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Friday, 8 December 2017

Two Animals Are We

To have you hold me with your paws and the barely silent growl of your breathing as you fall asleep behind me sends me to this place where I am a little animal in a cave beside you since the time you brought me home.
And I look out at the night kings overhead and pounce in grasses so high where I can be wild and free until the dawn leaks down once more.
But for you, I leave there every morning to bound home and find you awake where you wait with the lips and the gaze you hold just for me.
I swear I will never sleep again so that I might stand beside you forever and catch each smile that forms the creases on your face.
I would lick each one as your story unfolds with the tip of my pretty tongue.
And as days roll into breathy nights I will absorb your body unfolding over mine, where I become less than an animal before the hazy light that you bring.
Like a whiskey high that falls from your mind in strips of warmth to my breast with the softest eyes of nature that I am always so glad to drown in.
And I have fallen so completely for you that I am gone, even from existence until you bring your words to me so that I may transcend them all over and over again.
Then my body might re appear as something more than light and my tail grow back just long enough to wrap around yours and see that you have become so delicious that I could maybe eat you whole.

Returning back to The Collective Unconscious

 A huge problem that we've come to face in society is the prolonged wait for a truly humanitarian way of living. Small progress has been made moving towards it over the last 100 years, notably seen in the spirit of revolution towards a broad range of topics within civil rights such as race, gender and sexuality. However, we appear to have peaked in our reach of empathetic growth, and instead (brought in with technology, consumerism and materialism) we now predominantly are left with Individualism in the 21st Century. This naturally brings along with it narcissism and egocentricity. Certainly, it is a far cry from Humanism, and this is seen in things such as the continuation of inequality, troubles among different ethnic groups, anti-immigrant sentiment and of wars worldwide.
                Psychologists have suggested that Individualism is a direct result of subjectivity or introspective thinking. They suggest instead, that objective thinking extents empathy out into the world, whereby the individual can then relate to others with more of it.  This won’t work, and the evidence surely lies in the fact that it hasn't worked thus far.
                We therefore find ourselves at the crossing in-between where we are, where we have come from and where we need to go. 
                We have come from a place of religion, which may at first appear as a subjective experience, however it is quite the opposite. Religion (certainly western religion) has taught us that in order to be good, and moral- we have to experience God through another man- be it a priest, Pastor or Jesus himself. This is arguably an objective reality experienced subjectively, based on putting an object in-between man and God.
                Despite the decline of religion, we have still clung onto the concept that our worlds are objective. Subjectivity and introspective concepts have been brushed under the rug, pertaining instead to consumerism and materialism which has become the new objectivity, perhaps in order to fill the void where 21st century enlightenment should in fact be. Of course, this bodes well for the economy, and is advertised everywhere to guarantee the continuation of its growth, but the cracks are now starting to show in our ever growing individualistic problem- a lack of empathy in society.
              
      Empathy is innate, but only when understood. And of course, new knowledge equals new action.  The problem lies in the fact that it is not experienced subjectively. Empathy experienced objectively is a shallow half-form of empathy; in fact it is better labelled sympathy. ‘I understand world poverty. But is has not happened to me, and therefore I don’t emotionally hold attachment to it and so I won't move forward to change it.’ Objective empathy does not even exist.
                That is the state that society finds themselves in, in the 21st century. 
     It is surely not down to ignorance that the world is suddenly full of narcissistic individuals? With the globalisation bred through advances in technology and the wide spreading knowledge through the internet, ignorance is certainly not something to consider.
                The problem is the opposite; a lack of introspection and subjectivity. Although this time, it needs to be re-learnt without religion.

