Different degrees of devote destruction

These trailing stars that shatter through our existence.
Leave chaos and beauty in their wake.
Transcended diamonds embedded in our skin.
Fires burning deep within.
What golden light are we trapped beneath.
Such hazel eyes of god.
My soul is a blackness wrapped around your galaxy.
As you pass through like a luminous shooting star.
Leaving varying traces of your continuance.
Vibrating this space with only departure and grace.
Caring not for the planets that fall.

Sparkle

In the trees, no; in the sky.
The veins are hiding it.
The light shining like the eyes of God.
It’s there all the time, do you never see it?
No, but I feel it.
Washing in my bloodstream, collecting like wax.
Divine.
Sublime.
Yet I see it now, the great orb above.
We came from it, that far off place.
Its essence coats our skin like angel dust.
A pleasant peppering, are you sure it’s those shores we stole from?
Can you not tell, does the rock in your pocket not breathe like that mountain?
Torn from the mass, yet special in it’s size.
It’s like a pebble in my mind.
Like an egg, beautiful and full of life.
It shines too, like gold.
That is the light, that is what we are.
Then why is it sometimes dark?
Dark you say?
Yes, black sometimes like oil.
That would be your own fears, covering what needs to be free.
Then let it be.
Yes, let it will be.

Death deserves a witness

Quietly, lay me down.
Shutting out the light until the fears vibrate.
Onlookers shuffle, whispering like the clergy.
Greasy eyed and apathetic.
Coughing on incense and strings of my childhood.
God strokes me into calmness.
Tenderly, like a plant struggling to grow.
Needing the care.
I whisper grace, and slit the throat.
Letting the eyes glimmer in the dying light.
The ghosts shudder at the demise.
Fluttering ethereal remembering eyes.
The air turns foul, and I gasp into life.
Sucking in sweet alpine air.
Death spirits away such needless past.
Life offers such beautiful future.
Words tiptoe across my skin like those across a gravestone.
They fade in your light.
And you blink away the past.
Taking my hand.

The Ecstasy of anyone


THE ECSTASY OF ANYONE

Kiss me when the world is watching.
Take me when the night time comes.
Explore me until something shocking.
Rattles in your bones and hums.
Taking you to seventh heaven.
Letting Allah kiss you on the mouth.
Praise me once, or six or seven,
times until our heads go south.
For in my lap you’ll find the answer.
In my mind you’ll find the key.
Your fingers will become a master.
In unlocking this mystery.
But this is more than cheap gymnastics.
There is more than sweet ecstasy.
For my heart is linked to your tantric,
ways of love which I cannot flee.
You have my heart, my precious treasure.
You have my soul, my body and mind.
So with it all, I offer such pleasure.
A union, till the end of time.

MORE VIDEO ART HERE


An art of unknowing

Do not sleep.
Just dream.
Call my name, and count to fifty.
Slip into that small space between the bookshelf and god.
Go, and leave all that stuff upon me.
A poetry of indecision.
Boxed unimagined dreams.
Like my name scratched into the refrigerator.
A frigid corrosion of souls.
I took you inside me, as I took your name.
You banged my inner wall of doubt away.
Yet a partition grew, out of rocks and hewn history.
Mistrust and apathy.
Everything you offered, it all touched me so deep.
Knowing what I really needed.
Snatching it away like a jackdaw.
Now you leave me settling for any interruption.
Spinning on turning tables.
Knocking on answers.
Waiting to understand.

Future in the ridiculing stars

In this weakness, I split a seam.
Pulled like a petal on the winds.
Love crept in before I could find the right words.
Ones to keep it at bay.
And its wonderment that now rushes me like a ghost.
Leaving precious bits of joy between my teeth.
Bits of your soul to chew over.
A deeper thread is laid.
Woven with violets and green tea murmurings.
Heady conversations that drum in my mind.
The universe repeats such rehearsed dialogue.
Playing back, your voice like that of god.
Words I heard before, now more precious than ever.
I left the universe there, captured in a moment.
Cupped in my hands next to your precious heart.
Struggling against the sun and the sanity.
Threatening such a beautiful return of Saturn.
The homeward point of my compass.
We fight the need to collapse into now.
Knowing the future is brighter when the stars in our blood pool.

