poetry, trails of thought

I am.

Sometimes, it takes just a little while cruel,

a while to realise just so clear, that

whilst choose we can

what we really don’t want, what we

really do want may always be

outside our fleeting grasp.


But it’s the coolest thing,

even so, dear C,

for me to manage this gentle absenting of self,

at least from the bad which once

made me sad.

And although I would’ve much preferred


to have and hold you close,

and although I would’ve much preferred

to win you uttered and sound,

and then proclaimed, quite out loud, the

truth of my being and doing and seeing,

if the price of my conformity


is a final shroud upon my honesty,

let me ease myself slowly

to the telling of lies,

and learn ever so gradual

to be unfaithful in thought and word

to this curious self I finally have become.



Somet[im]es [a] [quest]ion [too far]

There are times that slice one into almost desperation:

try to sort a perfect phone contract is one case

in point-

ed reflection, for this morning at

least the man I should’ve been; confused and be-

mused by the people who lead me.


And sometimes a question too far

becomes a quest too far.

And I realise this morning spent chasing down data,

I must change what I some-

times do: yes, there are

moments for data, but there are also more

important moments when to go with a person in

the pleasure of the second, no second-guessing

the future, just living an unending present,

is far more significant than getting it right.


For getting it right is not optimisation;

for getting it right is love above all;

for getting it right is the kindness of attraction

when we lose ourselves in the tic-


tiled love and touch of

another, and care so very little that simplicity



And just because we are predictable in

everything we do and deny

does not mean that simplicity says we are simple.

We are not.

We are complex beings with extraordinary minds:

and I am happy to include myself and more,

and more

than prepared to include yous, my loves.

My extraordinary mind is easily distracted

from love: your extraordinary minds, meanwhile,

know exactly how to let love

bathe you in its



And that is why I admire everyone who knows

how to let go.

And that is why I want to learn how to let go,

just as well.



We extract from life what we need

to extract, not what we

want to extract, which is quite a different


And what we want to extract is the love

of another, freely given by the other,

no violence between, no horrifying

machine of hurtful disgrace,

no rapist, no papist, no hate-

lists for us.

And what we need to extract is the pure

and simple confirmation that what

our ancestors did do was

what our ancestors did right,

and the hurt and the fright that our

forebears did forge was correctly gorging on

the innocent love of the innocent child.

And there was once a real day of

beautiful feel, where sunshine glanced on

skin of wonderful real-

ity for me and you, around picnic-

basketed outing, where routing the fears of

people who lose their loosening grip on

love and its paragons of

virtuous clarity was everything this reality

afforded: and that’s all I ever wanted

from you, all I ever wanted: but all you ever gave

to me was all I ever needed.

And in extraction’s pantheon of infamous

history, primarily we aim to remove the wisdom

of awkward cuss.  And re the interests of worlds of

civilisation, that’s a pretty fair analogy:

who’d ever, these days, miss the wisdom of a tooth?


Nudge me no more (it ain’t nice …)

He used to love the way she touched him without

really touching him: like when you see

a drop-dead beautiful to-die-for woman from

an incredible afar, and her enigmatic smile and her dark red lips

and her sips of sex slipped beneath laced-up skirt, swishing

lightly below awfully silken blouse, ready to be undone in some

lucky darkened room or other … and all of these things

like collected lockets of love, he used to love so much about her.

But now when she nudges him, it ain’t nice at all.

Now when she nudges him, it’s purely a means to get him to do

her something she refuses to take ownership for: turn up the

heating or turn down the volume or turn off the fan or

just fuck yourself solo because you make me quite ill,

only no one could ever ever take ownership for such a

terrible thought as this.

And if there was one thing that really pissed him out his

trolley, it was people who took it upon themselves to volley through

air and wind and tight breeze a teasing nudging of managing

behaviours: “If you want me to do something, just say it to my

fucking face!  And then,” he would respond, “I can actually

choose who to say no to …”

But the universe – his universe – really wasn’t that way, and rather

than peopled by people who might visibly fuck him alive, it was peopled by

people who refused to show their faces, and instead of sexy glances that

might glance off his soul, the only thing he ever knew

was the people who peopled his universe and flatly refused to hate him

in full view of the man he was and the man he’d become

and the man he now rejected he had to revert to.

And if freedom was to be a solitary confinement in a wider world

of loneliness, let freedom commence in its singular way: only do show

your faces, do accept your blame, do recognise that fame

is no guarantor of happiness any more.

And all he ever wanted to be was a man at least his children might

be proud of … a man they could admire some day for the

grander things he might once have done

in some different time.

And whilst he realised by now that his children were grand, his

saddest saddest thought lay in the lap of his spouse:

when life had called him to be a lion of sorts, a mouse is all he had

roared and scurried: and he knew he had failed her, and she was

no longer the woman she might one day have become,

if another life had ridden by and flitted by and allowed him the

pride and enjoyment of being the man

which he knew he could now never be, were he to remain in her lap.