                So how? 
      Subjective introspection without the collective unconscious (that is, without the acknowledgement of the soul and the connection to the divine) creates individualism, which in turn can create a detachment from responsibility, ethics, morality and empathy in society. While subjective introspection with knowledge of the individual’s connection to the collective unconscious creates universality, altruism, ethics, morals, and empathy.
    This works whereby the collective unconscious creating a mirroring effect back onto society because it acknowledges the concept of society and connectivity (we are all as one), which becomes the microcosm of the macrocosm. As with meditation, when individuals feel their connection to the wider cosmos, when they are aware of their innate connection to every single being alive in existence, a new empathetic responsibility forms.  A conscience is reborn, the soul re-awakens to its potential and role within humanity,  true emotional empathy is unavoidable, and is thus reflected back into society.
       
     Here the result equals the successful growth of Humanism.  At least, that is the aim and only way for the future- Where humanity grows away from Individualism and moves towards a collective growth for humanity, a psychological evolution of the self. Taking responsibility for the self with the focus moved away from consumerism and placed back on the cosmos and the collective.  This can work beyond a god or a spiritual crutch because it is the realisation that we ARE the mystical, we ARE the hope, the gods, the magic and change in the world. Likewise, we are not merely evolved apes; we are divine beings with divine responsibilities on Planet Earth. 
        If children are taught that they are only evolved apes, they're likely to act accordingly. If they are taught about the possibility of the spiritual roots of the soul and their connection to the universe and each other, then we will be aiming in the right direction for raising the next beautiful and empathetic generation.
    I propose then, that we are entering a time of human psychological evolution. There is a need to evolve that has not been answered fully. A spiritual calling that needs answering and fostering. An evolution of society. We have become lost without our religious system, which has lead us to believe spiritual evolution comes only with a God/ church/ religion but in actuality there is an opening for us to take this responsibility without the containment of a godly father figure; we are being presented an opportunity to step up into a new way of life- a collective psychological adulthood.
    And this is how we are doing it- we've been kicked out of the spiritual nursery where religion and our 'father thou art in heaven' guided us, we have gone through spiritual teenage hood, where we have made all the mistakes of materialism without the God figure in place, became lost and now we are ready to re-emerge into spiritual adulthood in the image of our God, (but without the oppression of a religion), where we resume our rightful role within the collective unconscious and grow with soulful independence- morality, ethics and empathy.

You Are Soul

There is a huge lie fed daily to the human race- that liberation is found in ego, self indulgence, winning, separating, dividing disregard of respect and certainly without acknowledgement of the soul.
The REAL liberation is found in breaking out of that system and trend setting a new way for others altogether.

The souls that shine the brightest are the one's who refuse to turn the volume down on their conscience, the one's who turn away from the herd and tread down a different pathway like little warriors, even if it means coming up against the whole world just to stand strong and point the true way home. 

The real rebels of society are the ones who reject anything that falls short of the purity of the heart.
Real liberation is all about running renegade in the opposite direction and back to the truths- to the core of spirit.
THAT is liberation.
That is what it means to be free.
That is what it means to be high.

Start serving your spirit first, be the light in the darkness and lead the way fiercely, feed your soul with the love that you were born out of instead of the vulgarity that society presents to you as 'the norm'.

Forget what model car you're buying next , whether L’Oreal can make your hair reflect the light of the sun. Forget what colour Vans will get your bird into bed, or if that new brand of washing detergent is set to change your life. Forget eye for an eye and kiss the cheeks of your enemies. Forget everything that you have learnt about 'each for their own' (you are a pack animal), re-learn sexuality- (re-learn gender- of which the soul has none), re-learn morality, re-learn ethics, re-learn what is right and what is wrong and this time, re-learn it from the core of your spirit, instead of your neon, media dictator) . 

Our generation is The Golden Opportunity.
There is another way- and each of us have the responsibility to lead as individuals, to step outside of the trend and start trail blazing for the future generations.

So step up.
'Be from the world, but not of the world.'

Bring the light down from the skies inwardly and blast it back out onto every stranger you encounter.
Re-train yourselves to see and know true freedom - turn back to knowing your soul and be wild, wild, wild once again.

Stay pure at heart, planet Earth. 
The time is now.  

The Dusty Trail

(Not as much a poem as mad, travel-blog ramblings, but….)


