An empty city I don’t remember
A distant name I fail to place
People ask me questions about the past
Besides the memories I share with myself
I don’t like to remember what it was
Slowly selling what I own
Nostalgia is denial
That the future can’t be as good as an imagined history
The influence is finite
Sleepwalking through each minute
The right side of my brain
Lets me list the way it is
Is surely just the next big thing
I never had it
You never lost it
Keep on crying
If it gets you to sleep
On a global level
We can only dream of
Lapses of memory
it takes some distance to reflect,
to stop, think, process, wait.
admitting you are wrong is one thing,
what you do to address it is
another thing entirely.
some people talk a good game,
revealing little except results.
both playing cards close to the chest,
& from beneath the table.
what’s the point in just speaking,
about things you want to do.
when these things could already be removed
from the lists you’ll never write.
before the paper peels,
the train is missed,
& dreams are out of date.
time spent treading water,
isn’t wasted when,
you use it to survive.
observations of a busy street.
a book store smells a certain way,
the comfort of a million stories.
time spent will unlock its promise.
a ball of twine is a welcome sight,
the promise of something to be made or mended.
a couple, drinks water in different ways.
one from the glass, one straight from the gym.
a friend pulls a friend away from a passing bike.
the way they smile at each other afterwards,
suggests they’ve been friends for a while.
moments later, we’ll be someplace else.
minutes later, we’ll be gone.
i like the way certain trees
can shape the sound the wind makes
as i walk alongside the train tracks
i could swear to you
that i can hear the breath of the ocean.
to my ears
i feel like i’m on a cliff
with the clouds ahead preparing
to rage over serene waters
marking the beginning of the storm.
it’s about to rain & i’m waiting
i’m wondering if this ground will soon
be too wet to walk on
or will my shoes commence to slip?
when is a good time to do anything?
i don’t like talking much,
the idea of escape is amazing.
encapsulated by the absence of light
a man tormented by the guilt of his past
feels he is owed beyond his own sentencing.
is he entitled to a second chance,
or just has nothing left to lose?
“the love i feel is not confused
i shouldn’t feel so good
its weird feeling guilty about your life
when it’s going so good
enjoy it while it lasts
there are still things i’d change in life
like where i went each day
& that i want to truly let the ideas i have inside me
to grow toward beauty.
in this cell.”
yesterday he lay dead on a hospital bed
cycling, swimming, running, relapse
these were the order of events
he wrote about them all
these are the stories to be told.
an idea can be a simple thing
the impulse to mention something
to shake somebody’s hand
a thought that manifests in action
looks upon faces registering acceptance
& maybe a mention of time
to be something more than words inside
that within seconds are often swept away
for some reason this one remains
days later phones ring &
plates are contemplated
it leads to other things
& before you even realize
the favour is returned.
are worth fighting for.
Filed under childhood memories, family, fire, friends, lovethisshit, optimism, rituals, thought lines, what about linus?, words, writing
Celebrities are murderers & thieves. We are encouraged to look the same. To get ahead we travel in the same direction. We travel through arcs, the shortest distance. It’s not like it used to be. The real Heroes were pioneers. Those who were the first to do the things that had never been done. It’s incredible how proving a point can open up the world a little bit. Greater circles.
home to the holidays.
time to turn off engines & decide
to trust you have exactly what you need,
that you’ve cut enough wood for the winter.
there’s a beautiful humility in not wasting
the things that keep you alive.
arriving at the finish line on time.
in preserving those little things
that keep you warm at night,
you keep fires burning that people don’t see.
the story that we stay up late for,
a myth to make us mind our manners.
a painting of a photograph.
turning the wheel from high seas
to a surer path,
the needle spinning north.
by never cutting corners,
we never miss a beat.
he asked her once if she could be afraid,
“even an anchor needs a compass,
to only speak in S.O.S.
to always live in 10% panic
to never leap
to never love
to never live
to never know better
it’s hard talking about love. people always talk about how they can’t define it, it’s a noble feat to live your life trying to. i want to be well-respected & loved. i wanted to be famous but after the life i’ve lead i’d be happier just to be alive. when i stopped wanting to be famous i overcompensated with everything to try & pretend i didn’t care. all in a vain effort to conceal the reason for my decisions. when i lost people i didn’t live in a way that honoured them. at the time i bandied around the word “lukewarm” – it was a word i used a lot to decipher what i thought was weak. to be “lukewarm” was the worst thing imaginable to me at the time. to have failed. the truth is, i never really got over it. the reality, of what had happened that is. it’s prophetic when you start repeating things to yourself, to be become what you fear. we’re defined by our failures, just hopefully not remembered for them. we’ve done the things we do so many times before. to climb over the wall. to mean it. to take the time it takes. i fear for the few who were smart enough to see it but didn’t stick around long enough to change.
you’ve got to consider history.
sign language was born out of war,
a battle of the senses.
when engines failed & words would no longer do.
in every environment where language is languid,
a series of hand signals is invented.
we should consider this more often.
what to do in times of trouble?
we should learn from experience,
but i always forget what to remember.
these stories always sound so
much better when the words are fired
in the direction of others.
it’s too easy not to listen to ourselves.
as we’ve heard that story
one too many times.
it’s like cooking for one.
