some called me treacle,
they had spirit, they made me laugh.
The "Princess" had brought Dalston's
young Prince.

In my Ivory Tower,
I would sit admiring the world, its
idiosyncrasies and foibles.
Crime was exciting, people shouting, coppers
giving chase - hurray!

But as i sat there, eating basmati rice and
ketchup,
I didn't know that the Problems
found out where we lived.
First they took my brother,
I cried: "you'll never take me!"
Dalston we still had each other.

Mum left, didn't love Golf-jumper-dad
but i did, so i stayed.
We lived out those short moments, in the
long, hot summer of Hackney E8,
with smiles on our faces.

A day came when
Golf-jumper-dad said: "we take short
trip". Sounded fun, right?
Ridley Road, Kingsland Road, M1, wait!
They are taking me back! NO.
I grabbed Golf-jumper-dad's neck:
"please i want to stay, don't take me back".

We nearly crashed - a 70mph plea.
He explained, i never understood,
hard shoulder of M1 and life.
I never said goodbye Dalston.
I missed you.

i do

i do open my eyes
i do walk
i do talk
i do eat
I watch scooby doo

i do not think -
i do believe in god
i do like football
i don't like my mother

i do one.

i don't like girls
i do like girls
i still like football
i do beer
i do a dance
we do the do
i do the dishes.
i do have kids

"i do believe in fairies
i do, i do, i do"

i do live in sin
i do what i gotta do
until
i do

i do think
i don't believe in god
i do this I do that
i do a crossword
until
i undo
then
i did.

How to write a poem (for all that wondered how)

Take a pen,
make a mark
on your chest
then...
pull out your heart.

Hold it high
but not too hard,
watch it beat
then...
make a start.

Grab some paper
and that pen,
write your poem
then...
you have art.

Language of Love

I need it in writing
like a death warrant.
"Guillotine, 9am"
Irrevocable vocab.
The last language.
My ivory tower
of p's and q's.

"just friends"
Loves vernacular
fuck off!

Morning Chorus

Your face stands out in a crowd
like the whistle of a man
in love that echoes
around the streets of Paris
in the early morning.

It lifts high above
the sleek,
regal buildings,
leading the morning chorus
in a wonderful procession.

It dances along the surface
of the Seine,
causing ripples
of excitement
in my heart.

Up and through the Louvre
it cascades
like a waterfall of renaissance,
gathering strength
as it goes.

As it reaches the Bastille,
the song
of your resplendent nature
ferments into
a triumphant revolutionary fanfare.

Your rapturous day spring hymn
leaps into the sea above,
escaping its worldly cage
with the grace of a flying fish
jumping with a hastened evolution.

And, at this moment,
the suns glorious beams
fill the balloon
that is our eternal horizon
with your very Being.

You breath life into me.

An Icelandic Paradox

for every season
there is a moment.

the stillness of winter.
silent snow
falls
dead from above.

for every reason
there is moment

the joy of spring,
sprung,
sprang from my heart.
life below.

what's out there?

my eyes opened
head under the pillow.
what would be out there?
i waited.
didn't want to know.
drafts attacked all night;
my tucking repelled them -
cavernous night time retreat.
what would be out there?
probably cold.
cold like you can't imagine.
digs into your bone.
pain to weep for.
silently, alone.

in the bathroom
cheap soap frozen.
anchored to the sink
same for the toothpaste
blow torch might shift it.
filthy for school again.
"no money for 'leki or gas"
mum said; or food.
margarine for breakfast
on a cracker - if im lucky
hunger like you can't imagine.
digs into your bone.
pain to weep for.
silently, alone.

what would be out there?
not my brother,
the only happy part.
he disappeared
don't know where
but he's gone;
no one tells me why.
we'd take baths together
until the day i did a shit.
we laughed. not anymore.
miss him like you can't imagine.
digs into your bone.
pain to weep for.
silently, alone.

stole some money -
chocolate eclair fund
or maybe a fudge
not desperate dan bar though.
nearly died last time.
hospital for ages.
doctor stuck a thumb up my bum
said i was very sick
nil by mouth
Needles in my arm
torment like you can't imagine.
digs into your bone.
pain to weep for.
silently, alone.

arguments are always out there
tucking never stops it
or the pillow on my head.
mums moans from
fucking or being beaten up.
Number 3 scares me.
i have to call him dad -
mine ran away.
I will run away too.
Take my chocolate fund.
freedom like you can't imagine.
digs into your bone.
relief to weep for.
silently, alone.