 The 3 months away became my savior, clad in robes from Byron bay.
[JanuaryFebruaryMarch]
3 months of feeling the dirt under our feet,
of morning smokes overlooking the edge of the world.
The sea salt on our lips and the reflection of the sky in our pupils and feeling the outline of the map crumpled in my pocket.
We all followed the footsteps of the glow worms that just lay around, succumb to the beauty that is the hometown surf.
Sun-kissed and melting.
Collecting furniture on our way, day by day, to make our tent into our little humble home.
Lit by candlelight, half shadows reading books by night.

The water dragons enquired of our journey, (one of which I named Tobias) but by then, I had stopped to talk to the crickets.
[I wonder how many times they witness people leaving, only to return years later on their hands and knees with flowers plaited into their hair and hearts dripping with cheap vodka?]
Those haunting lantern-lit paths and sounds of distant acoustic guitars- they’ll kiss your ears, they’ll make your heart bleed until it explodes into sheer light.

We spent days bathing in the tea tree lakes, high and flying.
Sweet and sugary, amber cocooned and with nothing more for a memory than the taste of nectar, just squinting at the sun.
We ran around the campsite laughing at the storms, baring our teeth at the sky and letting the electricity strike at us.
Adrenaline smoothies for the soul.
She asked and I said yes and we danced Salsa-style in the rain.
Colour just running into the drains like the last words of a dying rainbow. But nonetheless, twirling on bare footed, soaked through and content.
We hurled the rain back at the sky and watched it wrestle with the stars.

We sang songs with the Irish and drank until we had to run off, back to the beach to sleep.
2am. Pitch black. Little Starlet.
(And a never ending  packet of cigarettes smoked.)
 We found a man named Puc there, bless his soul- like the spirit of boyhood who tugged at the skirts of our hardened world, compelling it to come back and play.
[But of course, nothing is ever the same again, right? ]

Our duty of call was our nights in Duncans caravan, the smell of mary-jane and the flickering TV light on our faces.
With a whole constellations worth of stars in our eyes.
Where poker was played nightly (and still continues to do so even without us now) under the citronella candles as the moths fight for attention.

 Their wings beat out a melody that sounds :          "Is this the place?
                                                                                   Is this
                                                                                   the place?"

And suddenly we’re on the road again [again] through bright light; filtered beams, pine trees that left dappled shades on the winding roads.
I had my face pressed against the window like I was falling in love with the very essence of the place.
My adrenaline soared.
I nearly got up and danced. Right there on the bus,
and suddenly the future looks so alluring that I cant help but hold my arms open wide to it.
            To Lismore where I asked the streets,
“Is this where I’ll grow old?”
Wooden signs and rusting gates, roadside sales of honeys and jams.
A guy named Lorrie let us hitch up to the town with him.
To the south, where the markets have lanterns glittering in the trees, orange glowing warmth and the band just plays on and on.
Crystals jingling in the breeze and I swear even mosquitoes stopped in awe to admire the scene from the trees.
            Back to Byron where your mind grows so much that it refuses to stay in your body any longer.
Thirsty to know the truth.
Expanding so much that it leaks out of the ears and evaporates with the vastness of the sky.
The need to be pure breeze.
 Pure element and atom.
It’ll nag you until you’ve read every book you can find, until you consider Einstein’s equations are just pretty pictures in a line afterall.

           
We sold the tent.
We threw our clothes away.
And from Byron with its screen of falling stars and morphine headed hobos, we arrived to gushing torrents of rain and morning light in Brisbane.

Hitch hikers success.

Through the winding traffic we travelled on where I fell out of time briefly by sleeping for what seemed like a small eternity over the backseat.
 To little Marlborough town and her little pretty folk who water roses for a living.
All day re-painting white picket fences.
Past rolling roads where joeys peeked out nervously and a town where the women had burley thick arms.
A town of motels.
We witnessed civilization disperse until it was just the three of us and the hi way and the rolling hills and valleys. Sleeping giants covered in moss.
 Trees that whispered,
“Here we stand forever.”
We drove to Rockhampton.
To Mackay.
The sun fell down in golden strips until the full moon was our only light.
 Watching all the trees as they fell away and became ink splotted hands that scratched up at the sky.