Filed under and the kid that plays piano..., bad poetry, clock, dexterity, engine down, flags, gestures, late late night, night, noise, opinion, photos, pictures, sidestep, signals, signs, words, writing
am i invisible?
most times i truly believe i am.
what with people not listening or thinking,
it’s hard to get through most days,
let alone carry strangers with you through it.
it’s exhausting translating for people who do not speak
& tiring speaking around those who’s logic has failed them.
sometimes the only truth is silence.
you are the ones who should be worried
we are the last line of defence
the last who could afford not to worry
who could afford not to care.
i didn’t care
to read any more
as surely every decade judges
just the same
as the one gone by before.
it’s just as hard to
pretend to ignore,
but it pushes us
a little more.
Filed under cave, cemetery, dexterity, late late night, light, new order, night, opinion, optimism, white wall, wire, words, writing, your move sucker
the human mind can do anything
i truly believe that
we are inventors
we have to be
otherwise we’d still be playing with fire
& dreaming of wheels.
turning on the television i asked
“will i meet my dreams again
or bump into the ideas that build hope
a voice soon told me something like,
“you’ll meet them all again on a journey to the middle.”
but before i could write it down
to get the perfect wording
it escaped me.
i asked it the same question again later but,
all i heard was music.
Filed under bad poetry, beginning, deadend, opinion, optimism, quote, whatsthefuckingpoint?, wires, words, writing, your move sucker
we will miss you
i respect your skills
i appreciate that
you see what i’m getting at?
every now & then
i should go
nice talking to you
It always started on a sunday afternoon around 6 o’clock, when I’d finish skateboarding for the day & decide it was time to head home. The sun would come down fast & although that usually didn’t stop me, it was easier to appear for dinner than to argue why I hadn’t. If I was lucky, my walkman batteries would last the entire way home. There was Jane’s Addiction on one side & New Order on the other.
In the final stages of rolling home, a huge knot would start to form deep in my stomach. That the weekend was dying, killed me. To restart that mindless cycle made me care even less about the useless contents that filled it. I’d stop worrying that I smelt like smoke & sit down at the table. I could always tell how drunk my father was by how inedible the meal was, for some reason the more upset he was, the more salt we had to consume. There was still a childhood, buried beneath the backwards rituals.
You just had to be prepared to fight for it.
The time from 8:30 until around 10:15 used to pass so quickly, but this was an education. I was obsessed with the idea of the sunday night movie for many reasons. When I look back, they were often the films that formed the conversations on which many early friendships were born. To be able to talk violence & drama was to walk forward in the schoolyard.
To make people laugh.
If I was lucky,
I would arrange my evening so I could stay awake all night.
To stay awake & keep up with the world seemed to be the perfect way to flip the finger to the pain building in my stomach & the anger I felt towards a life lived beyond my control. It’s a mere coincidence that I developed a taste for stranger movies as I wanted to stay up later & later.
A secret handshake.
A greater social ammunition.
Filed under films, fire, friends, jane's addiction, laugh, movies, new order, night, opinion, optimism, real, rituals, skateboarding, words, writing, your move sucker
words that makes sense
how long before they fade
is anything correct forever?
i want to be remembered
for getting it right.
i’ve always adored the phrase
“safe as houses.”
who doesn’t want to be
someone you’d always bet on.
the smartest words
come from the people
who’ve made the biggest mistakes.
Filed under bad poetry, black & white, house, images, opinion, optimism, photos, pictures, white wall, words, writing
“We’re through being cool.”
we’re in it together
we chart the success of our decisions
no? it’s not like that at all
but it’s much more about the experience
like playing a new game
& living a new life.
to be truly happy.
I think the key to writing is that beautiful shift from inspiration to what manifests on the page. More specifically, that the spark catches fire with other people. Communication that is received loud and clear. Not allowing fear or doubt & especially the perception of others to influence why. Why does anyone let thoughts leave the nest? It’s about what’s over the fence. Who will I meet & where could these worlds of words actually take me. Would people, who I’d never imagine to, understand? Fascination interests me more than actually having the prize, it’s what keeps the wheels turning. So that’s where desire comes in, to create and present. To high jump rejection & not gaze too long at your reflection. To evolve. People struggle to have an opinion, when all they really want is a voice. People struggle to have decisions made for them, when all they really want is a choice. Suppressed thoughts are the dying dreams of those who make a living lying down. If people merely wanted to consume or finish things, they’d buy a coffee or a crossword. Remain optimistic.