Sometimes the night is too long

Yes, sometimes the night is too long...part 8 I think...

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

....there are many broken leaves here and they all say there are principles in softness; but broken hearts are a glue unstuck, and maths of a mourning date is no principle at all; I know there’s a responsibility out there somewhere like myths of mystery of a face I can never fathom, and when the face breaks down whatever love there is shines through; slow breakfast Monday with breasts of chicken wing and tea, bottle of wine bed ruffled head inside me; what wonder this one then, hmmm in hotel window bells of ringing, except the dancers have no clothes and yes more tea and too many memories to say this was a poem from: just this image left and oh the drunken head a swine so small a leaf this huge and found by light to wonder and where but don't look too close, there's not much to see in the wreck that floats, with the beauty of your eyes and ah, the morning poems written on the rock of the morning grey with thunder bells of religion that shout more in the I saw this and did you where a yard down the stairs I fell up a pretty face to smile this then as tomorrow’s poem written today and not the spider its sacrilegious cry nor the moon its jealous sky or the fabled story told a pretty face to smile, but if I saw this yesterday then today is here again to sing my song but I eat some food as I talk: spinach pies and much noisy rain outside and noisy people around; I prefer the rain, it sings to me, tells me secrets, as does the bird song that is answered from far away, and the trees that hold steady through it all as sometimes I find that how I feel is reflected in those ones that come close to me where I see that in them about me so it is nice when they reach out and I see that when I reach out, if they don’t respond it is ok, same is in me, but it seems things go around in circles and that if you wait long enough it all comes around, but quite why there should be so many bad days I can't say so sometimes you just have to stop and think, but I have gone and stuffed myself now with cheap food from the hogwash pickle in the jelly walk blues on a tank full of fuel to talk about that I bought an old banger car and took off and thought of going to the Sahara desert and just drive until there was I was no more, just driving to finish me off but I got to Dover and then Paris and then down through the Alps and into Barcelona but then kept going around in circles in a place called Badalona; bad alone so cried a lot then with no money left to get to Africa so decidedly turned around and drove back and got to Orleans on the gas fumes of it all but by then all food, water, money, petrol etc was gone, so took out bottle of wine I had been saving for emergencies and drank some in car park in centre of Orleans; it was dark, mid-winter, freezing; drank some more, smoked some; and then grabbed sax and wine and went looking for place to busk; in a dark back alley where young students were walking to a disco I set up and played blues, drank wine; top windows opened up in houses; girls stopped to listen; I played the hogwash pickle in the jelly walk blues; hours later I got enough money to get to Paris; then went busking for a couple of days and got enough to get to Calais; then Dover; went to soup kitchen for few days to eat, busked more; got enough money busking to fill up tank with fuel so then went back to where I began; walked in the house, went to my bedroom and lay on bed and looked at the ceiling; that was a hundred years ago and not much has changed since; in another country now, still on a wing and a prayer; spent some time in Thailand on the beach; seems I have been here for a very long time wherever I am and reading suitcases of books about law of attraction and how thoughts can change your life; not many books I have not read along those lines; done the asking and praying and angels and, hell, there's not much I haven’t tried to do to live in abundance, to thrive; I have so many skills, yet I go wasted; I have asked that they be used, all of them; but here I am, getting old, with so much that I want to do; but passion dies inside as the years go by and all the joy and bliss and fun and abundance and love and all else that I have asked for and know should be mine is spent in looking for what I want where it can't be found; but this is not really what I want to say but it is what comes out; there is a huge wanting to live, and so much more, yet it seems all doors are in a mist; what else can I do; I keep pulling myself back from complete annihilation and thoughts that turn to Zen; angel numbers, and words say: hold on, the miracle is coming, never give up, and, so many other things that are said; yet the years go by still and I am here wishing; but the prison is too dark, and the meditation does not lift me or take me from here; am I cursed; I was thinking quietly, that there are a huge number of people all over the world right now going through hardship, and some in incredible hardship; and there are trillions of dollars floating around the planet that the rich and super rich are picking up; who are they; are they human; seems to me to be an incredible injustice; there is more than enough to go around for everyone to thrive; and if it was not for an anonymous benefactor I would be living on the streets; it seems to me that there are a lot of people who do not care the least little bit how anyone else is so long as they are ok; the banks have more empty houses than there are homeless; I could go on about this kind of stuff for a long time but what would be the use; I bit my lip in the insanity of it all; have I done so wrong to be this way; will this just be: that I came and went, like this; if this is what I say that is, then perhaps I should say no more; if I ask you: my creator, for more, would you give it to me; but I have asked so much for so long; how can I do more than this in the asking; what can I say more than this; it seems that the more you are accepted by the social norm the better able you are to pull a buck out of the frying pan; if you can laugh a mile a minute at someone’s pun the more you can get classified as normal; which means: acceptance into the folds of the