Joy

Don’t postpone joy. The turn of the page, the slow sojourn from day to day. Lulled into complacency, the days pass like silent assassins. Dripping down the side of the candle, it’s easy to lose the prospect of joy. Settle for average, for normal, for making do. The crash of minutes drowning out the clarion of purity.
Don’t postpone joy, for soon it will be too late, a bottle of pills, a harsh collision, a choking cough.  A thief of breath, time steals. It is sadness, the days behind me, no longer to be lived or loved or laughed, only lost. Did I measure them, when I was young? Or only see them stretching like the endless road in front. No need to hurry to my destination, it would always be there tomorrow and tomorrow.
A moment, linger here among the flowers, the hill too hard to climb today. Wait for tomorrow. But tomorrows and tomorrows they careen by, faster than before. I miss you, miss the words I didn’t value enough, the times, I didn’t answer. A drawing of a tree is not the leaves upon it, but the suggestion of a tree. A map of your wrinkled skin is not your life, but a suggestion of the roads you have traveled. Or the joys you have not lived. The dance you did not do, the words you did not say.  The help you did not ask for, only the footsteps fading from sound and sight, and searching.
Don’t postpone joy, for it cannot be lived again, or loved again, or laughed again. Fleet Mercury stole it from me, his winged shoes fluttered by so fast that you were gone before I knew it or felt it or thought it.
I take your words and stamp them upon my soul. Don’t postpone joy. Live in it.

Raining Cats and Dogs

Leaning against a window, the heat inside the bus creates a slightly humid, but welcome feeling as his soaked clothes slowly dry, along with those of the other passengers. The steamy glass, already hard to see through, reveals almost nothing of the streets outside. A blur of water cascades down the outside, and all he hears is the rumble of the engine, and the swish of tires on wet pavement. Fountains of white obscure the world outside the bus every few minutes, and he feels as though the world has ended, but nobody remembered to tell him. Street lights, glimmering orange in the dark, could be stars exploding and burning the atmosphere, for all he knows. He huddles closer, his damp clothes small comfort. And soon, the cocoon taking him onwards will be left, it’s small sanctuary replaced once more by the wind, and the water, and the cold.

The Lodge

I’d signed up for this weekend away with my college department, but I really had no idea about the place I was going to before I got there. It was weird to be leaving London really, heading out of the city, into the outskirts. After the security check at one entrance, it seemed like I was transported, back to somewhere more like the area I grew up. Trees everywhere, giving the light that underwater, filtered feeling that just automatically imbues you with a sense of calm introspection.

Of course, the best part about this place wasn’t the trees, but the house. Cumberland Lodge. An old style, traditional English country house, complete with decor to match. Every corner held some new, unique and fascinating detail, from the richly coloured walls, to the paneled ceilings or gigantic, cast iron, clawfoot bathtubs.

As college students do, when given any opportunity, we spent much of the weekend getting drunk, although we did attend the fun lectures we were there for too, like the one about the science of life in the universe. Of course, that wasn’t as interesting to us at 19 as the science of life in our own personal universes was, but still, even the lectures here were different, the converted ballrooms and stables turned into conference halls were fascinating, filled with plush, heavy chairs. Far better than the plastic and plywood things we were used to spending many painful hours on.

I think the weirdest part of my weekend though, had to be the church service on the sunday morning. Feeling hungover and sleep deprived, we walked a few minutes down the shaded paths to a tiny old stone chapel. It couldn’t hold more than a hundred people, if that. When we got inside, it was darker than I expected. Very pretty, but full of deep and rich coloured woods and shadowy panels. That musty old smell some churches get, a mixture of furniture polish and old lady.

We were only allowed to sit on the right side of the church, where one massive panel hid half of the front from us. The locals or regulars (surely that applies better to bars than churches?) were the only ones allowed to sit on the left.

An hour or so later, we emerged from the church like larvae from a chrysalis, blinking in the sun, only to find the Royal Family standing off to one side. It hadn’t been clear during the service that they were even present, but when we came out, there they were. The Queen, her mother, Prince Phillip and Prince Edward. They actually came over to talk to us, to find out where we were from, and who these ruffians invading their private chapel were. I talked with the Queen Mother, so tiny and fragile seeming, even then. She asked if we’d had a chance to experience the park, because it was so lovely that time of year. She asked me what college we were from and what our lectures were about. Only a few sentences, of no real consequence, but still, it’s not something I’ll ever forget. Not many people get a chance to meet them in such an informal and private way, no cameras or security really visibly present, just the family going about their normal sunday routine.

Still, it’s one of the most surreal experiences I’ve ever had, meeting the Queen. All I can hold onto is this; the Queen wore red, and her mother wore blue.

Slick

So, like, here’s the thing. There are some people that swear by the beefcake setup, say it helps out with every trick that needs you to roll up a lot of string in there, but really I reckon that mostly they just don’t have the skill to do the good stuff without having to pull their gear apart and make it ‘better’. Me, now, I’ve been doing this as long as I can remember and I don’t really think the fancy stuff is necessary to a slick trick. It’s just a crutch. Not enough hours of string burn and bite back, fixing their style and wobble, just some fancy butterfly with reverse starbursts to lessen the friction.

Yeah, I know this all sounds like so much rug burn to you.. sorry, it’s just.. well, see, this thing has been with me for longer than I can remember. Sure, I’ve replaced the string and the bearings a hundred times or more, but at it’s heart, this is still the yoyo my grampa gave me when I was six. Funny, really.