At 2am we had to stop the car; The headlights were ‘fucked’. 

12 hours later at Airlie beach boarding a boat that made us laugh so hard, because we’d travelled so far to see paradise on earth and had thrown up all over the most beautiful beaches in the world.

To flame tree lodge where we made pot noodles and sat in bed watching the 5pm news, declaring it our first ever property owned.
(It was always fun pretending.)

To Newcastle with your polluted brown swans and petrifying bus journeys,
where you dare not breathe too loud for fear of stirring the locals (a group largely compiled of crack heads, neon pink lipsticks, urine saturated perfume, needles, black eyes,
and my how you all age here so quickly! So quickly you submit yourselves to becoming industrial waste…) 

Back on a train.
 Through Morrisset- where the air rings of school children, eating spaghetti hoops on toast, row after row of little wooden houses beside the tracks.
Washing line architecture and sun down at 4pm.
 Reflecting off of pavements which echo the sounds of bouncing balls and childhood laughter.

To the Blue Mountains where we fell on our knees, all grass stained and grubby into the arms of a ten-day Buddhist silence, asleep-awake meditation,
12 hours a day crystallized in-between the stage of ‘Dream’ like the milliseconds before you leave the womb.
 Mt. Solitary.
 Watching the mist creep up the mountainsides every morning at 5am,
 clutching the mint tea closer for warmth.

Revitalized and re-born, we slept with our eyes wide open on the airport floor the night we left.
From Sydney to Hong Kong and all its futuristic madness.
Flipping fish markets and city tower gods.

From Hong Kong to Heathrow, the transition phase, which leaves your mind numb with possibilities, of what the boarder holds,
[has it all been a mirage?]
 And other questions alike.
Into the pale British sunrise at 6am, driving back into the spring.


And what remained now, apart from philosophy and science?
Apart from 3am woodland firelight and a new year of cloud busting,  just starring at the sky with dad going,
"Ah I see. You're working on that one over there, arn't you." 

The new summer of striding beside hi ways and dodging traffic would bore on.
Of claiming the night,
where every adventure ends in a river,
with whiskey eyes and daisy chains.
Where the sunshine pins you to the ground, [such a pretty sight that even the rabbits would come a bit closer just to sigh].
 and the breeze lifts you and takes you further than you meant to go,
 We'd all hold hands and carry on dancing.
A game of chess in an abandoned house; Lit only by a lighter.
To the dragonflies we found that looked like the ones we’d collected in jars many years ago.
 [And to this day, I still search for your face on every street.]

It took me a while to stay put on our grey little contintent, but eventually I concluded just this:

 What more could a person need in life when you have the dainty warm shade of a childhood bedroom?
Safe by that little fire in the living room, with my socks flung over the top and the images of our family baring down on me like trophies from the walls.
[‘ We will show you how you shine’ ]
Where an old man defaces every single image of Gordon Brown in his newspaper with a biro.
 Where a cat sits triumphant beside the yarn which he assumes no one has noticed missing.
What more could anyone need when a heart can bathe in the milky acoustics of home?

 The scent of late afternoon coffee.
 The past contained as furniture.
 A familiar tune hummed.



[Higham Ferrers, you have me for now.]

18 Albert Street

Wooden and nails along my spine
so blue for cloud watching
in every inch we found sunshine today
and pink glaze over the fence where they fly.

Little tiger stripes in the overgrown grass
looking at me looking at you.
Victorian lace but the warmth is still there
last years dim lights like glass flowers.

Cracked paint peels with its history
a piano plays from inside the mind
candles in bottles, evidence of times once lived
and the feeling of home in the sky.


Hazy dusk , splintered rings on a trunk,
so blue for cloud watching
in every inch I saw her fading sweet past,
memories pressed into walls like old embers
.

