WASTELANDS

SOMETHING'S ROTTEN IN THE STATE... 

The rancid Queen scowls
On her decaying throne
Of brittle-dry bones.
A realm in bloody chaos;
Us peasants drinking in the pain. 

The kindly King? Sickly. 
Sour reward for age and indulgence.
His ennobling, enabling nature
Approved a new reign of terror.
And now? Eaten alive. 

He spends gentle days wasting away
Like the fisher-king of Carbonec; 
The foulness of his fat tumour
Reflected in spasms of hatred
Throughout the putrid land. 

No chosen one? No miracle? 
No Perceval? No Galahad? 
Don't you trust the storytellers: 
Life's rarely as romantic
As they - or we - would wish. 

Without a beacon, I stagger
Boozily thru the stinking streets;
My throat dry from anger
I hesitate to state:
"Long live the Queen." 

Tyranny always ends? 
We can only hope for hope. 
Now, I do all I can: 
Placing one trembling foot
In front of the other.
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EPIPHANY — PLUS ONE

Twenty-Seventeen?
Enrichment; enlightenment; 
Illness; then burn-out. 

I now realise
(My head so long in the dirt.)
I need to taste air.

And Twenty-Eighteen? 
Mad, uncertain confusion
But... back from the dead. 

 

 

OUT OF TIME

'BEYONDER'

Life's orange, I'm blue;  
Screaming some noiseless war-cry.  
Best guess? Out of reach.

Rasping throatily;
My voice struggles to be heard. 
Full disconnection?

Kids masquerading
As urbane philosophers?
Smug snobbery rules.  

Wisdom does not shout;
It's there to be discovered
In a quiet space.

Alone or lonely?
I will grudgingly accept
Sweet Solitude Blues.

Life's orange, I'm blue; 
Screaming some noiseless war-cry. 
Verdict? Out of time.

BRUTAL SUNDAY SUNSET

'UNDER FIRE'

Why
Can I not treat myself 
With the kindness 
I show to my friends? 

Why 
Is my grief, anger, anxiety 
So relentlessly shameful
In my own mind? 

I do not like
Asking these questions,
Let alone contemplating 
The merciless answers. 

If circumstances were different
My mindset would be A-1 Healthy.
But they're not 
So it's not. 

SCREAM silently; 
Lie to those around me: 
A bad but effective way
To limp to the end of the day.

SERIOUSLY MOONLIT

As I'm in a contemplative(-ish) mood...


'TRANSMUNDANE'

He stands, alone.
He's learnt a great deal. 
But he's forgotten more. 
Yet he holds one thing true above all: 
The Fact That He Knows Nothing. 

If feeling too deeply
Magnifies the terrors  
Then at least life's bliss
Possesses the ability  
To loom large in his mind.

If he has a grown-up desire
It's to dance long in the moonlight
And in the starlight of Sirius; 
Hugging his own singular joy
As if it were his only child. 

So, until the Magic fades for good
And the light dies its natural death
He'll keep mind and spirit alive 
And try his best to remain
On the side of the Angels.

 

A PRACTICALLY PERFECT 180 ?

It's funny how life can "turn on a sixpence" -- to quote my dear old grandmother... i.e. completely change direction in such a small space of time. 

Two weeks ago, I was in a humid hell of isolation and frenzied panic -- and today/this week I'm positive, calm and relaxed... and only yesterday discussed with a friend our respective plans for a lovely autumn and the eventual arrival of December, with its bright lights and schmaltzy festive films (too sugary for some, but not for me, if I can mention one guilty pleasure for a moment). 

I don't think the change is merely down to cooler air; there's slight changes in circumstances, and also in my mindset... not to mention a shedload of good luck, which I'm grateful for. Sometimes it's easier to just enjoy the good times, rather than over-analysing them. 

I can't be promised a life of joy (indeed, sometimes my mood changes from relaxed to anxious many times an hour), but if I can find a little joy in every day, I think I'm doing something right. 

Of course, life isn't perfect -- some of my best friends are going thru brutally bad times, indeed -- but I'm doing all that I can for them. Beyond that, I've just got to accept that many things are out of my hands.

Anyway, here's to more blogposts -- and to being in touch with more of you again! 

Let's hope the final third of 2O17 is the best of the bunch...