her name was

her name was

she asked me to remember her

but i was already trying to forget while she plied me with pints of Lagunitas at the bar of the Crazy Horse.

she hoped that the alcohol would make me love her,her name was

or at least act as though I liked her,

for a few moments more of this short escape that was for her so exotic.

i fucked her once

up against her brand new Buick

under thin trails of moonlight at the side of a black country road in the forest close to where i had taken a room for a month.

she was a good, sweet, stupid girl

who probably deserved happiness more than most.

she liked fishing, John Wayne, and sending me photos of her perfectly fake tits that the weed farm had paid for.

i don’t think i will remember her,

but i will save her here

as i fly into a storm

towards a place the limits of her imagination will only let her dream of.

“I’m going to get a passport next year.”

memories cost more than distractions now.

i suppose they always did.

it was just that before the body fooled the mind into thinking the cheques the ego passed would never need to be cashed.

for the irresponsible they never really are anyway.

we brush off our debts

with a heartfelt embrace,

mad tales from the other side,

and an honest smile that sends you back to the bar happy for another stolen round.

the roads that take us away are simply different.

pot holed trails down the centre of nowhere.

in the middle of Rajasthan,

for example.

riding too fast with an Israeli yoga queen on the back,

armour-less and unprotected from anything outside of our bubble that could befall us.

for how will fear ever find you here,

floating almost formless off the map?

it caught up with us later

a lost front tooth, head injuries, tetanus shots, screams (not mine), scars for life, and a violent end to another soirée.

but that was minor

worthy wounds to exchange for those moments of life that you cannot forget,

those which set our cycle apart from the dumb merging into this thing that some call the solid ground of our dominion.

i’ll trade that every day for a motorcycle and something less than a village beside brutal, beautiful farmland in a gypsy desert.

slowing down to high-five naively naked, dirty little children who never saw a white man before.

then tearing back on the throttle,

flying along this path that we that we should never have ever taken

(could only ever have taken)

with just the sun and instinct as a guide and promise

that beyond the shimmering horizon of this place we didn’t plan to see

a slightly more formal reality lies in wait.

arriving anyway, of course.

sun burnt and ridiculous.

flighting not long after in the deep alcoves of the windows in our overly-elaborate, decadent hotel room.

the stubborn scorpion defining his fate once more, 

as he stares into the too weirdly turquoise lake of Bundi that bubbles under the April sun.

or was it still March then?

regardless,

that slow motion fall onto the asphalt is set in motion.

decreed in this awkward needles silence post some argument about sex,

or something else.

25 kms from Pushkar.

a shriek of unnatural collision. 

the flashback of a whole life.

the desecration of joy that was this unhindered roar through just another crazy day in a country that we know will never be tamed.

the one they cannot comprehend will always be so without ever having stood here

bled

cried

fought

laughed

learnt

and loved

here.

and understanding now,

in that eternal moment,

instantly frozen

before teeth meet ground,

that what you prayed would never come to pass was in fact essential and inherent.

a point of payoff.

the entry fee in part reimbursed for your gall to face off against the might of this great beauty which hurts as much as heaven.

the same heaven that is itself the pure light of love and wonder we pirates carry in our open hearts.

a vaunted gift i bow down to in supplication whenever it demands i touch the earth,

and resist a while longer the endless empty call of the Dharma bliss.

i still remember your name, Molly.

maybe not for much longer.

but Always

and Now i apologise for nothing.

No true soul need ever be sullied so.

Get your passport.

Ride the punches.

Dodge the snipers who know not that their bullets are only the bitter ballast of protection that masks the desolation and pain of their own lives’ sorry regret and envy.

Dream with me.

Fly,

Fall,

Forever. 

28/01/16 (For Saphir)

28/01/16 (For Saphir)

You want to take a step back from the monster

but you do not see that this void is all consuming

and that within it there is no such thing as movement.

you, the monster, the void, and I are all the very same thing.

My weakness and failure is that I pretend to let your naivety and ignorance control this deception.

To not explain to you

how the monster is your mother

brother

dead father

sister 

and son.

that the monster is not a scarred result of rape and pillage

but a new born baby filled with as much love, light and hope

as the raging fire of lust and attraction you fight to extract your searing skin away from now

the irony IS

that i too

daily reject the monster you flee

that i too

must believe in witches

mythology

false gurus

fake friends

and the true non-believers

who will turn all that is the best of our monsters

into the very essence of what sane men should fear.

it is normal for you to be running backwards from me.

and sad.

sad

that you will only make it back to where we already were

once i am nothing more than a memory,

or a nightmare that will never disappear.

You treat me like a killer.

A murderer of emotion with no feelings of my own.