system; yes, and then the system’s doors down all those long corridors are accessible and to the bucks they promise; but every door that opens down that avenue is a door that closes on your soul; and the lizards that prey in the shadows of this long dark place eat your energy and replace it with sawdust; seems like most of us are healing, listening, hoping; days go by, turn into weeks and months; seems like now is always going by, turning into something else; so you do a lot of stuff and find you're at an end, or a new beginning; questing, wanting, desiring, needing; seasons come and go, like friends in the changing wind of it all; sometimes time seems to stand still while you rage inside to move; sometimes it is all too much and all you really want is to find that friend to be with, the one that is not too busy for you; ever moving onwards in this thing called life, leaving so much behind, lessons learnt, love felt, pain endured; and sometimes just a moment in it all that you can take a little time alone in a place where you can immerse yourself beneath the surface and just be in that moment's time of freedom, a swim, alone, where you forget who you are not and all there is, is a now; in the multi coloured fragments that were racing past; me and Zen were swimming upstream when from somewhere a tune came and filled us and sped us to heaven knows where through the iron might of surreal whispers leaving all the monsters far behind with the echoes of some madness sending us like surfers on the crest of a wave to ride into our future with a scream of joy we experienced from moment to moment as it came torn from our hearts and minds one step ahead of sanity’s towering weight we couldn’t push any further with our bleeding hearts and ripped mystical fingers and entwined bodies of love’s despair and anguish and sweet surrender in the night that had no full stop while breath was taken between the downing and the crashing roar suspended but speeding in a multi-coloured fragment racing past stars of oblivion and mindless but exploding novas of creation so hot and getting hotter and fuller and bigger and surrounding us with burning white over the ground turning super over the earth that once distilled our dreams but now let us fly like children; and soon enough to become the here and after all lost from the one to encompass and embrace with every moment’s burning intensity we couldn’t control nor ever understand yet desperately want and need and strive for in the fibre of our being pushing from beyond the form we knew and the form that becomes our stigma that was our dogma now light inspired, uncontained, not stumbling but running and feeling all intentional and unintentional molecular sparking atoms hitting all the senses expanding, expanding, expanding, flying, crying, screaming and blowing the mist where the fingernail grasp is finally let go to become the drift of where we were but who cares, there’s nothing here but ourselves to clue us in and play with and wander, wondering nothing is real because nothing is nothing and nothing’s all we got and nothing’s all we are and nothing’s fine because nothing’s far from something that isn’t electric vibration in the nothingness going nowhere and now here’s fine too if it’s not dissipated, just sometimes exciting the nothing pulled back from the brink of nothing no scissors can cut out of a darkness so profoundly found it explodes like a flower that’s crazy growing insightful to the sun gloriously uninterrupted and unmeasured by all the mountains made, even a road can’t level with passion the situations of situations of any situations that can be made out of nothing wherever that comes from someone must know but sure as sure it’s removed from nothing because nothing’s a place that hums sub0city neon thousand spot voltage blue dress suppleness flowers a held feeling, feeling a feeling that no one can bring back after it’s gone too far to be whatever it can be because it must be the way of all good lovers and fools and heroes and whatever can be, it can be, not captured or surrounded nor used, abused, put down, cut, stomped or lost, maybe stumped, certainly not certain of anything but shooting a shooting up a river of ecstasy to that place where all is eternal peopled with people are people are raindrops from the sky spattering like drops on pavements of ice crystals clear make believe the belief of all their religious something’s learnt by heart, rote and written in every one of their disbeliefs like nothing’s a prayer any more so sure got to make it somewhere outside of his or her red bloody book of Sundays that’s not even poetry seen like some gorgeous vision wailing in the park where dogs hang around back to back joined to their eternal circle of unbreakable lust like musk creeping into the brain of bystanders, maybe a little girl or boy or me or you just passing looking not sure where to put eyes that see, not seeing, can’t see, won’t see, be there or not empathising the panic reality to raise them all so unfair until the snake gets your bite then you’re done for without love and no full stop to help you make a decision to just go somewhere because nothing’s the same any more blasting pieces of your brain to cool or hot indifference trying to get back to maybe high or low that self won’t take because the body’s gone long ago and the feeling’s just run, run, run to where the dying is clean in the morning of no return that returned once again from out of the darkest place spinning, swimming with a head full of friends no one wants to hear, no one that is except the one who put them there growling in splendorous trying for one more phantom chance for the sun that’s always out of reach of the eternally grasping hand reaching, reaching for what can never be had except when let go of and desired with a soul surrendered to that which must be known with a part that’s always smaller than we want but larger than we know and far more incredible than anything we’ve ever been, in this or any other lifetime we’ve burned with our passion or lethargy or indecisive anything we can’t help but deal out sometimes when we know nothing else to become our reality of realities we become so sick of because the heart’s fire has become clogged with the too much smoke our minds have made when we feel bad but it