 

A Future sprung from a many thousand wounds

The universe crept closer, seeping into the open wounds.
Its voice hushed like the sound of a million stars.
I must say this to you.
The words confessed, expressed and digested.
Some lost in the confusion of expectation.
I thought you were stronger, I didn’t see the scars that still bleed.
He nodded in knowing, in seeing the everything there in a moment.
Nobody’s perfect, he coughed back, time leaking from his mouth.
You were once much stronger, but each time around you faded a little.
Now the version before me, has too many cracks for what I gave.

He sighed, and closed his eyes, wishing he were as strong as they wanted.
God never spoke to him this way.
He always moved in shadows and light, avoiding the reply like a child ignoring consequence.
He knows that, he knows it hurts. But that is not why he doesn’t reply.
The universe spun out a sentence which made the floor ache.
His heart dissolved in the hearing, and was born once more in the understanding.
I never knew, I had begun to think he didn’t care.
Your strength I see, lies elsewhere.
And with that, it left, letting fate swim across his eyes like coy in a crystal pond.
He once more stepped from the past, onwards.
The future, taking it all away.

Reaching roots

How deep do these roots need to burrow?
While the wind of the world shakes and batters.
Down deep, past dinosaur bones and bits of myself.
Long forgotten memories and names no longer remembered.
Roots of strength, yet they strangle the small and struggling.
Little sprouts of new dreams which begin deep in the dark of my soul.
Waiting, for just the tiniest flash of light.
Yet the roots need to be strong.
For it’s much further to go on.
And this tree is desperate to reach up to heaven.

Life is a circle

A tragedy laps at this water’s edge.
Dark oily waves.
Flotsam of time scattered.
Moments bobbing in their crystalline freeze.
Like jewels sparkling on the neck of God.
Broken Christmas decorations on a dead tree.
How do you see?
This water, once pure, travelled around the world.
Circled and familiar.
Dipping your mind in to see this all before.
Teaching you again, yet you choose to forget.
Life is a circle.
It comes around, reminding you over and over.
What to loose, what to cherish.
To drop away what pulls you down.
Looking in to see your own reflection.
When you should hope to see the face of god.
For the divine is a alive and breathes through your skin.
Yet we forget, the states we are in.
Beginning at the end, missing the arrival as we depart.
Life is a circle.
It starts and ends in your heart.

Blue of a bruise (again and again)


THE BLUE OF A BRUISE

Idling of the blood stream.
Brightening those nightmares that shudder.
Twisting in and out of focus.
The mind finding reference points.
All chalky talk and eye darting.
Searching the door to find new weather.
Trust seems lost again.
Blue skies clouded like the eyes of God closing.
Tearing in the rains of revelation.
Words struck the vein.
The devil tastes the pain.
What part is called to be diminished?
Swallowing in a rapture, that unpicks the scars.
A lie to curdle the blood.
A pain to feel alive once more.
Do you know the lungs want to sing?
Padded with angel feathers they heave in lament.
The soul siphoned away, bottled like wine.
Death’s most beautiful throw.
Snatching things, before they grow.

MORE VIDEO ART HERE


Calling you higher

The saints who watched with silent eyes.
Unrolling the clouds in heaven.
They know you tried, they watched the break.
Bones adjusting to the weight of the world you bore.
They smiled when you continued onwards.
Knowing that the wall was part of the plan.
The fall, part of it all.
And in your dreams they slip feathers into your soul.
Cushioning against the silver spread of the galaxy.
Mercury in cosmic form, washing over the moon.
Falling into your broken cracks.
When you lift and rise, carrying on into the darkness.
The feathers float, and the sparks flare.
Taking you away from there.
And the darkness retreats like the ocean at night.
So you may walk the sand with god and me.

