Gather around, Misery. Let’s play murder. To start, we want them young. Let’s relieve you of your burden. That parasite. Eats you to death. Let’s watch them grow into thin. Twirl, ballerina, twirl. Fall as Ophelia fell. Let’s dance off the edge of the skyline. The news said you shone. Brilliant. Down to the murk …
Somewhere Out Beyond the Walls: There is a World, Poem
Somewhere out beyond the walls travel buses and aeroplanes full of people. Living people.
They laugh at knock-knock jokes and groan a grin at terribly clever puns. Terrible ones.
They run and twirl through marathons and hip-hop duels. Between isles. Over seats.
They play games to pass the time, they sing songs to pass the days, they tell stories to pass the years.
Until they arrive at their destination.
Did you know?
If you circle an aeroplane enough you’ll break the world record. For fun.
Did you know?
If you drive long enough, you might hit the end of the world. Race that bus.
They don’t know any difference though. Those aeroplane or bus passengers.
So truly, the record breaking moment leaves no more impression. Than peanut butter.
They don’t even have that.
It leaves no more impression than baking a birthday cake over the hotplate in the crew cabin.
Someone had a few boxes of those instant mixes which will stay fresh until they drop off at the end of the world. In lava.
They’ve forgotten the world now. The dirt, root-tangled, leaves and lions one.
They have a new one. A normal one.
Living in the circles made by the aeroplane in atmosphere.
Living in the tunnel which never ends in the light of day.
If they can live in aeroplanes and buses which never reach a destination.
Maybe we can too.
Did you know?
The darkness cannot comprehend the light which shines within it because it is darkness.
If you do not know it. You cannot find it.
Shine your light in the darkness. It does not know you. It cannot judge you.
Ride you own bus, your single-seater aeroplane to infinity.
One day you might smell the end. It has peanut butter.
Until then. Keep driving.
Unknown, We Live by Soaring, Never Stopping, Always Exploring: A Poem
The Unknown, We Live
In the Blue Mountains Where the moon never sets. They say there lies treasure.
Far beyond the green land, the lakes, the rolling hills. The horses.
I travel the sink sand of faces on trains.
Getting lost in crowds. This yo-yo world.
We live as. Rocking horse horrors for a circus show tale.
Sometimes creaking around nineteen-seventies hotel corridors.
All beige and yellow diamond patterns. With cigarette stains.
As I travel, teachers giggle in corners, throwing wit and sarcasm
about classroom doors. Sometimes searching in drawling accents
for accommodation on a bike trip to Paris. A village called Groomsville.
Population sixteen hundred and seven. Website, under construction,
please contact Peter O’Toole (no not that one), at 07543 677 677.
That equals all the sums. Total, planet Earth’s existence.
A yo-yo, ukulele and back-packing bicycle trip to Paris.
What’s treasure to you?
Out here in the Blue Mountains. Where the moon never sets.