Whiskey Winter


Last year was a year of rapid change 
that came and went like crystals hail clouds, 
thundering down and disappearing.
Washing away again into the icy gullet of the sea. 

We found spring sleeping softly in the blossom
“Just promise you won’t leave”, I beg of her,
 But she looks to her watch and then back up at me miffed, 
and as quick as that I realise she has already left. 

There were lazy hazy July days(ies)
Lying in yellow British meadows
 writing love letters in between the book chapters.  
All Future tense and starry eyed. 

A night in August drinking sweet wine,
 clutched under our arms as we walked around the town.
Mocking village folk for missing the sky show
 A universe with a million dying suns. 

And I am Seduced every time I look to the sky. 
But they just slept on and on …
 till a sunset fell to its death on their airy heads 
to kiss their eyelids as they slept . 

 sunflowers started to curl up and die, 
 crumbled to dust on my windowsill.
I was in the garden when I felt it change in the air.
stiffened the most soft-edged of shadows 

So shivered were the bumblebees 
That they packed up their honey stalls for winter.
 And there he was, with his bags thrown down
Autumn, in his maladroitly manor.

I saw then a barely legable letter which read ,
 ‘I swear i can be a second summer’
‘if every leaf is a flower’ he added at the bottom
And regardless, he went on ahead

 Autumn was made for playing old songs
 long walks over seas of crispy golds.
It’s always been a season of nostalgia for me
[Fallen memories calling me home, ]. 

Every night. Beer fogged and dazzling.
Pretending to be in outer space. 
 Do you remember the night we saw that shooting star?
When we were down by the lakes?

As we stopped to admire it you turned to me,
“What could we possibly wish for?” 
we tried to think fast holding the tail end as it passed, 
But nothing came to mind at all.

We got lost in Septembers neons and glow paints, 
We swore to the night that we’d never stop dancing 
we let life in without a fight.
Left it unscathed beside the next morning. 

We watched Austumns cab fly out of the drive.
And  in its smoke someone came over
such a hard, melancholy character, 
Winter strolled out round the corner. 

I’d seen him around on occasion
 sleeping edgily under the trees 
Alas he was back  bedraggled from hibernation
and more venomous than ever.

 Yeah we spat on his bags and ignored his stay
 by holding bonfires in the old forrests
toasting strong hopes to the spring we all loved
(who wouldn’t return our calls.)

we kept it up for as long as we could. 
Howling at the moon, and so on. 
We smoked so much that winter, in your back yard. 
Shivering in nothing but woolly jumpers
  
We glared at the clouds; The mighty vessels and fleets,
 but nothing prolonged its bony branches 
Sipping on mulled wine with Cinnamon scents
Toasted and miserably tucked 
So at last we surrendered to the soggy vapours 
which suffocated our  brains with icicles
 we watched the light leave each others eyes.
And we shouted and screamed and cried.
 
I walked into doorframes-put my books in a box.
craved light bulbs to crunch in my stomach
Where id sit and wait for the fuse to come on
 until sunshine radiated forth

We walked a mile after one festive night
to gaze over the sleeping town 
as the streetlights flickered off, one by one, 
and the stars reflected off the canal.

 We stood there for an eternity,
 hoods up and sleepy eyed, 
hungering for the next steps that would surely emerge 
with the beckoning new years sunrise

And  mother spring defrosted my mouldy soul 
until decaying leaves uncrumpled
they sprung like fireflies bright and strong
 onto the branches of the treetops.

Birds flew out from the lightbulbs
That came to light up within
 Flowers bloomed along the corners of my brain.
And all was well, once again.




Dream On I Am

I was desperate to fly but with nowhere to go 
when in her back yard we decided to burn
a whole chunk of history. 
I was saying hello to future 
whilst living the past and holding on fast
to the faith
that we’ll be flowers side by side 
growing on the foggy boarder of our next life.
Before the realisation that one day this will all disappear,
I found myself
in an old folks home with nostalgia in my eyes.
It was the flowers that were next to their old names on the door
and on school coat pegs was the place I’d seen this before
where my name was spelt wrong on the sticker by my hood
and a daisy was etched boldly into the wood.