I think i'll stay
a little longer.
i know what's out there.

untitled

The cold was so exacting.
I was a dead branch
On a petrified, stiff tree;
People hung from me.

Lying above Icelandic snow
With the departed.
Life overcast, shadowy grey;
God left me that day.

The search for a Unified theory - An argument in connecting the external to the internal self during childhood

It seems to me that there is in this life a big problem; we are looking to somehow get rid of our solitude to share the external lonely world with someone ie a relationship but at the same time keep our internal freedoms ie our consciousness. This is a quandary that niggled at philosophers for a long time as it is a paradox.

We are always looking for ways to connect the external world with the world inside our heads - this isn't technically possible. We are ultimately alone inside our heads. We were born alone and will die alone. But yet we still strive to connect the two because we want to a) have power over the two and b) not feel so isolated in this world. A way to demonstrate this would be perhaps through physics. In physics there is the quantum (small things) and relative (large objects) that exist in this universe. At the moment there is no way to connect the two.
But there is something that scientists are working on to connect these two parts and so everything in the universe together. It is called the unified theory or string theory. I see this need and search for a unified theory as an epic human and not just scientific question to giving our lives meaning - as we have none to start with.

Where do we look to find this unified theory? I take a similar stance to that of the philosopher Albert Camus, who projected that to find meaning we can either do one of three things: accept that we can never achieve it and commit suicide (i abhor this decision); find a faith, such as religion and take a leap; or accept their is no meaning but start to philosophize and take on knowledge to give yourself a chance to answer this unified question - become totally self aware at all times through knowledge. This is absurdism.

In terms of religion I feel that having a faith can serve a purpose for the human mind but only at the beginning stages of existence. As a small child religion can act as a simplified way to make one think about existential things. In a way to think outside the classical view of the human condition so that you are feeling something that is not physically present. Arguably thinking in the same profound manner as Einstein or Ernst Mach for example, seeing an invisible universe out there that isn't restricted by the fundamental human experience. An easy way to counter the Newtonian curriculum that only seem to be taught to children at school.

As stated previously religion is good for a young mind but this is only up to a certain point. It helps the growing individual to initially develop the concept of a unified link in the brain and in the thought process. The unified link in this way is the faith to connect your consciousness to a shared experience with a god. For the first time we don't feel alone inside our brains and we, falsely for this time, accept this as the actual unified connection.

From this point as you start to grow into adulthood you should start to experience the struggle for life. The struggle for life, as Nietzsche argued, is the most fundamental part of existence and gives us a reason to create a meaning for life through experience - also as Marcel Proust believes (a man who wrote a whooping thirty pages on the difficulty of falling asleep in his epic book "in search of lost time"). Unfortunately this is where things don't go according to plan. Some children in this religious context will simply fail to experience a struggle as they grow into adolescence. The natural angst of growing up is in its self not solely enough to achieve a true struggle. Thus these children who have either been overprotected or overwhelmed due to the community of religion, the bureaucratic protocol and lack of insight from religiously zealot parents will fail to achieve a balanced struggle. These children will then reach adulthood and stay within the confines of religion in order to keep this unified feeling.

Children who were given a religious introduction to life thus helping them at an early age to perceive the unified quandary combined with a strong presence of a life struggle should at some point break away from religion. The struggle for life will give them questions that cannot be fundamentally answered by the unified connection of a religious belief. The "God question" is beyond faith and intuitive knowledge and should be taken up on a empirical and more advanced existential level. To remain true to religion is philosophical suicide.

In society today there is a new breed that is emerging and is the dominant genus of our species - the Capitalist Atheist. This emerging group aren't aware of, or totally ignore the question of unifying the external and internal self and exist only to satisfy their personal ego. They act in this world with Utilitarian values that are intrinsically and solely about self survival, not even altruistically for the species, but only about the individual. The Capitalist Atheist has committed philosophical and spiritual suicide. This group, though not technically committing suicide, existentially might as well have. The children of the Capitalist Atheist - unless experiencing a tremendous life struggle - will find it hard to contemplate existential questions and will, like their parents, pursue a Utilitarian form of life.

