Jimmy


I never meant for any of it to happen

I’d take places with you if we could do it again

I’m carrying on

I’m doing my best

But sometimes I can’t wait

To see what comes next

Red Queen


Now you’ve absorbed it into your system
Now that you’ve allowed it to be true
Now that you’ve neutralised it, made it safe, made it yours
Now that you’ve been photographed, recorded
What are you gonna do?
What are you gonna do?

Is it so unsafe when you are
Insecure in the space where you are?
Is it so, really so,
Is it more real?
Is it more yours?
Is it more yours?
Is it more real, for you,
Than it is for him or me?
And the people who perceive it
Repeat it, distort it, improve it, update it
Slightly change it
And these people believe it
And write it all up for you
And is it more real?

And is it more real?
Does it make it more yours,
Now you’re recorded as having said it?
And being seen and done it
People have been seen to take notice
So empty
Is it so awful to be seen to feel and fail?
Overheard and noted to authenticate his story
An unsafe male trait
You know what they say
That empty vessels ring true, like bells
Make the most noise
The ink is still wet
In this case, the medium is not

Is it so unsafe when you are
Insecure in the space where you are?
Is it so, really so, unsafe you can’t let
Let go?
Is it so unsafe when you are
Insecure in the space where you are?

What are you going to do if they don’t believe you?

Amber Ether


 

Can you feel it run through you
Changing you
Defining you
Who you are
Are you afraid to accept it
Do you want to, let it go

Fire of the Mind


Does death come alone or with eager reinforcements?
Death is centrifugal
Solar and logical
Decadent and metrical
Angels are mathematical
Angels are bestial
Man is the animal

The blacker the sun
The darker the dawn

Lost Rivers of London


I have sat there and seen the winter days finish their short-spanned lives; and all the globes of light — crimson, emerald, and pallid yellow — start, one by one, out of the russet fog that creeps up the river. But I like the place best on these hot summer nights, when the sky hangs thick with stifled colour, and the stars shine small and shyly. Then the pulse of the city is hushed, and the scales of the water flicker golden and oily under the watching regiment of lamps.

The bridge clasps its gaunt arms tight from bank to bank, and the shuffle of a retreating figure sounds loud and alone in the quiet. There, if you wait long enough, you will hear the long wail of the siren, that seems to tell of the anguish of London till a train hurries to throttle its dying note, roaring and rushing, thundering and blazing through the night, tossing its white crests of smoke, charging across the bridge into the dark country beyond.

In the wan, lingering light of the winter afternoon, the parks stood all deserted, sluggishly drowsing, so it seemed, with their spacious distances muffled in greyness: colourless, fabulous, blurred. One by one, through the damp misty air, looked the tall, stark, lifeless elms. Overhead there lowered a turbid sky, heavy-charged with an unclean yellow, and amid their ugly patches of dank and rotting bracken, a little mare picked her way noiselessly. The rumour of life seemed hushed. There was only the vague listless rhythm of the creaking saddle.

The daylight faded. A shroud of ghostly mist enveloped the earth, and up from the vaporous distance crept slowly the evening darkness. A sullen glow throbs overhead: golden will-o’-the-wisps are threading their shadowy ribbons above golden trees, and the dull, distant rumour of feverish London waits on the still night air. The lights of Hyde Park Corner blaze like some monster, gilded constellation, shaming the dingy stars. And across the east, there flares a sky-sign, a gaudy crimson arabesque. And all the air hangs draped in the mysterious sumptuous splendour of a murky London night.

I’m gonna drown myself in the lost rivers of London
I am gonna drown myself in the lost rivers of London

 

From Hubert Montague Crackanthorpe’s Vignettes (1896)

Amber Rain


Amber rain is beautiful but wrong
Caught between weak and being strong
It seems these days the weaker ones survive
What an awful way to find out you’re alive

A dull warm red water falls
Flowing down to the sea
Where deeper darker waters wait for me

I don’t expect I’ll ever understand
How life just trickled through my hand