really isn’t too bad for we all walk tall when it clears and we see that light reaching for us so impossibly distant and lovely in our eyes that have become so complacent and tired after having seen everything there is to see except the one thing they cannot see that crosses all distance we can imagine or not in the void which speaks of more than we can say as we try to grasp more than we could ever possibly hope to grasp with anything given or found or stolen in moments precious, almost too precious to say with lips gentle in hope and love in soft tender care from one who is close to our hearts inside us causing tears to escape to the day and to the night and to our lives we live so hard or easy, some would say is our choice but to feel the breath coming in and going out with no escape except momentary fear or joy that can be permanently forever exceptional and hey! so the road gets lonely while we say, so what, to our deaths rush face scaring us with its illusion, but if it’s butter you are after then go to the butter shop in our lives of incredible exchanges of indescribable something written in words of less than can be said as the roaring roar explains our crazy and puts us out of mind to expand losing not one wit of our beautiful power that fills and crashes beside us and booms and sails and flies off in every direction any direction some direction letting it slip to the place of dreams of this friendship eternalised like a spaghetti western within the eternal struggle of whatever struggle that could be named or care to be named a struggle that’s so desperately in need of a name most usually standing bleeding staring over the vast canyons of our mind’s restrictive carnival not quiet dancing, so we dance to dance right out of sight and it all seems so right as we go to the night then with all our splendour and goodness and love spreading to make a path before us we merge with our dream of immortal gloriousness where green lizards encapsulate all our desires of love’s sexual glory so far from our desert mind’s eye in a dream we’ve all been to see and all screamed too because we all wanted then cursed as we ran to find our way back and realized we can never find the door to the bridge we burned years ago as the sunrise surprise wore off and left us worse off than before with our galloping horses in the spectral mist of high and sometimes just lost and lonely and wandering and finding us so alone that we crept back to our lover and made that one our mistress and called that one darkness in the noise of our burning beings the owl of our imaginations bounced us into some other place of being again to be caught up in whatever was going down between the legs or any other place of wonder and sensual delight with those oh so immortal words I want to be yours and you want to be mine so can we not find each other sometimes in some place we go and will not you be there for me as I am there for you with a smiling face not of dreams of madness but a new romance neither of us have been to before where a million sea-gulls of pure send us to our heaven to play out our time beside the beautiful picture far from ones who sit in the chair watching everything hardly moving while death devils play with their faces supposed to be free in their life wherever that is, but maybe it’s the place of all our dreams calling doctor, doctor please knock on my door I feel like crying but I need some more, but the doctor she didn’t care or hear, she was gone away somewhere maybe for good and who cared, who cared, not you that’s for sure and for sure in the night that got glorious but fell in stupendous abandon between the legs of a belly dancer creating havoc in all the desire of all the men that made it there somehow and then told all about it spilling dreams of heaven as light and darkness attacked the mind that wanted one more trip but didn’t dare because the fires were there that couldn’t be competed with, so went in search of the well with a black soul guilty, racing with others who left their hearts on a table of doom nobody could wear beneath stars that twinkled, that were reached for as we grabbed a bite to eat trying to decide the best course of action amongst the smoke and ongoing music a dead band made years ago of dreams now in our heads wanting more and something or someone who will turn us into dust and oh that something be true to me and let me burn you some gold and don’t leave me in the night or the morning or in some foreign country’s toilet with a smile of sorry on your face but pick up my pieces and make them whole again and don’t let me slip into the oblivion of being some kind of wanting that can’t be filled as we sit around these tables of onyx and many layered mooned situations by ashtrays cellophane in remorse and desolation of destiny’s bold out-flung laugh of wanton abandon far from the villainous smoke filled souls coupling with that out of place roving robber who always has a headache and is out of touch with those rounded legs spread and inviting that make dominion to couple and conceive of an organism or orgasm that moans where I'm all yours then becomes emancipated at the drop of a hat or the very first opportunity that’s usually apart from love’s orgy of darkness, but illumination and swell relief is all that’s left after the big orgasmic come all everything this is it making it made it then the turn comes to grab a hold of you to turn your world, whatever world you had to a smile eye to eye and playing games that make your heart glad to want to live and hold once more that little something that rushes to you with open arms feeling like dying to be away from such eyes that look into your soul and make it all right again after all the years of overdrive in neutral and hard stop cold pavements of winters clandestine neutrality and empty places staring at anything to pass the time on long seats someone made for many but taken by one who watches shadows on ceilings whirling over emptiness so apart and alone until the music came that was small music made big; and all the women came to dance before the big music that made everyone dance and come alive and to shimmer and shiver and then to go on to groan and smile and show all feeling that way to the smile all round and huge even to the drunk stumbling around the block