31 July, 2007 at 10:14 (Uncategorized)

Iron is what binds. When it fell from the sky, when the light knocked it from the heavens it was iron. It was the most intense then and it drew us like flies. not us,you understand, but those who would become us, those who we will be.

I am not answering your questions you say. And you wave your horseshoe threateningly, it is obvious you do not know what you are doing. But it pleases me that someone has come to ask something, even if you do not know the right questions to ask.

I told you. Iron is what binds. Iron is what you are looking for, at the end of your journey you’ll see a lump of rock and I wonder if you’ll recognise it for what it is. (I could tell you at this point that if you so much as touch the gold cup on top of the rock that one side or other will drag you off to serve them and service in either army isn’t much fun from what I’ve seen. They do coke you up to the eyeballs though. Well, not coke per se but something that seems to do similar things to you guys.)

Now you’re looking at my legs and I if I could poke your questions that way I would, except of course you’re being restrained by politeness. Damn you. Damn you for your stupid iron waving and your lack of understanding, no one has ever asked. No one ever asks.

Now you’re shocked, telling me you thought I couldn’t touch your horseshoe – did it scare you to have a crippled old man tear that thing out of your hand. And now I’m holding it and you’re wondering just what else I can do.

Oh… you’ve dared to say it, have you? Dared to say that you thought that my kind couldn’t touch iron. My kind. That word. You don’t even know what my kind is. Iron is what binds. It binds me and it binds you and when they knocked it out of the sky, that first iron, that first shooting star they drew us in like flies, got us out of the way and we could never leave it’s side. We never can, have our own place in the mists and that iron comes and goes and binds us, binds all of us. But the place in the mists is a constant, it is only lately, in the last thousand years say that they realised what they did when they knocked something that was not light and was not dark from the sky. Then they came, both of them, and they placed that golden cup over our Lux Stone.

Ah. I have given you the truename and by the looks of you you don’t even recognise it.

That golden cup, reach out for it because it’s gold and you are lost to one side, reach out to it because it’s pure and you are lost to the other. Reach out for the Lux, nor light, not dark and come into the mists and you are safe. From them at any rate, not condemned to war for ages but condemned to be with us, the others, and you do not like our rules for there are none. And you do not like our games for we play seriously. Come into the mists, it’s what you’re questing for after all and now that I’ve taken away your iron you could get there, you are unbound now, just ask the right question and you could find your spiritual gateway.

But no. You have condemned yourself. You are afraid of the old man. You are reciting a charm to get rid of elves all unknowing that it binds you more effectively than it rids you of me. I am back to the mists and the Lux Stone and your masters will fight over you until one of them captures you totally.


That is not the nature of the Quest.


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30 July, 2007 at 20:16 (Uncategorized)

Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake,
Baker’s man,
Bake me a cake as fast as you can,
Mark it with M and mark it with E,
Oven-cook it for baby and the machine.

When we had learnt about the old days at the first school that I went to, before all the dates and the true history of the Machine Disaster had been taught to us, we had learnt some childrens games and been told that they had played in ways very similar to our own.

For some reason, and I certainly cannot think that the teachers would have dared to tell us what use the rhyme had eventually been put to, the clapping game, ‘Pat-a-cake’, had been very popular. Mostly the girls would gather and play it but some boys too and for years and years after the initial history lesson. In fact I don’t think it’s popularity wained in our playground until the history lesson that we first learned of the Disaster and why things were not as they had been in the olden times. I think when I was a child I had just assumed that of course things were different, that was then and this was now – why would they be the same? It was so very simple.

I don’t know if they play pat-a-cake in all the places I’ve come up for air. But sometimes when I’ve been swimming through the swirling mists and bubbles it has seemed that I’ve heard it. Maybe because of the associations, maybe because the beating of my own heart provides me with all the music I have and I needs must give it lyrics, a beat, something to distract me from the constant pull of the tides that I swim within, of the bubbles that I breathe within.

It was always pat-a-cake in the playground, we learnt other games, clapping games I mean, in that lesson about children from the olden days, but pat-a-cake was the one we liked.