Craving miracles

She began to lie.
Her fingers clasped in on themselves, feeling the strength and weakness in her grasp.
The church, empty now of all souls except those she had come to talk with.
Tears brimming in the eyes, they stung like the holy water welled in the font.
Singeing the new-borns brought in against their will.
The lies came quick and easy.
Words of living danced from her mind and mouth.
Painting the walls the velvet colour of sin which faith knew all too well.
Her prayers circled her and danced above to illuminate the ceiling of the church.
All gold and crisp like an autumn leave caught in the sun.
Little sparks born from the light that was housed inside of her.
She lied by saying she could cope with this still.
The betrayal to god was that she thought she could go on.
But he knew, and he listened still.
As did all the saints breathing there like ghosts.
She clenched and fumed, crying all the while.
It was hard for her to know someone who knew her better than herself.
But would not wish her well.
For god would not lift a finger in her plight.
He didn’t then, he wouldn’t now.
No matter how many tears flowed in that church.
They would dry all the same.
Those walls would hear his name, again and again.
She lay down, and closed her eyes; using a bible as a small pillow.
Breathing in the dusty time of incense and pieces of flesh.
She waited for the miracle much promised, what better place to wait.
She lies there still, but do not wake her.
For she may still be dreaming.

Skeletons in the sky


SKELETONS IN THE SKY

I hear the angels whispering to me, quietly in my sleep.
Loudly when I wake.
Cracking my skull like an egg.
Dipping their fingers inside.
This life.
Sun shined yellowed and fresh.
Stretched out and taut like a lamb on the rack.
Hurried time, and love spent.
Empty like a tramp’s bottle.
You gave me the promises you couldn’t keep.
Tucked under my mattress for the day it rained.
Waiting for the monsoon.
It poured, and I was washed away.
Washed out to sea like sardines and ship wrecks.
So I wait now.
For that dark sky to open up and swallow me again.
Suck the light from my bones and spirit me away.
Like skeletons in the sky.
Solar pirates for the soul.
Yet gone before it happens, before the decay.
Drifting in the cosmic sleep.
One you can’t undo.
Until I wake to discover, you loved me too.

MORE VIDEO ART HERE


No sound but escape

The last gasp of a city, stifled through individual disdain.
Strapped to that engine of pain.
The eternal clock that moves everyone forward.
The teacup, that cannot un-shatter.
God’s will, the devil’s plan.
Darkness leaking up out of the drains.
Black balloons to cloud our uneventful skies.
Thoughts like a bruise.
Blooming and fostering more on a delicate mind.
They wait around for the heart to break.
The lies to normalise.
The violence to wrap itself around.
Like fingers of priests, going where they shouldn’t.
You want to leave this place.
Crumble the buildings that warren your life.
Cough out the diseases and the dirt and take a train.
Over tracks on water, the straight edges leading away.
To what, you don’t know.
New spaces to inhabit, to sink a soul into.
Uncertainty, the first sign of freedom.
Lighting fireworks in the mind.
Soon the metropolis an old family member.
Seen only on special occasions.
Lonely in your memory, and very nearly forgotten.

The Blue of a bruise

Idling of the blood stream.
Brightening those nightmares that shudder.
Twisting in and out of focus.
The mind finding reference points.
All chalky talk and eye darting.
Searching the door to find new weather.
Trust seems lost again.
Blue skies clouded like the eyes of God closing.
Tearing in the rains of revelation.
Words struck the vein.
The devil tastes the pain.
What part is called to be diminished?
Swallowing in a rapture, that unpicks the scars.
A lie to curdle the blood.
A pain to feel alive once more.
Do you know the lungs want to sing?
Padded with angel feathers they heave in lament.
The soul siphoned away, bottled like wine.
Death’s most beautiful throw.
Snatching things, before they grow.

