Good Dick

My dear friend Marianna Palka made a beautiful movie called Good Dick, after seeing the movie she invites viewers to share 'what good dick means to you'.


Smallest etchings are made into the disruption, a pinked hand shakes off the shroud and reveals honest bewilderment.
Tears soaked up by the skin of a loved one, lying in the cradle of their neck and being gifted with love and insight.
A great fire of eradication, walls of a long dead city crumble and a white dust cloud settles on unblemished skin, healing and invigorating.
Freedom is awarded by a bold sword; relinquished fear now burns at our feet and guides us on, infusing our fancy.
Old masks disintegrate into the atmosphere and join together to create a huge dirt pile that with determination will fit into a locket for cherishing and consideration.
Most profound grief becomes a tool with which to light the way, to hold up to the battered faces of others and draw them out of a sinking universe.
Cathartic experience, distortion of role and finally owning a footprint; taking a place and holding steadfast.

Instead of Sleep

In the deepest navy of night, a sapphire shadow tip toes round my bed chamber,
Considered steps disturb the dust and whisper to me in my sleep.
A light, forgiving breeze opens the window and licks at my feet;
My heart skips a beat in my chest and my dreams light up in brightest magenta,
My naked body lies between the darkened sheets, unaware as the shadow grips the bed post.


A moment frozen in time, a forever sleep, under the watchful gaze of an elusive face.
Relish the seeming endlessness of peaceful regeneration amid a mystic night,
With the passing of each breath uncertainty grows and takes me higher.


Now glowing, the sapphire shadow drags her finger across my lips, my dream erupts;
The finger traces the features of my face, i feel it pulsing against my skin, warm soothing.
Now a palm of great strength pushes down slowly against my belly, 
I feel blood rush to my face, My heart beat remains steady; my dream alternates.
And the shadow grabs at my skin, pinching flesh, a silent bombardment.


A sound drums the atoms of the air and changes the room, height becomes light,
The sounds is deep and penetrating, the earth vibrates and worships the sonic hail.
A sapphire shape is disturbed and panics every morsel of my skin.


My voice tightens and the sound dissipates, my dream is interrupted.
Eyelids flutter and deepest navy cycles the rainbow as dust settles dead to the floor.
A shadow is eradicated as day seizes her by the hair and drags her from my side,
The world becomes my own again as I trace a sapphire kiss etched into my lips.

Resist

I have no tears for the polluters and their endless tattoo, ode to mediocrity.
That they make grey their air and button down their uniforms so stiffly, stiflingly, strangled to their frames;
That they gossip in shadows and tighten their belts at the feast;
That they never will awaken most certainly from those endless dreary days, melting as contrived plastic, cooling solidifying a battle of brown.
Not on my street will I allow the deadened crowd, when not one face may offer me spark or spray;
That the cogs in their mind grow rusty and limit their thoughts still more as they age;
That their middle ground is consuming, seething, gloating even grinning and fooling them into waste. Waste ---
light. dull. ground. returning no flower or smile.

NO STOP

Along a lighted string I find my way peering at the world through listless eyes.

Rough texture of the string or rope grazing my hands, sometimes tickling me;

I might wrap myself up in the rope if only to find a moment’s stasis,

And a trickle of greasy green water meets my fingers as it rides down the rope.

Behind and in front of me yards and miles of rope, no time to stop

And take in my journey, I am compelled to move forward, I am pushed through space.

The path refracted though my choices, my moments of clarity

Green is the world again, I don’t recognise the air as it holds to its own course;

Everything with its place, everything harmonious and I feeling in the middle,

Feeling stifled, a cycle is in motion around me and I cling on tight to my guide.

Peace is a steady gaze ahead.

The Truth

Do you know what it sounds like? It is so horrible.

I’ve never felt more belittled than the time I did it to myself.

I’d brought it on myself. I knew that.

But to be so vulnerable and know that you were the cause;

It takes you to say “shit shit shit”

Well now I’m safe, im saved in fact.

I’m around those that make me complete,

All I can think is that one-day ill be strong enough;

I’ll be strong enough to do things I never had the guts to make up;

And it’ll be you; you that gave me the power.

I love you.

Tasty Blood

How did I manage to find a momentary masturbation at the back of the television?

A dusty personality, Festering amongst those obnoxious channels.

Deep in that murky soup of soaps I lost my confidence,

I lost my voice and replaced it with a thousand impersonations of other wanker's I never met.

To be so trite.

Obvious is that I'm the only one with a net, the only one capable of fishing myself out.

What is that sickly part of me that likes the taste of my wounds?

Deep in the salty black and grey depths no one can see you cry -

The way you like it, no one should ask you for an explanation then.

Cheated

In acknowledging desire I might extrapolate an argument,

I could cover the walls of my mind with didactic discourse,

With the point of preparing myself to be challenged.

For a never to be uttered retort,

I shall stack the shelves of insolence

and break my back stoking the fires of righteous intent.

I shall chart detailed maps of my justification,

And mark on all the clocks my hour.

When rudely, at the laborious culmination of my toils,

I find the moment stolen from me,

My purpose is dashed and has been delivered to me on a platter

Before I'm allowed to deliver my first band of infantry.

O Spite!

I recoil in my refusal to admit that my prize was less an objective

As my ability to press my weight over another.

As red fades still to ember,

I eat quietly my cake, splitting crumbs with a knife.

My lemon scorched tongue illiterate of thanks.

Feel Better

My Catharsis:

the purging of the emotions or relieving of emotional tensions, esp. through certain kinds of art, as tragedy or music.

1            Writing; journal entries, stories, poetry, notes, ideas, scribbles.

2            Smoking on the back step after midnight.

3            Training in Suzuki – GAM BA TAE!

4            Talking quietly with a close friend.

5            Cooking and inventing new recipes.

6            Buying a new book and reading it.

7            Dancing to ‘The Chain’ at Optimo.

8            Listening to Patti Smith.

Thanks be to the Glorious Rebels

Absence

I just discovered that I’m angry.


The kind of angry that makes your pours tense up and vomit.
The kind of anger that chokes your sternum and pierces you with a thousand corkscrews.
The kind of angry that makes your muscle clad bones vibrate with the force of a jet engine.


This kind of anger will always take me by surprise.


It’s the kind that takes hold of you when you have been drenched in moth shaped lies.
Maybe what happened was that you fell out of your own body into that of a frail decrepit creature.
(maybe you were pushed).
Or perhaps you swam six thousand seas only to find you were travelling in the wrong direction,
And are now clambering up a red beach, sticky with fatigue and gasping for honesty.


This feeling, which has its claws all over my body, offers me new abilities.


I can hold my breath for as long as I want; my desire to fill with oxygen is forgotten and destitute.
My eyes might become dusty now that I no longer feel thåe need to blink.
And my old enemy silence now soothes my back and whispers remedies in my ear.


This anger, which washes my eyes, is a thief and a bully.


Days of a colour and clocks of an hour haunt my senses and calibrate my emotions on a steely palate.
Truth, so long elusive in the mirror, now proves my face is cracked, my lips bent like ancient metal,
And everything that my eyes used to covet is drowning in autumnal dyes, scared of my memory and ignorant of identity.