Sometimes, as I pass through distorted images of my own old days, as the gold and green flows over and through me, I want to tell the people I see, the strangers and the friends, to breathe with me and clap over and over with me until we correct the old game that went wrong.

But the old game continues, because we cannot stop what has passed and although it is me, and him, who swim through the realities and bubbles within those tides we are all, in each different breath-space condemmed to live according to the actions of the past, both our own and those of everyone around us. We confine ourselves, define ourselves according only to the rules of the bubbles that we continue to make. The disaster of the machine was that it tried to set us free, I begin to understand now how it thought it would do that. I begin to understand that it tried, not to destroy us as we were taught, as children, for all I know, are still taught now within the calm spaces between the tides. It was not that the instructions that we gave the machine were wrong but that they were opposing, that they were dichotomous. The machine created that bubble that we thought would give us freedom and had we allowed it to continue perhaps it would, perhaps free of all these tides we would have found freedom…

(Except that I begin to enjoy this swimming, my longing for him does not diminish but I grow used to it and it’s pangs).

But as a species we did not allow it to continue undisturbed. The ettiquette of our ancesters was such that they could not. For it was machine and they man. The ettiquette that they had devised naturally would have reflected that. But it did not allow for a difference in understanding. Man’s understanding of nature, of causality is naturally a personalised one, yet it believes the machine’s understanding to be an entirely general one, non-specific. It does not allow for personalised causality, it does not allow for the bubbles to each and every one have a distinct understanding of the way the tides work. The machine’s understanding does and so manages to be both personalised and non-specific and that was where the ettiquette caused the first disaster.

My own disaster, our own disaster, the thing that happened to us, that was caused not by a lack of ettiquette or a lack of understanding that ettiquette as I had originally assumed, but rather by a lack of communication. I had pulled the buttons and the levers as I had been told of and in the historically accurate way but I had not attempted to communicate with the machine, I did not desire connection, I did not desire freedom back then although had anyone asked I would have thought that I did. Who does not desire freedom after all? It was taught to us in schools; ‘Everyone desires freedom’. They have forgotten I think, that although it was taught in the old days what it means to be free, it is not taught now.

The machine had reacted as emptily as I had and then it had taken pity upon us, two travellers who happened to be together not through any great acts on our parts but by happenstance. The simple occurance of decisions that happened to coincide. The machine took pity on us and gave it what it knew that humanity should want, what everyone has been taught since the old days that humanity wants. It gave us freedom. And we swim now, and we will never see each other again. The tides are where we live, the tides and the continual mirrors of our lives. This sea is freedom, this empty collection of emotions, the soulless ocean that the machine has given us. I no longer believe that I may find a way out of this, nor do I believe any longer that death will let us out of this freedom. We have both been swimming for far too long now, I still hear of you out in the bubbles, my guides tell me, though they look older now and the bubbles change from the way that I remember them.

Sometimes there are glades and trees and I see a bracelet and a CD trapped in a birdsnest and I remember. Sometimes I see an overturned chess set and I remember. Sometimes I would rather forget, when I am sat on heather on a mountain side and I realise that this is not him, that this is some facsimile extant within this calm. But we still swim and we cannot stop.

This is machine-granted freedom and the swimming has me very tired, but still the bubbles come and take me and sometimes when I stop I remember to breathe. I wonder whether it is still the same for him.

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30 July, 2007 at 11:44 (Uncategorized)

Stop me from living then?
And stop me from speaking,
And stop me from feeling, so sad.
Dare me to believe,
Dare me to think,
Dare me to… only to believe,
But I can’t.
Stop me from this train of thoughts,
Because I’m leaving now,
Hovering now,
And I know,
That I am ending what never began.
Just a child, unable to understand,
The difference between,
What is said and what is meant,
And waiting, just waiting,
To make my final mistake.

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Beautiful Girls

30 July, 2007 at 00:01 (Uncategorized)

I’ve always found,
It’s not the men, it’s the girls,
Who wrap me up in knots,
And who, I’m terrified of losing.