The Power

The power lives in you.

He heard it again, that voice. What was it, the third time? Not menacing, or threatening, more like the gentle voice of a child; a fine mist leaking out of a corner.

He’d come into the kitchen to wash his cup out, the tea long since drained, the dark dregs like the mistakes of his life had dried in the depths. His kitchen overlooked his back garden, the huge oak tree which cast a shadow over half the house blanketed the room now. Half in, half out of light.

Two o’clock in the afternoon, whispers in the air.

He hadn’t felt alarmed hearing the words, indeed they were comforting in they casuistic way. The voice itself was ethereal, calm and soothing, like milk running down his soul. He’d left the cup in the sink and looked on out the windows, the words fluttering in his mind like the leaves outside fluttering in the breeze. The season was on the change, and he could picture now the lawn covered in frost while the trees disappeared into themselves with their winter reclusiveness.

The year, where had it gone? Disappeared into nothing while he’d roamed the house like a Victorian ghost; forlorn and melancholic. But then, what did they expect, he’d just been trying to keep It together. If the good lord wanted miracles, then it was indeed one that he was still even alive. Those dark days of spring when the end seemed so apparent. On his fingertips like the edge of tomorrow. He was still finding his way on this new terrain, still stuffing the darkness back into the holes that bled it out in copious amounts.

The power lives in you.

That voice, those words. He knew what it meant of course; he’d felt that divine pull for the past few weeks. His own lungs coughing up golden dust when he woke. Hard to breathe, hard to be here in this world the way he was. It was uncomfortable, he just knew he had to change. These voices, these little nudges were to make him see, to move him along. Sometimes we are so blind to what is before our eyes. It took him some time, but slowly he began to see.

Washing his cup, leaving it on the draining board to dry, he went back into his study. He called it a study, though it was really just the spare room with all manner of things piled high. He didn’t study anything, aside the figures and words that flashed across his screen; the requirement of modern life. He’d longed to give it all up of course, but his dreams had slowly died over the years and now necessity proved too strong a spell.

He sat down at his new desk, the wood still smelling of the sick like scent of the cardboard box it arrived in and pulled toward him a notebook. Past the pages of word commitments, the left to do lists and random spirals, coming to land on a blank page towards the back. Words had never really come easy to him, the right one always on the tip of his brain, peeking out like a child playing hide and seek. But he commanded himself, spurred on by the gentle voice that now echoed in his mind. He made a list of things he needed to change, things in his life and things about himself he could no longer tolerate.

His mind flashed, like skimming through tv channels, and it came upon a documentary he’d watched once. The image was fuzzy and dated; the haze of anything from our past which we give a comforting glow. Drugs, the documentary was about drug abuse and interventions by family members. He felt their pain in a flash, registering barely but a blip as he skipped through their plight. The counsellor, the authority in the room. What was she saying?

“People will only change when they are so far gone, that the thought of staying the same disgusts them. If Richard feels revulsion when he uses, that’s when he will decide to quit. You can’t make him, you never will. All this is just dressing to his world, your pain inconsequential. Only he can change, and he only will when it is worse not to.”

He remembered it, his mind the magician remembering every word. He barely remembered conversations he’d had last week, but here it was, locked in the annuals of his mind.

We have the power.

It came in a flash, like lightning this time. Cracking his skull and finding his soul. Louder too, and different. ‘WE’, joined together. Not alone. We have the power. He noticed his hands were shaking, the pencil he was using vibrating slightly. His mind, the magician and time traveller taking him away in a second to his school days, shaking pencils quickly to watch them blur.

Back in his study, the list before him. The words in his mind.

He looked at the list and saw his work ahead. Elements of change, poisoned elements of freedom. Within the poison lies the cure. These things were not terrible, many born from laziness.  But they did disconnect him, and they kept him from manifesting anything but what he had around him now. Is this the life you wanted?

