The Universe

I awoke one morning to find a star
shining in glorious beauty before me;
it remained within my sight for so long,
blinding me to the rest of the world as
I became enthralled in utter infatuation -
I had fallen in love.

And one day, this star became more
tangible than ever, more real than
anything I had ever experienced,
so I decided to try and grab the star
floating before me, as I was absolutely
certain that it would make me happy.

But every time I reached out to take
hold of my loving star, it was beyond
my grasp, and I began to doubt then
whether or not the star wanted to be held -
What gives me the right to possess a
gem of the universe? I asked myself.

It began to shake violently, then, its glow
wavering with the violence, the love
creaking and cracking, splinters of star
becoming shards as it began to fall apart -
and it finally dawned on me that the star
was never floating before my eyes.

It was dangling by a string in front of me,
a string that stretched over my head
and connected with a strap on my back;
I was like a horse chasing a carrot all the time,
believing in a prospect because it seemed
so tantalisingly close, so impossibly close.

And as the star crumbled into its pieces
I shed a tear for the needs of the soul
and for my own blindness, but I could
not be angry because the star had brought
me hope and love when both seemed lost -
now I simply find myself home again.

The Truth

This life is a path
so well-worn,
The soles of our feet
weathered, torn,
Contemplating why
I was born,
And find the mistakes of
those not sworn.

Those, my parents, once
so free,
One of whom I can
never see,
He, in his wisdom,
chose to flee,
The burden of rear-
ing we three.

We, my brothers, so
very young,
They forget the noose
he strung,
Delicate knot from
which he hung,
Escape from hell his
nail marks clung.

Hell, this air, those of
foible thought,
Spread the chosen all
which is fraught,
Lies of a book hope-
lessly nought,
In faith and promise
all is lost.

Parents of parents
cry believe,
Callow triumphs will
to deceive,
Even when God rash-
ly bereaves,
Parents of parents
cry believe.

Truth is denial
so well spun;
Hope is denial’s
deed well done.

Resignation

And…

I will not say anything
That has been said already.

So I quit.

Hold

Entrenched in a backwards land,
You sought a shot over my hand.
Not ready to give up the fight,
Enlightenment without the light.

Manoeuvre your hips without designs,
Burning bonds where I built shrines.
I wander these futilities of being,
And you alone are all I am seeing.

Surrounding tents inhibit progression,
Their sounds of ecstasy spark depression.
Beyond flimsy doors a landfill lies,
As pill-poppers revel in their guise.
And you abandon this portable crack den;
I try to follow but lose you, then.

Friends wear faces not known before,
Bemoaning bags accidentally torn.
They piss in bottles to stay so sly,
And all the while I just lose my mind.

We watch hope wilt in a poor show,
That was when you decided to go.
Left alone and with nerves unsteady,
I turned to leave as the rain got heavy.

Surrounding tents inhibit progression,
Their sounds of ecstasy spark depression.
Beyond flimsy doors a landfill lies,
As pill-poppers revel in their guise.
And you abandon this portable crack den;
I try to follow but lose you, then.

And my torch fails in this drug-addled city,
And a voice whispers “Isn’t that a pity?”

So

I stand there forever, holding the same person.
I stand there forever, holding the same person.
I stand there forever, holding the same person.
I stand there forever, holding the same person.

Yet I never held you to begin with;
Our existence was a self-made myth.

Jonsi

March of the arachnids after he kicked the
bucket in delicate Icelandic tones,
Jonsi’s Gobbledygook remains the most
beautiful musical medium of
transversing across the mind’s antipodes.
Human ears discern utter emotion
in a crowd too lost in straight-sighted
passion to witness the many acts of
pure affection playing out beneath the
laser beams spearing this dark tent of hope.
Floating above the shadowy bobbing
heads of the revellers is a mangled
dollar sign that exposes itself as
a twisted heart-shaped balloon which becomes
rainbow coloured when pierced by the lasers,
with a solitary red bulb dotting off
its bizarre existence of entrancement.
And the lighters come out, not to spark a
cigarette or a joint, but to acknowledge
the pulsing beats’ part in gifting life to
the forests, the fire flies and the ravens
that now two dimensionally materialise.
Jonsi tells us to go do and do we go,
all of us faceless strangers swept away
in the euphoria of clapping and
the rising crescendo of the rhythm.
This reverie of conjuring tricks that
has fooled my mind feels like a moment long
drawn out that will never be repeated -
and the truth of that thought makes me want to
cry in mourning for the loss of the present.