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29 July, 2007 at 23:52 (Uncategorized)

Don’t like cherry flavour?
Tough, I’m cherry all the way through,
Think that your not nice enough?
No one could have been nicer than you…
Cherry all the way through,
Out here on my flat roof,
No one could have been nicer than you,
But no one’s touching me now,
It’s another trip in the mists,
This time I’m going the way of obscurity,
Cherry flavoured all the way through,
It doesn’t matter what any of you do,
I can’t seem to shake it,
No one could have been nicer,
But I’m out here on the roof,
The iron railings are louder than the party inside,
Eugenides got it right,
And we are lost especially if others see our light,
Don’t like the flavour?
Looks like you couldn’t keep up,
It goes all the way through,
Never have been able to lose it.

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29 July, 2007 at 23:03 (Uncategorized)

I am nothing,
Just to be watched,
A bit like TV.
Or a cinema show,
A documentary,
Of a Lisbon girl who never made it to the Point.
Say it to me then,
What you want me to hear,
I’m sitting across the street,
And I know,
That you think, all of you think,
I’m having sex up on the roof,
In front of you all.
Me and a moral crisis,
Unheard of.
So pass Trip onto me after you’ve finished with him, Lux,
He’ll leave me in that moment when ten seconds have passed,
Passed out, passing out,
On the football field,
In the shower,
On the bathroom floor.
Not as brave as Cecilia I hang on like Mary,
But without the sleeping pills,
Hanging on,
Hanging on,
To some vision of the neighbourhood,
Some illusory community,
That I would know didn’t exist,
If I had the luck, the guts, the lux
To shine like a beacon on the roof,
Copulate before you all,
Lance to chalice,
Spear to cup,
And fire into the lake,
See where the air is passing and follow on,
I would jump.
I will have the lux,
The light will be mine,
If I can just be something,
Speak again…
Oh, your favourite song?
Play me the words over the telephone.
There is nothing to me,
The words move me not at all,
I know they should.
A Lisbon girl who never made it to the point,
Mary without the pills,
Hanging on,
Gripping the edge of the roof I never fucked on,
Though you all thought you saw me,
I never fucked at all,
A virgin, ready to leave go,
I will have the lux, the light is mine,
Hang up the telephone,
No point ringing me now,
The clocks have stopped.

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Guy With Boobs

27 July, 2007 at 22:56 (Uncategorized)

Just another,
In the crowd,
That you attract like flies,
Not so much of the boy about me,
But thats the only difference, afterall,
Another guy with puppy-dog eyes lusting after you.
Do feel free to ignore me,
After all,
I made the mistake of reading signals badly,
Another face in the crowd,
Did I say so aloud?
Of course I did,
I’d find it easier to be honest with you
After all.
Ignore my eyes,
I can’t help them.

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26 July, 2007 at 00:53 (Uncategorized)

I like to play,
But I was never very good,
At knowing, when I should stop.
I do so like to play.

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Rose Quartz

22 July, 2007 at 10:14 (Uncategorized)

Went to sleep, last night,
Holding it in my hand,
Woke up this morning,
Gripping like a sailor who’s been drowning,
Do they really grasp straws that way?

This pleasant country seat,
With the air so good,
The night-air so cooling, calming,
Bringing strangers on the breeze,
Who talk and laugh and bring a life-rope.

Will stand now, at a wedding,
Symbol of true-love in my hand,
Feeling like a sailor who’s been drowning,
I’ve never found that love could be my life raft,
But a straw thats shaped like friendship, might be.

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20 July, 2007 at 12:29 (Uncategorized)

I don’t want to go home today,
I don’t want to listen to their questions,
Don’t want to have to smile,
Put out my confident face,
Pretend that its all going to be alright,
Didn’t I do this before?
Where was the journey I was going to take?
Why am I here and failing in everything I do?
But I’m going home today,
Fake smile big on my face,
Pride in everything that I’ve achieved,
It’s all so long ago…
Pretend it’s all going to be alright,

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