He ripped the page out of the notebook, little curls of paper scattering on the desk like hair in a barbers. Knocking his chair back as he went, he sped quickly into his front room where the photos were. Shiny lined frames containing his life, friends and family smiling back at him. He stopped and looked at those faces, of the ones he loved. Some gone, some remaining. He ached for one in particular, their smile overshone by the light that beamed from their eyes. Drawing him. He’d asked of course, he’d asked for help from them, and God. Asking for assistance and the chance of change.

You are your only saviour.

The voice came swift and curt, this time more of an admonishment. It was joined by a chorus of others, repeating it so it echoed into nothing.

He’d been here before, cursing them, cursing God for letting him down. Throwing his fists and tears up towards heaven. Heaven which never seemed to answer him.  God, who never seemed to give a damn. But now, these voices, these calls to arms in a way, pushing him onwards; empowering him.

He stood there, before the photos; the light shining off the silver frames and catching his eyes. He forgave and apologised. He took onboard all the pain and blame that he’d dispatched, the responsibility felt delicious and bitter in his mind. But he could not blame them, not anymore. His list showed him where he’d gone wrong, absolving himself over the years of the fuckups that he was the master of. His choices, his movements. His words said to them and others over the years.

It took him some time, and the voices left him to do it quietly as they swirled around protectively. They had been with him all along of course. Watched him along the road of good intentions, wincing when he fell. He’d never known the danger they kept from him, times when he could’ve been forever lost. But it took something within for them to now speak. Something had broken inside of him; something had burnt away all he had framed in his life. And in his ruins, they found the crack for the light to burst through.

Leaving his front room his eyes wet and weary, he walked back into his kitchen, passing the cup; now clean and dry. He slipped out the back door, putting on the wellington boots which lived just inside. They were tight yet reassuring, offering the freedom to clomp around any surface or pitfall. Spiriting himself down the path, over the little bridge where he’d begun his Japanese inspired retreat some time ago; he came to rest in the small pagoda. He remembered putting this up himself, it had taking him hours. It was second hand of course; the new ones were much too expensive and he could see the damage around the base now from the weathering and years of endurance.

Power of prayer.

These words rested in his mind like little clouds settling on a mountain. He closed his eyes and washed them through him. Prayer, power. His faith was not what many would consider appropriate to them, but he knew the strength of his spiritual side. It had saved his life, many times. The power of prayer was to keep a conversation with God. Talking, always talking. But he’d demanded a lot in his life. Cursing, bargaining and threating the creator. The problem with prayer is that it was always one way. A conversation with one voice.

Meditate, and hear the answers.

The voice, so close now. Like a kind hand on his shoulder.

He remained there for some time, his mind peaceful and his words coming quickly. He prayed more, asking and forgiving. Conversing with God until the words were used up. He then sat still, quiet like a bonsai tree and meditated, listening to what God now had to say in reply.

I ate the prayer

Layer after layer, through teeth and truth.
Bones that trip and slip under.
Down into the briny wonder.
I ate the prayer.
Closed the eyes, for tomorrow will never see.
Bring that illusion back.
Roll back the time.
Sucking up event horizons and riverbed pebbles.
Milky chalk to wash the medicine down.
I ate the prayer.
Laid out on copper plates and paper trays.
Flung from hell and the devil’s lips.
That kissed and took me under.

Fall from grace

You no longer know god like you used to.
Angel, spill my blood.
Too afraid to believe your hate.
So justified.
Now fire sky.
Falling like consequence.
With nowhere left to run.
Your damage is done.
With holes in the ground.
That pull you in.
And spin, on devil fingers.
Cursing science and space.

