All I Need

The world has a way of shouting

despite having nothing to say!

I want every day to have that Sunday vibe

I've done lifes chores 

I don't care about the weather 

and I am tired of bright flickering screens,

the glow that promises everything - yet delivers only a hollow emptiness, 

so I shall pull the curtains shut

not to hide,

but to see what remains

when the glare has gone.

I know my bones have found their own rhythm

one much slower than that of the clock on the wall.

I want to sit in the heart of an afternoon

where the only sound

is the soft rhythmic breathing of the dog

settled next to me on the sofa

my only pressure

our warm loyalty 

and her knowing that I'll feed her later

and knowing that my wife is sat across from me - a quiet presence, 

a familiar grace.

We do not need to cloud the air with speech.

the silence between us is not empty

it's an understanding 

an understanding between two entwined souls.

I don't care

the world can carry on without me.

Let the waves of breaking news 

break themselves against other shores - not mine!

I am retreating into the center of my life,

finding the man I was

before the world told me who I must be.

I am home,

the door is closed

and I have all I need.

Drugs

​The user.

It's all about the next fix

getting the money - by any means

locating a dealer 

maybe on a street corner 

down a dark alleyway 

and getting the deal done.

​The users future is just a map with all roads leading back to this same street corner

this dark alleyway,

with everything else erased - pointless

like a heart that forgets how to care,

a body with no soul,

this everyday ritual

is a ritual every day,

these small bags of powder exchanged for a crumpled note, 

a coin of the realm.

The dealer.

Just a middleman 

the rarely seen ghosts,

passing on the misery

often users themselves

supply to survive

selling a brief exit 

from a world that feels too heavy to bare

in a gloomy world

dealers pass on a moment of light

that eventually dims into the inevitable ending.

​These consequences don't arrive in a flash of light

more,

like a cancer

imperceptible at first

unnoticed

unfelt

in which ​the 'wallet' feels it first - emptied out until it has no reason to exist 

​like a house with no roof,

no windows

just a cold; wet pile of bricks

nothing more,

pointless

on just another pointless day 

on another pointless afternoon like any other.

The Drug Lords.

The 'number one'.

'The boss'

​just follow the money

up the chain, 

up past the dealer on the street corner 

up past the dark alleyway,

up to where the air smells of cologne and expensive cars.

At the top of the chain

the 'drugs lords' sit in their ivory towers

looking down at a city,

a city they’ve turned into a chessboard - one where it's always their next move.

​They're not affected by what they trade in

they don’t even walk the streets on which it's sold - they hover over their destruction in helicopters!

Their garages house cars that cost a lifetime of 'deals',

deals that cost lives.

Huge houses full with the 'hangers-on'

the 'hired hands'

people who look like magazine covers,

beautiful

yet false - and temporary!

​And sat beneath a chandelier made from tear shaped crystals - the 'top man'

he; never content with his vast wealth

totally uncaring,

callous

oblivious to the fact that the silk sheets on which he sleeps

were woven by the short miserable lives of the users,

who wait,

with the crumpled notes,

on the street corners,

down the dark alleyways, 

the seedy places where his deals are done.

Sofa So Good

We've got a new sofa. 

I haven't sat on the new sofa - so far

so I don't know

whether it's sofa so good

...or not!

Storm - Gale

Rain

overwhelming.

'Gale's' a pretty name!

saturating all

vistas; gone!

felling history 

helpless

that; in her path

lazy rivers

now

fierce 

angry

brown snakes,

feeding

on sodden land,

single raindrops

team

together 

transform

roads to rivers

fields to lakes

drains unable,

impotent

incapable

powerless,

reject

helplessly 

overloaded

spewing water 

creating fountains

round and round

washing machines

rinse; cycle;

repeat!

falling from black skies

churned by

wheels of cars,

amusement rides

water flumes

unstoppable

resistance 

futile 

single minded

"must

get

back, 

back to the sea

...you will not stop me!"

ADHD - Bin Bags

​I sailed from Exmouth to Durham for supplies,

anchoring near a café off the high street - for bin bags.

Bin bags  - ​I was meant to get bin bags! 

I initially went so as I could drop that parcel ashore

to a cove somewhere 

somewhere between the mustard and the bread - but I forgot!

I forgot the bin bags!

It was that old salt 'Geordie' who said I was to sail to Durham,

and then sand entered my head

blown up along the seafront.

Sand. 

Which sand? 

What?

Sand?

Which..?

Sandwiches!

I forgot to wrap the sandwiches

before I stowed the cling-film below deck.

​The waves like meringues

brought the cream ashore, 

but what of the rest of my list?

I must store those bin bags, 

I must do the recycling,

clear the decks,

or those meringues;

like the waves 

are going to be history!

But look at those fence panels - sea defences toppled by the gales,

bubbles in the wind,

like...

Wait, bubbles!

Did I finish the washing up?

​Why am I holding my wallet? 

...bin bags - I need to get bin bags!

Wait - or was it chocolate? 

No bin bags!

​How could I forget?

I was moored up alongside the shop after all!

​aground -  like a yacht caught in a whirlpool

I’m standing in the kitchen with a tiller in my hand,

wondering why the lock gates were open,

and why I have my oil-skins on!

Where I’m supposed to be? 

Oh! - the shop!

...and bin bags!

Truth

Truth used to be a mountain -

elevated, 

singularly massive

something you could climb, stand upon

and from which you could see everything; clearly.

Not now.

​Now it is all smoke and mirrors

a fantasy built from pixels and electrical pulses.

It is whatever shape you wish it!

The press deals with truth through a combination of rigorous

ethics-driven reporting,

and conversely,

through methods influenced by commercial, 

political, 

and at times, 

sensationalist pressures.

Sometimes with a guided purpose,

other times caught up in the storm of coming first - where accuracy is the tax paid!

​On glowing screens which,

in our homes,

illuminate our evening faces,

the broadcast voices

dress in the costume of certainty

speaking in bold fonts and primary colours,

carving the world into them and us

'til the middle ground resembles a ghost town

leaving the facts to dress as mere ornaments.

​Then comes the mobile tidal wave!

A billion voices,

shouting in their echoy cathedral of choice.

Their chosen algorithms - the silent librarians,

whisper only what they want you to hear,

building digital rooms without windows

where those echos sound like an anthem.

​And off stage to the left - an AI chuckles to itself,

the mirror that has learned to dream,

creating the 'almost-real'

from the threads of everything we have ever said!

Something that doesn't know the taste of an apple,

only the maths behind the word 'juicy'.

​Truth hasn't vanished

it has just been shattered into a trillion pieces!

It no longer waits to be found,

it is the 'Ikea' flat-pack

delivered; to be assembled 

piece, 

by jagged piece,

with a steady hand 

...and with a skeptical eye!