You, the distraught bloodied victim

I, the rabid dog

aimlessly infecting the weak

and immature.

In 6 days the world around us was created.

In 3 i rip it up and tear it all to shit.

and how many days will this suffering last out

until sun down?

the next offer of an awkward fuck with a stranger i feel nothing for?

or until we have worn each other down right to the very bone?

there is nothing worse than love

left to die.

love

too fearful to breathe.

LOVE.

within the very centre of all the shared pain that is our love

all i want is to hold you close.

to simply lie still at your side

hold your hand

have your head lay on my chest

and whisper together

the spells of a language we don’t understand.

incantations,

that will undo all of the things that never cease to torment us.

what do we talk about when we talk about love?

Carver wanted to know this

and now

today

i understand.

love is not for life

it is the second where your fingers pulled softly away from my own

and i knew that it would be the last time i ever touch you.

love is not for life

it is the first words that we never even spoke

and the sly smile you tried to hide behind them

love is not for life

it is the provocations i can’t control

that turn us all into monsters

out of fear of being forever alone

and in pain.

love is not for life.

it is for secrets never to be taken back

then held over our heads like weapons of war

forever suspended in the ever nearing knowledge of our brutal end.

love is not a shortcut

that can be reached by the back road of Up Beat Beer

joints

and cocktails of Xanax, Valium, Tramadol, and Klononpin. 

love is not for life.

love is not for the living.

love is not for those who can never grow up

and compromise.

love is certainly not for a beautiful jewel

who belongs only to the universe

and knows nothing of these mortal fools

she has been forced to live amongst

love is not for a man

who fits not in the skin he was given

and takes fright each time a mirror reflects his image.

love is not repetition,

and nor is it soft.

it hurts and burns.

by your own hand

it slices indelible suffering into your skin

which in turn leave its own eternal imprint on my too soft heart

love is boring.

no, it is not.

it is never that.

love can be found

but only at the very edge of insanity.

love can be shared

but only in flashes.

like shooting stars

jumping dolphins

in the silhouetted glide of an eagle across the sky with a snake in its mouth

(and this I did say)

love is the falling sun

that we can never stop from leaving

even when we know that its tomorrow will bring

nothing more than fraud and pale imitation

of this perfect day that went before it.

love is nothing that is not romantic.

it stands alone

beneath the beauty of the stars

under which we are all eternally dying

at the same pace

in the same moment

stranded

grasping at the futile nostalgia for that other light we never even saw.

love is blah blah blah

a joke.

a poem of nothing

sometimes of everything.

a madness that has no cure.

love is the help that those from outside of us

bring to make us strong.

it is my brother who sees me walking only tall like a king

it is your sister who wipes your tears away when you cry and reminds you that you can never be anything but beautiful.

love is long.

yes, it is.

very short sometimes too.

love is a secret place

where i sit with Indians

and think only of you,

hoping that one day,

far away

these words will make you smile,

feel stronger,

and love me back in return a little,

even if only for a second that i will never know existed

love is everything that is lost in communication.

it is schlug.

sheshbesh.

mine-i-mum.

and “translate.”

love,

this love,

will come to an end

it will stab me in the heart

with my own spear

as i pass you on the beach

and turn in the other direction

knowing that where once you wanted only a smile

now you cannot bear to see my face.

love is the darkest part of my mind.

all that is confusion.

every dark spot that covers the light.

and love is a mirror.

one you must be afraid of.

the one which i stand before

but in which you can only truly see yourself.

love is knowing too well

that what hurts one so deeply

will only destroy another even more.

love is something i have never known

but fight to guess at 

and grab for everyday.

love is Sisyphus.

Sisyphus walking his hill,

arms and legs sore

under the terrible weight of his rock.

his love is that which punishment could not take away

and which he continues to carry in his heart.

love is the wife Sisyphus fooled the gods to see just one more time.

it is the colour of the sea.

the sound of his son’s voice.

and your smile.

then the sudden,

momentary enlightenment,

where his arms and legs hurt no more

the rock bears no weight

nor the hill any inclination.

and Sisyphus is still

Sisyphus is…

I don’t know what the fuck Sisyphus is.