Delayed doxology


DELAYED DOXOLOGY

The pain turned to gold as the moon rose.
The loss of self-control and the shedding of time.
Dropped like leaves over a diamond lake of soul.
Always late, but now just on time.
Peeling away a skin that once bound.
A body so rooted in the now.
To each side there sits an angel.
Close enough to touch.
Calling me higher, yet I remain.
Being good, being whole, being of service.
The dark begins to melt into light.
The kiss of god, and the whisper of the divine.
Reaffirms my mind, that it all was meant to be.
Now I shudder in doxology.
Praise not just the creator for the air in my lungs.
But the lungs of god, which breathes new air.
I have lost my religion.
And found god where I least expected.
Hidden away, yet smiling at my fall.
Knowing the rise was good for all.

MORE VIDEO ART HERE


 

Aureole


AUREOLE

Changes take you to the place.
The feelings, dressed in faith.
Little voices whispering your name in silent spaces.
You take me there.
Gripping my hand which shakes and flutters.
A heart, in flight like birds of paradise scratching the sky.
The only thing that fades is the darkness of the past.
The bright light I see in your eyes illuminates and disorientates.
An unknown, which used to creep like ghosts, now welcomes like a field of poppies.
Oh that heady take on life, blurring into our bones.
You come to rest on marbled floors.
An altar in which I can pray.
But you lift my hands and shake your head.
Kissing me with our new commandment.
The only religion is love.
You fall into my skin, changing the air I breathe.
Needing me, as I need you.
Worked from our souls rising.
A Perfect circle.

MORE VIDEO ART HERE


Taken from Everyday Miracles – out now

EVERYDAY NIGHTMARES MIRACLES


Diagnosis


DIAGNOSE

All this bubbling inside my veins.
Feels like angels spitting in my brain.
A feverish swoon overtakes me now.
The silent prayer and misplaced vow.
That swirl and flick of the finger of god.
Dilutes this blood to something odd.
More like a lick from roaming devils.
Who cough and sniff, and silently revel.
This outbreak which defies prognoses.
And nudges for spiritual diagnoses.
For though my body and mind is sick.
Inside the soul this illness licks.
And leaves me now mere bread and wine.
My soul and spirit, drenched in turpentine.

MORE VIDEO ART HERE


Taken from Everyday Nightmares – out now

EVERYDAY NIGHTMARES MIRACLES


 

Distance and time

Lost, feeling the way out.
Travelling through the veins of god.
Hearing that global heartbeat.
Washing away in the flow.
I want to swallow the moon tonight.
To feel the tidal shift in my stomach.
To spit out the bones of the past.
And the well-travelled memories.
I touch this earth and it feels like home.
Yet when my eyes blink open.
I am crushed by the weight of this world.
I belong here, but a million miles behind in time.
Waiting for the palm leaves and ferns to sprout in my veins.
I wish to return, and also remain.
Eating forbidden fruit.
Running with the beasts.
Perhaps the change will come from inside.
Washing over me like conscience.
Seeing the divine in all that my eyes lay upon.
This is our home.
It is our only one.
Ninety-two million miles from the sun.

Pain is the only useful feeling

It ripped inside, slashing like a frenzied animal.
Thoughts in pieces, history in tatters.
Reborn now into a new day, into a new lonely state.
Half breathing, barely beating a heartbeat that struggled with each step.
Yet alive.
Pain. It hurt still.
Pulsing and throbbing in his soul.
Licking the walls of his existence like a monster greedy for the dark.
How long must I wander here in isolation.
Blaming fate for my circumstance.
For the clouds I am under.
Yet there was a light.
It grew from his spinal cord, sparking where it snapped.
Growing back something else.
The hope he’d swallowed had bathed it.
In god’s hands he’d craved it, once before.
Lessons learned scratched now across his eyes.
The tears of acceptance washed them clean.
Pain, it seems, was his teacher.
To choose a different way, a different road.
Perhaps less travelled.
Inside his hope chest the latch flipped open.
And flowed a feeling, one of many, which dazzled his eyes like stars.