I’m writing to you from what was and what will never be again
Since the pages of history flew away into the trees. 
Missing old avenues. 
Rows of crows and childhood sunsets. 
Running, to the sky, to stay alive.
I always wanted to fly 
back then in that time.
When hiding places on the maps had a name,
like they were real people made out of stone and of shame.
A time when
it was worth getting up early at 6am.
And a pound coin felt like millions in your grubby little hand. 
And a lifetime tapes worth of radio songs was all that you had
Before being made love to became simply being fucked apart. 
And now the paintbrush won’t even paint from the heart. 

Well I'd love to sleep but this just seems to be 
the longest night of my life this week.
So I find myself
itching to get out of my skin,
to leap out from my eyes and grow again.
Grow my hair long, 
Thirst for dirt beneath my feet.
Taking strides on a map, and all those brick faces
to fill a place in me that’s still, like ancient places.
Far from lost-
and less about delay and more about wandering and I guess…
it’s far from believing time will fill all for me.
It’s more about believing the soul of atlas will just allow me to be.
I have a suitcase of dreams that wont unpack in one place
but brown eyes, I just cannot forget your face

I was told I should be worried about the state of the world,
cause it’s the only home we’ve ever known.
A pale blue dot 
Suspended in space 
but to remain naive is the most beautiful gift
that god ever gave;
shone down on me as I
Ran down Holmes Avenue full speed,
to the box buried deep under a willow tree
To the remains
of my first cigarette and my little milk teeth
and yeah il try to hide inside it again when I find the place.
And because you’re the biggest star that’s yet to grace my earths space, 
you  can come too and find your shelter in me. 
Cause its only your smile that I want to see.

I’m just looking for the face to run with at night
and even though I’ve seen that face very clear
it’s all yet to be dreamt up
somewhere in outer space.
To be sent through the doors of Gods head
hurling towards us-
-the pale blue dot we know as home, 
comes the soul that takes me back down that road,
where we find we turn but as singular cogs. 
Back to a place
where time is no more than an old mans thought.
It’s a place called Holmes Avenue where the grass is always long. 
And the only alarm you ever needed was the heating coming on.
And the church bells on the breeze will put you sweetly to sleep,

singing ‘Dream on I Am’ from your mountain peak.

Lamps


Found yourself on a page of history.
You know you'll manage to ride along.
And i can always hear a song
about you;
of where you're meant to be on the breeze.
I'll try to be the lamp in the foggier chapter
we all know,
when there's ink marks on your knees,
eventually.

How can anyone possibly comprehend?
Blank dust answers of what's unlived.
But cast your eyes to the sky and
time collapses.
I know you're no longer bound by the clock,
days passing with ever more rapidity.
Your splinter.
We'll each find we turn but as singular cogs,
eventually.

If we should fall with words pre-written,
life will be the lyric every time.
Let love tangle memory, and pain
into songs.
And if there's magic in the adventure
we won't feel sad because it could be fun
to start feeling all-
we too shall dance to life's fleeting nature
eventually.

Everyone's story has been sung somewhere
In the comfortable mouth of music
(tending as all music does towards
silent clarity).
I promise you won't end up caught
as simply having visited this world.
You'll see;
time is no more than an old mans thought,
eventually.

Little Hurricane

To the infinite moment that caught me,
I run there barefoot through my mind
as the sun spilt her nectar across your back
and I followed on from behind.
In that moment I saw you again,
And I fell like a bird through the sky
And you smiled because you knew it-
I’d always be by your side.
Where we move to the echoes of reverse sounds,
Where adoration is drunk up by our lips,
Where we chase the magic that sparks and fades
And we vanish at the join of our hips.
Love me because i’m a long way from home.
Love me because my mind is so young.
I might be worth a million sparrows one day,
When all the other songs have been sung.
The adventure is wherever you are now.
Home is when I arrive at your door.
Take me spinning on the road you walk on down,

Little hurricane- I am yours.