On Broadway and Damascus

In this centre of everything, I feel at home.

yet I know I am mostly not welcome.

i am not a functioning part of this machine.

unsustainable,

my presence is only one to be entertained whilst there is currency in my pocket.

but my money is not on tap,

it’s on reserve.

most of it is not even mine.

and for all of the artists, models, fashionistas, pilates teachers, mad men officer managers, CEOs, and fuck if I knows,

i am an aberration.

a blip.

a second thought

pondered, then gone.

banished

and exiled back to the middle of nowhere almost before I even arrived.

but there is no rancour in any of this.

i’m having a good time.

it simply must happen,

and i do not mind.

choices were made,

lines were drawn,

but in this momentary now,

we’re both happy that fate has decreed we be bought together.

you can buy my drinks for a week without resentment.

i’ll engage your mind

make you laugh

kiss you

soothe you

and entice you into believing in a world that will never exist for either of us.

for any of us.

doubt will kick in.

but inside one of those frozen moments that dare to approach perfection,

which two even briefly connected souls cannot help but share,

i see so clearly how all of this could be so different.

that i could stay.

one day.

but you don’t know me.

i don’t know me.

catch me wrong.

find me riding wild with my devil and i might as easily put a blade in you as give you a smile.

or gouge out my eyes with a hot spoon and leave them on your doorstep.

there is no Ma Kali fiery enough to becalm that kind of Shiva.

evil resides within me.

just another facet to the game.

a dark web determined to entangle and engulf my go(o)d

my saint

the king deserving, and deserved, of your majestic queen.

yet all of this grand and scary talk is little more than myth.

stunted exaggeration.

mere mental masturbation.

a monster to hide behind.

an excuse to not be better.

an ill-fitting, disfigured mask that feigns ferociousness as a means to preempt pain.

to stop you from getting too close

and stealing a glance at my true reflection in the eternal mirror.

to deny you a peak at the precious flower of a soul

that is too delicate to survive any interaction that is not all consuming and absolute.

i’m afraid

this battle never stops.

not yet.

how long this never lasts is still undecided,

but it’s definitely outdone today.

tomorrow probably, too.

the sublime already shattered this illusion a million times over,

yet we keep getting lost in the bliss of our release.

pills and potions numb the pain triggered by the inkling of such knowledge.

tattooed philosophies and dreams of romance bridge the gap,

as we rise up and turn to blindly scale the mountain;

bound once more to the karmic conveyor belt that delivers us ceaselessly back

to the vortex of our own discontentment.

Tat Tvam Asi.

and in the sudden truth of that blinding flash,

we free-fall headfirst in wonder as we transcend the flatland of this torrid charade.

and, one fine morning.

one fine morning,

we will once again bask in the glory of our communion.

i etch out this oath to you in the tears of my own blood.

I live here now

welcome.
climb the stairs to my home.
sit down where my soul is bathed in the light that is often too strong for me to bear.
look out through the door to an alien nature that scares me.
laugh at the distractions I use to cover the walls I don't want to look beyond.
notice the places where it all merges together with your references to this side of the other.
walk with me into the garden which is off limits to exploration,
but where the water runs
as cold and soft
for me
as it would for you and your friends.
gaze up from the forest floor to the falling sun that barely touches us.
read words of church that I too would love to emulate,
take as my own,
and shine upon you,
and everybody else beneath this passing light.
touch my hand and lie still beneath the magnificent portent of tomorrow.
for better
or worse.
blessed in the stratum of every single one if its magical possibilities.

Poetry: Cherry Bleeds

DAY 1 wake up have big meeting cry in toilets surf kiddy porn fuck your wife (don’t fuck your wife) go to bed  wake up have some toast attend church walk round empty house forget who you are go to bed  wake up sign some papers kill some people masturbate speak at black tie dinner go to bed  wake up read sports pages swim in the sea eat write for 10 minutes go to bed wake up look out window speak to no one get picked up by mother cut insides of arms with little knife go to bed  wake up stand to attention stare out at horizon wish to not be here play football with friends go to bed  WAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUP

Poetry: Red Fez

the coming insurrection

 Simon Friel

all my heroes are junkies.
visionaries,
holy and defrauded in rejection,
comatose on a lost highway to paradise.

sleeping dogs lie awake.
tempting night.
                mourning
knells at dawn:
automatic resurrection floods day into subjugation.

city is isolation peopled.
pre-paid advertisements of bought fears
moments
movements devoid of contemplation.

embryonic decimation of self.

silent bones of living dead chime in the half-light.
half-life.
this nirvana is a false and perishable commodity.
the ringing in your ears true;
a shrill echo from the abyss which has swallowed your soul.

open your eyes to the sky.

pale faced Selene draws brilliance from violet dusk to night.
howl at her.
hold her in the palm of your hand.
eat the sun.
beyond
within
whole worlds await
to devour you.

salute a single magpie.
you are privileged
a precious gift that can be beautiful.
shed doubt.
believe.
realise.

the new nature is green
brown purple
blue
and perfect.

we have surpassed our heroes.
the path before us is clear and determined.
small stones whisper entreaties as they scatter down from our mountain top.

the coming insurrection is now.