Therefore, in order to better achieve an enlightened perception of the unified theory and to establish a more advanced existential thought process one must have had a sufficient life struggle combined with a fundamental grounding in a religious form. I believe that the life struggle is the main factor but religion is a very unique conduit to forming this neurological thought process more easily in young minds but only up to a certain point.

Why I Drink Tea

Sat at the dinner table
I had an overwhelming
Sensation.
An agitation, a sickness
in my stomach -
I needed to pee!
The bathroom - my saviour!
But it didn't help,
The feeling was you...

I can't piss you out.
My kidneys are no good
when it comes to love.
Perhaps if i always need
to wee
I'll be distracted from it,
from you.
Drinking to forget -
My fourth cup of tea already.

Dowling Street - A no through road.

Italian music
sweeps along, as a
small boy plays.
Another sits,
staring -
empty spaces,
preoccupied, on a
Quiet tree-lined street.
A no through road.

Hidden,
office blocks, towers
and landmarks,
a towering city scape
one side;
while the seedy, grime-ridden
debauchery of King's Cross
looms above.
A no through road.

Screeches of cockatoos
echoing at intervals
in their Jurassic manner.
Occasional train
flickers past.
Track at one end,
sports court the other.
Cross road in the middle.
A no through road.

The Fitzroy stands there.
Easy flow of beer and
folk ballads emanating
from within -
beleaguered but
charming façade.
Barman was the fastest swimmer in Australia,
once.
A no through road.

A small child bids his mother
adieu, as she leaves in her car.
Leaning precariously from an open
window, he blows her love-filled kisses.
A most beautiful goodbye.
Sporadically he returns
greeting all those that pass by -
happy young lad.
A no through road.

My prejudice,
a yearning for
the quiet bustle and
dishevelled nature
of human edginess,
temporarily placated.
I could remain forever
fermenting in my intoxication.
Dowling Street – A no through road.

Notebook

You are my shield,
Always around.
Creating,
Protecting.

My best friend,
Helping me.
I tell you stories.
You just listen.

Every detail;
Each emotion;
Catalogued;
Acknowleged.

You understand
When others,
Blankly,
Stare.

Your pages
Stained,
Sometimes ketchup -
Mostly tears.

We can be pragmatic:
Grocery lists,
Bank details
And flight times.

But it's when I feel low,
Naked and
Vulnerable
You work best.

I sit in a corner,
By a beach
Or in a park
And we talk.

I find it hard at times
To tell you what I feel -
(When we go for a beer
It helps).

I like your blank sheets,
I wish that was me.
No words.
Should happen one day.

Four Tears

My eyes swell
And my pride chokes.
Chokes so hard
My insides wrench.

Then,
Like a cloud
I leak -
Drip, drop, drip.

Each tear
Splashes,
Shatters,
On the kitchen floor.

Four in total.
Each a reminder
Of what was -
One for every time.

Like hot plates,
That slipped
From my hand.
Heavy landing.

The total effort
Of my whole heart,
(Existence to you)
Four beleaguered tears.

All so small
Yet concentrated -
A lifetime of care
Encompassed within.

Everything I feel
In a minuscule puddle
Of which
You know little.

Three A.M.,
Slumped,
On the kitchen floor.
Four beleaguered tears.

An eye elixir
For all i feel.
Irrationally? Yes.
But still.

You sleep sound.
Dry eyes.
No tears,
No kitchen floor.

I gave it all,
As I always do,
But nothing came
Just four beleaguered tears.

Ode to Cloud Nine

Thunder a-comin'.

Skies gawn dark.

Where'd tha fluffy

Cumulus gow?

Winds a-gustin' -

'Ard.

You'se loomin',

Hangin' on yonda.

Won' be long now.

Incredible vorh-ex.

Gigan'ic,

Terrible -

Cloud galaxy of

Atmospheric nebula.

As you lay quiet,

Broodin' an'

Gatherin' energies.

Won' be long now.

Thump!

You hit roof.

A straturspheric

Punch.

Anvil like, you

Start to tritle -

Rain -

Belts it down.

Won' be long now.

Bit nippy like,

Shivrin'.

You'se dominate;

Skye Marster,

Lord of clouds,

Number níne.

Tree's is screamin'

Before you wake.

Won' be long now.

Won' be long

NOW!