My favorite thing in the world, constantly in my hand, and I got it on the worst day in the world. My world anyways. I never really got what happened, not until way later. People don’t like to tell you things when you’re a kid, think you can’t take it or something. So you get a toy instead, like it’s going to replace what you lost.

Guess it did, actually. Who needs a mom when you’ve got a yo. Or something. Maybe it replaced her not in any like, really real way, but just filled the gaps she left behind. It’s the string between the hubstacks of my life. Yeah, poetic and everything aren’t I?

First trick I learned was the three leaf clover. Gramps said I could make wishes on a three leaf clover every time I did it, that it was lucky. Course, no matter how many times I do it, it’s not like my life just snaps back to some normal one with two parents and a mongrel dog. Grampa isn’t around anymore either, so my whole family in the world is the asshole in jail, and the yoyo.

People find out, even though I don’t talk much. They ask about the weird kid with the yoyo in his hand that never stops moving and doesn’t talk. I don’t get it really, why they want to know. It’s not like I’m out there looking for buddies, but every time they hear my asshole murdered my mom, they come running. Girls especially, all trying to save the tortured soul, like I’m looking to be rescued and shipped off to normal town. I do alright now, I don’t need their sympathetic glances and asking me if I need to talk, telling me they’re there for me. Buy me some new string if you want to be there for me. Poly slick 8 would be alright. Stuff I need, not stupid words and glances and crap. I’ve got enough of that already.

I don’t really like competing, even though I do it every so often, pick up an extra dollar or something. Feels creepy when people watch me yoyo. I don’t really like being watched. After she was gone they all watched me a lot, the people around me. Gramps was worried, I guess. I was alright though. I mean, I barely remember her now. Maybe I should have glued her picture to my yoyo. I think he might have burned most of them though. Only ones I’ve ever seen are the ones of her when she was younger that gramps still had. You know the kind, big hair, big smile, polyester school uniform in that ick shade of blue I think they invented just to make teenage girls look as bad as possible. So that’s all she is in my mind now, someone the same age as me who got pregnant, had a kid, and then died when her asshole husband decided he didn’t like her face the way it was anymore so he should refinish it with his fists. Yeah, I know technically he was my father, but it’s like with her, I want to remember her face but I don’t, and with him, I can’t forget. I have to show up at his parole hearings, make sure he dies in jail for beating my mom to death. Gramps said he knew it was tough for me to go to court like that, but that they’d listen to me because my opinion meant the most, like I was the expert on my fucked up father. I guess the cute kid with the yoyo thing worked, he’s still in there. So yeah, that’s me. Yoyo freak with the dead mom and the murdering dad.

Change

A slow perambulation, salty tang of the sea in his mouth. His doctor had recommended that he take advantage of it daily, to lower stress and blood pressure, stop the slow drain of sand from his hour glass, or at least, slow the grains a little. The shore was beautiful, he conceded, but boring. Every day, the waves and the beach were the same. The same forgotten shoe, crawling out of the sand and muck, the same sounds, the same smells and sighs.
Today, it was no different. This patch of beach was always covered in kelp and little else. As he walked further though, he saw the new rock. Finally, excitement. Or at least, something new. Funny to get excited about a new rock. Once, he used to be excited about big things - bombs, and embassies, and governments. Now, a rock. As he came closer, the rock gained definition. Greyish white, with veins a little pink. He rolled it over with a pointed toe. Maybe it was some kind of mineral rock he could keep, or sell. As it rolled, it looked at him. Not a rock, at all. An eyeball, blue and gigantic - the size of a softball. Lost in the ocean deeps somewhere by a creature he couldn’t name. Blinded. He walked on, wondering if it would still be there tomorrow.

Abstractions

Piety kneels at the altar
clothed in shadows of guilt
he weeps for himself.

Paranoia creeps down the cluttered alley of fact
armored with hyperbole and sweat and fear
she whispers “if only, why not?”

Restraint holds himself upright at the table
grey shirt, grey tie too tight, grey pants with razored crease
he doesn’t breathe.

Closeness

Closeness is a road, it can be short, or long, or anywhere in between. It can be a simple walk from you, to me. But instead it became a maze of ancient streets, following a logic based upon ideas and places long forgotten. All that remains is a street name, a word here or there that no longer holds meaning, only another dead end for me to be lost down, on my way to finding you. 

It’s hard to navigate, these streets of yours, the strata of your history turning my feet like broken cobblestones. I wish I could be an archaeologist - a broken pot telling me what you were, what you did and how you lived before I came upon you. I wish I could be a builder, construct my own path, wear away the virgin ground, create a channel of familiarity and sweetness, with no obstacles in my way, just a pleasant walk among the fields. But instead, my closeness to you is the asphalt of winter’s end. Cracked and broken, washed away by snow and flood, crumbling at every precarious step.

If I had a map of your streets, a guide to walk me through your territory, perhaps we would have a chance. But without one, I am lost. Is this the way to the highway of my friendship? Or the cul-de-sac of forgotten dreams? The avenue of love, is it that way? Or does it lead to the broken parking meter of time lost?

Old bold gold

Old, bold, gold. Fat-white, quite solemn men
Row of blow, -hard fast talking club den-
izens of hate, fated to decide how
women live, thrive, jive, with their pow-
er over us.
No right to choose? you lose!
old, bold, gold, fat-white, quite silly, deciding willy-nilly
what you, me, can do, can be.
Rape? What a jape, all fake, fakers, right?
Who's legitimate now? How can you say
these mad, bad, sad, things?
Revolution hinges on the backs
of women kicking
old, bold, gold, fat-white, quite dicking
men
in the sacks.