Shining threads

Shining threads

Monday, 21 October 2013

It's like

It's like touching someone so lightly they don't even know.

It's like coaxing bubbles back to soapy liquid.

It's like shadowing the steps of an invisible spirit moving across the desert.

It's like diving through pauses into an ocean of silence.

It's like sketching wind.

It's like peeling a rainbow from the sky.

It's like smoking clouds.

It's like spinning a hula hoop and never stopping.

It's like being slow-cooked in a creative casserole.

It's like dancing with destiny, yet not letting her dictate all the moves.

It's like wedding fire and ice and drinking the result.

It's like making a shattered glass whole.

It's like juggling planets in an astrological circus.

It's like going backwards and forwards simultaneously.

It's like melting steel with your hands.

It's like injecting sunlight into your veins.

It's like calling back an avalanche from the top of a mountain.

It's like standing on the shoulders of a dozen dwarfs, to kiss an amorous giant.

It's like being swallowed by a cosmic lion.

It's like hitching a ride on the back of a fighter jet.

It's like lifting the top off a fertile volcano.

Part 2

It's like dancing with a cosmic lion, yet not letting him dictate all the moves.

It's like injecting fire and ice into your veins.

It's like being sliced by soapy liquid.

It's like juggling dwarfs in a miniature circus.

It's like diving through clouds into a sky of sound.

It's like melting a giant with your hands.

It's like touching a fighter jet so lightly the alarm doesn't go off.

It's like being slow-cooked in a fertile volcano.

It's like injecting dwarves into your veins.

It's like hitching a ride on the back of a cosmic lion.

It's like diving through soapy liquid.

It's like juggling hula hoops on the back of a fighter jet.

It's like wedding dwarves and giants and drinking the result.

It's like making a shattered lion whole.

It's like smoking ice whilst melting dwarfs in a fertile volcano.

It's like being sliced by a cosmic giant whilst juggling hula hoops in the desert.

It's like sketching lions whilst injecting a mountain into your veins, on the back of a fighter jet, and not letting the wind dictate all the moves.

And this is why, you should take out a subscription to Good Housekeeping magazine.

The clash of the cliches

The blindingly obvious met the glaring error in a darkly lit alley-way.

The atmosphere was tense.

A moment seemed like eternity.

The glaring error had bust his balls to get there on time and had arrived by the skin of his teeth.

He could murder a cold beer but had bigger fish to fry first.

So he said to the blindingly obvious, 'Fancy meeting you here. Come here often?'

The anger of the blindingly obvious lit his eyes like burning coals.

'You got a hell of a cheek addressing me like that. Didn't anyone ever tell you to respect your elders?'

A smile crept across the glaring error's face and he cracked his knuckles.

 'At the end of the day, the truth will out. It will hit you like a ton of bricks.'

He knew he could pack a punch which could knock most people for six.

But he also knew what goes around comes around.

So he carried along his way. 

Out of the bottle

The genius is out of the bottle.

The cereal has bust the box.

The bun is baked in the oven.

The dogs have outrun the fox.

The milk bottle has smashed and run all over the floor.

The key has been turned to unlock the door.

The spirit has transcended the flesh.

The no has been beaten by the yes.

This instinct to exceed our containers.

The urge to cash in our retainers.

The jackpot has been hit.

The state is deemed fit.

Poet mix

William Blake was a baker and hated Yeats.
He used wheat to make bread for Keats.
In his imagination he dreamt of primordial times
when natives shaked spears at other tribes
and had poetical battles to find out
whose words were worth the most.

Walt Whitman waited while ee cummings came.
He waltzed wondrously
MEANWHILE
EEC regulations on cumin imports
wilted all cringers.

TS Eliot tessellates a lot.
Sell lions Tse tse slot.

Shelley hell she yell yesh.

Byron and on and on.
Bye bye.

Trustafarian's prayer

Our father, who art in the city.
Hallowed be thy bank account.
Thy income come,
thy will be inherited,
taking from you on earth,
as we take from you when you are in heaven.

Give us today our daily bread
and give us our VIP passes,
as we give them to our mates.

But lead us not into temptation
of getting a job
and deliver us from employers.

For thou art the sugar Daddy,
the power and the glory,
forever and ever.
Our Dad.

Wednesday, 16 October 2013

The Quickening

The rotation of life-cycles
reaches higher pitch.
The tailoring of life's seams
reaches a more detailed stitch.

Things multiply.

Lift out of solid, stolid patterns
into a quickening.

Coaxed away from safe spots.
From fixed feelings
into a flowering,
a blossoming,
a quickening
into faster vibrations.


Fingers first

Fingers first.
As the tips touch the surface water
the frame is freezed.

She leans back,
into her deep sofa,
stretching her legs out long
and gazes at the diver's pose
abstracted from his flow
to handstand on the sea's fake floor.

Carelessly playing with the remote control,
she tap-taps the play and pause button
so he disappears down
in
a
series
of
incremental
steps.

The water's reaction uprises in slow motion.

She bathes in the assumed glory of one who can control nature,
through the precise manipulations of a video-reel.

This is the rhyme

This is the rhyme which got away.
The rhyme which took its time.
The rhyme whose chimes you can't quite grasp.

This is the rhyme which flickers at the surface of your subconscious.
The rhyme which is delivered through random ticker-tape feed.
The rhyme which comes unexpectedly from spilt seed.

This is the rhyme which is lost in the midsts of the past.
The rhyme which evokes the sublime.
The rhyme whose rhythm goes deep into the body's memory.

This is the rhyme which smiles when you make a faux pas.
The rhyme which is not controlled.
The rhyme which academics do not extol.

This is the rhyme which winks quite contrary to expectation.
The rhyme which gives you pause for thought.
The rhyme which the clauses of the contract do not cover.

This is the rhyme which the forecast did not predict.
The rhyme which breaks the clouds on an overcast day.
The rhyme lying in your pocket, which was not meant to be there.

This is the rhyme which taps you on the shoulder.
The rhyme which laps at your shoreline incessantly until recognised.
The rhyme which fractures received wisdom into bouquets of blossoming truths.

This is the rhyme which, against the odds, knows you better than most.
The rhyme which was buried in a field for no good reason.
The rhyme which was hidden in a world with a narrow script.

This is the rhyme whose only crime was to shame those out of line.
The rhyme which speaks of calamity only as a call to action.
The rhyme which weakens the cocksure and strengthens the cautious.

This is the rhyme which dances out of time to all but the most graceful music.
The rhyme which everyone sees but very few notice.
The rhyme which beckons with a crooked finger towards new possibility.

This is the rhyme which speaks to all, including those who listen.