Clutch Your Head.

A bird's egg in my hand, the world is blue.

A rusted out old car, cold to the touch and warm to the eye, holds itself sloppily over a tree root, its tyres rotted away. Its window's broken glass shards shine on dirty seats.

It is a life. A life lived, now lost, not yet over and not yet with a use or satisfaction. 

Coins rain down out of the towers of the rich, the poor purchase the towers, and in their happiness rain down coins.

I had a dream about you all. One with wonder, and eyes, and judgment, and loss. You all gazed up in wonder, Or perhaps down in sadness, or across a great schism of strangeness to me. And you cheered, or scorned, or laughed at me, naked and bloody in my pit of misery, clothed golden in silk and crowned in my majesty, and motley clad in my bemusement.

'Now I do not know whether I am a man dreaming he is a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he is a man.'

Have I gone too far? Have I slipped into places that minds and dreams are not meant to wander, and tasted fruit forbidden?

Or am I a frog in a well, unable to imagine the ocean?

Is it both? Neither? 

And I felt the world spinning in my hand, a birds egg, as blue as a forgotten lie.

Чернобог

Burn the black God an offering

Play a song for his suffering. 

Slay the black God a banquet.

Bring Czernobog a living feast.

Fight for the black God.

Dance on his hour. 

Dream for the black God

In the night's latest hour. 

Feel his breath upon you like smoke. 

Feel his ghost touch in fear. 

Feel his living darkness, 

Like a torrent of the deepest sea.

Know the black God,

Curse by his name, 

Drink the black God's blood.

Feel him enter you like a flood.

Take the brass goblet,

Tarnished in the no-light.

Ask not of its gushing contents,

Only drink, drink in the silk of evil.

Play a song on your lonely wooden pipes.

On the witching hour, call his name. 

Call in to you, the Dark God.

Call Czernobog. 

The Shape Of Plans

"I'd listen to my heart if I could, But it only pumps my blood,

It doesn't say anything"

- Bartholomew Dutch.

Being logical,

Its pretty easy to see,

But being stoic,

We can find it difficult.

Breathing on windows just makes them damp.

They just get damp.

They don't feel love.

And they don't get cleaner.

Being brave,

Easy, when it's simple

But it's much harder,

When what is right isn't.

Breathing on minds just makes them stale,

They just get stale,

They don't absorb,

And they don't understand you.

Being alive,

Easy when you're young

But when you get older,

The habit is hard to shake.

Breathing on words just makes them cheap,

They just get cheap,

they don't fly gilded,

And they lose their value too fast.

The Past Remade and Reviewed In A Mind

If you couldn't remember something, how would you know you forgot it?

How do we know we haven't forgotten many things. How do we know that we haven't lived whole lives unknown to us?

Someone once said that to forget is the greatest gift a person could hope for. That memory is a cruel reminder of the things we used to be, that blinds us to what we could become.

But equally, it is said memories are treasures we carry always with us. That to reflect and learn from the past through memory is useful and wonderful.

I am afraid of the things I can't remember, and the things too that I can.

To lose memory, is what then? Will being an old man, with no company but my dementia be a blessing or a curse for me?

The Transmogrifier

I heard a story once and this is exactly how it went,


There was a man. He wasn't that great. He was only ordinary. He stumbled over his feet sometimes and he wore glasses. He only liked one thing about himself. It was this one special thing.

He could make anything different. If he saw a cat, he could scrunch up his eyes and turn it into a dog. If he saw a bad person, he could make them a good person. If he saw someone ugly, he could make them attractive. If he saw an orange, he could turn it into a pear. If he saw a sad moment, he could make it happy. If he saw the night, he could make it the day.

Everyone thought it was really great he could do this, and people would come to him and ask him to make their noses smaller, or their legs longer. He would make grumpy old men into smiling little babies. He would make poor hopeless fools rich and successful.

Then, one-day, he walked up to a mirror, and he made himself better. He was better all over, his hands, his eyes, his mind, his heart. He was more generous, more intelligent, and more good looking. Everyone marveled at the improvement.

So he did it again.

Once again, everyone said that it was fantastic, and that he was even better than the better him he was before.

So he thought for a bit. And he scrunched up his eyes really, really hard, and made everyone as good as he was.

And everyone was better: Stronger, richer, wiser, more beautiful. And they loved him.

But these fantastic people complained to him that the world they lived in wasn't good enough for such great people. So he changed the world too. And it was better also, the good things became great, the the bad things ceased to exist.

And everyone loved it. Nothing was bad, ever ever again.

And some people were troubled by the memories they used to have of the time when things were bad. So he made them into happier memories. And no-one could remember the way things used to be.

And that was the way everything always was. People got no older or died or felt pain. People were already as smart as they could be, and they all agreed on everything, and most especially agreed that everything was wonderful.

And God, in Heaven, looked down on the people, and thought, "Why, heaven, it's on the earth now." and He uncreated Heaven.

And the man (who was always in his memory great and was never ever bad) thought he remembered something. Just barely he thought of a time when he was special. When everyone, in their own way, was special.

And everyone in the world smiled but him. And he wished as hard as he could that he could make things different.


And that's the whole story.

Specificallity.

Don't you hate it when a really specific and irritating thing happens to you, and no one else can relate to it because it is quite a rare occurrence and no one else would know what it would be like?

I don't. It doesn't happen to me. Too rare.

The Things I Coulda Been Were I Different in Certain Respects

"You're so adorable I just want to eat you, bones and skin and hair and everything."

I could have been a hero, if I had a cape and song,
I coulda been the savior of people of every colour and kind,
If I only I had courage and strength, and a selfless mind.

I could have been an angel, If I had wings and a dress,
I coulda been part of the main chorus in the heavenly host,
If I only were a messenger of God, the thing we value the most.

I could have been a genius, If I had glassess and a wig,
I coulda been part of that smart-folk-type crew,
if only there were a thousand more things that I knew.

I could have been woman, If I only had a pretty dress,
I coulda been a lady of grace, fineness, and wonderful splendour,
if only I were possessed of all the features of the other gender.

I could have been a lazy family cat, If I had a mouse and scratching post.
I coulda been a silky smooth night-friend with a coat slickly worn
If only I had the prescience of mind to have myself, as one, born.

I could have been a really nice person, if I had a smile, a laugh and a wave.
I coulda been the coolest person you'll ever soon meet,
If only I were not a skunk and a thief of what is most sweet.

I could have been great, If I had a t-shirt that said so.
I coulda been real great.
If I only were.

For you see,
The thing that makes a person good,
Brave and kind and smart as they should,
Is not me.