Cack, crackle.

Heav'ns chime,

Valk-ries

Time for livin'.

You'se,

No,

WE'se alive!

Migh'y-number-níne

You ebb

An' flow.

'Lectric fingers

Kneadin' grey dough.

You'se is almos' spent.

Dissipate an' i'll watch.

Another's growin'.

Cumulonimbus!

Won' be long now.

Wilderness Remains

As the sun rises
And the moon departs,
There is a constant
In this world.

Your wilderness remains.

Long Limbed Girl of Bondi

You seem so sad,
Sat there motionless
With your long limbs.
Looking out to sea.
There is an occasional flicker,
A twitch.
Gum in your mouth.
But all else is still.

What are you thinking?
Something tragic?
That melancholic stare,
Doesn't seem right.
I want to stand up,
Walk over, sit and say,
"Was it someone?
I've been there, it gets better."

Long, brown hair streaming
Across your face.
I hope the wind blows,
Blows all your sorrows away.
Those languishing long limbs
Are bruised.
More to bang,
I guess.

I'm anxious you will leave
Before it is done.
Sun setting.
You look at me,
I can't see your eyes - sunglasses.
Hiding tears?
Despondent inertia returns.
You might stay.

The departure is sudden.
"It's unfinished!", my mind screams.
No glimmer of happiness as you part.
I can save you! WAIT!
I give chase - a poetry stalker -
Writing as I run.
Those damn long limbs!
Now you are woebe-gone.

Frosted Glass

Frosted glass in a bathroom,
It's a funny thing.
Standing in the full buff,
Wistfully brushing away at the teeth.
And for all you know a young family,
Both innocent and happy,
Could be stood watching in horror.
Outside on the driveway,
Looking in.
Taking an intrepid gander.
Wincing.
My blurred, slinky-pink framed outline.

Heard them this morning and thought,
"How odd would it be if the frosting just disappeared!".
That thin distortion
Between my pubic hair and public sensibility.

Beers in the Afternoon

Dusty old window frame,
Painted purple years ago.
Chipped.
You would like it here.
Beers in the afternoon
Always seemed ok with you.

Supping our pints
Your tobacco on the table.
Golden Virginia -
Rolled in it's funny way.
Lighter?
Inhale, exhale and another sip.

Heavenly folk music ripples
Through the bar, up the corridor.
We could be anywhere,
Our mutual loathing forgotten.
This place an amnesty
To what went before.

Orchestra Seats

Saw that film "Fauteuils d'orchestre".
Was wonderful.
Made me think of you.
Looked for you in every scene,
Hopin' to see your face.
Woman smokin' under the street light.
That you in the Bar des Theatre eatin'?
No.
Listenin' to the beautiful piano sonnata?
Maybe.
As the pianist tore off his shirt did you gasp?
I did.
Does that happen at a concert?
Guess, well, my imagination runs wild.
Just seein' Paris an' thinkin' of you,
Even in movies.

Dear existential angst...

I know it can feel despairing at times to feel as we do and very lonely but I am glad for it at the end. It is what separates and defines us as people. Some see it as "troubled people" and skim over us, categorising us as lost souls. We are all lost. WE just like to pinch ourselves and ask, WHY? Why is there a universe? Is there another universe? Is there a god? What is science... How can i articulate every murmur of my heart and translate from the record of my brain through a needle to the speaker of this already roaringly loud world! How??

How? We find people like ourselves. like me and you. We read books. Each author instils a part of themselves inside those pages. When we open the cover we are greeting the writer. All those emotions poured into each page for us. People like me and you who need help and guidance. Jack Kerouac is talking to me and you! He knows how it feels and we explore it together and that's how we stay sane!

Long, Lost Summers

With a face so fair just a girl
Will become more than a woman
And no doom shall peril you in time.
But happiness will flow from springs deep;
Of which you shall idle by.
In long, lost summers -
Dreaming amongst the wild flowers
All animals shall surround you
And look on you with admiration.

French Shutters

The pitch black of sleep
In a sealed charcoal room.
A restful darkened tomb
Where slumber runs deep

Time has lost its place -
The sun has not been revealed
Until the shutter is peeled -
Sleeping in a case.

A crypt for dreaming
You can not see your hand
Whilst stumbling as you stand
Through cold, grey scheming.