trying to walk it off looking like hajji the hermetical seaman in his hey-day calling out with cries that echo; then with each shuddering breath that comes so perfect to whisper to the stars and promise promises that are soaked up in the idiot night to eventually find their way back home free from the chains and any noise so extreme; and from the quiet now lived and experienced without any signs of exhaustion or compunction to pursue duality in any of its forms be it restless nervousness in oblivion or inference to hell deduced by nightmares that preface so called nirvana always asked for and sometimes given, it was all given, but then the prescience came to turn away from the full stop by rolling from side to side of a bed often too hot or cold to feelings made by wondering too much about where we will wake up in the morning and if we will know ourselves or just lay there not able to move because something is forgotten like a memory lost preoccupying the presence finding it so hard to bring back the known with thoughts like waves of mud thoughts of mud mesmerised until the quicksilver of being raises up to banish all fear with a laugh that accompanies a promise from the night before so extraordinary and welcome as we sit here before being off again to god knows where and for how long and how much to experience or not we can’t say especially if the feeling’s that it does all belong somewhere else making you feel to wait but I do believe we shall never dance again except when the moonlight comes like fire to our souls and a dream takes us home to whatever home we can find in any day or night without always ghost white stares from fixated eyes among the shadows too far to go with urgent hearts pouring into one another a pressure that cannot be relieved just spread around as these words are too and are stupid inhibited and slow, antithesis to the mercurial thoughts of spontaneous outpouring which in turn are the antithesis to the dark rider of doom pouring over the hill goodness has walked on and made its own, that offering made to the gods of innocence with the naïve virginal flowerings of the soul: a prayer offered up from the earth of mystical desire, that same mist that inspires the wind to its movement and dispelling negativity making clearness and clarity and yet there are some who can’t see, rather to make what there is become darker, to violate the beauty that is offered, that is always offered just beyond reach like a butterfly hovering in its ecstasy and delight in the faint breeze or stillness or even a raging gale it will hide from, not knowing fear but waiting out the darkness to dispel its violation that is really not violation but a rising of power that cannot be contained but best left to go its own way and blow itself out in the ground, the very space called home that stillness and peace and love will return to because it has to and has not really left just gone deep while the dragon blows its fire that cannot scare the earth that spawned it, so we race on into the wind with all the devils of hell on our heels never able to make a full stop for all the full stops have been made and left behind, far behind where wind starts and the mind is cornered in oblivion and can’t see anything but the rage racing before us as madness hides in the corner and light walks out the door; then heat walked in the door and dusted our sight with evil desire that made us squirm until we cried and cried because we couldn’t make any more, and were melted as our fate laughed at our impurity, our impulsiveness to breathe anywhere, anytime, even with our idiopathic iconoclastic minds leading us through this life that is loved and embraced yet cannot encompass with anything known or possessed or taught or have found for ourselves and knowing all this we walked out into the night looking for others like ourselves but finding only concepts where we didn’t expect them, we took deep breaths and made it to the morning as all those idiot abbreviations became a memory that we iced and then as we looked over our past we found one following us home and realized that we had not been alone all this time, just independent, looking for a legend and of course we cursed then and raised our faces to the moon and howled, echoed, joined, then to pound on again head down to the journey that’s long and always has been wherever we’ve found ourselves, wherever we’ve put ourselves and said: here I am; there’s more and more and more and there are some who don’t think it will ever stop and don’t even remember the first time it all started; but sometimes the sun comes out and holds us from sinking beneath the rings of saturnine desperate separation in a momentary respite that gladdens us until the dark rises again and obscures what light we are able to realise and see and hold in our hands trembling with it even as it will escape through the gaps in our inspiration and longing, gaps we can never close even though we’ve tried from the very first moment to stick them with aspiration to the highest purity; we’ve embraced everything false with crying and out-flung arms, why not that, that light, that feeling found only inside somewhere deep, that outrageous instinct, that feeling of the soul we always go back to, that we cannot go far from even to the farthest place, wherever that is, it’s not here or there where we can see, for we never travel there, we take it with us so that we are that distance and if we make it we do and if we don’t make it we don’t; but the sea-gull on the roof top looking like a god standing in the vanished aura and ambience and mystical magical echo and whistle of love, energy, vibration and light heavenly music that will remind us and lead our direction from the mist, our sight to fill, our hearts too, full even in the bloody darkness of mind, because that’s all mind is when illuminated by that light, the lover, the true friend has revealed to come, and even though we listen to the songs of pretty words of wisdom, they can only come close to what cannot be said or seen or heard or grasped except sometimes perhaps by a few graced ones who if they have enough sense will turn from their graveyard of illusion and make that sun their all, that light that is real and can fulfil the soul that cries out its emptiness and need to know; we ran filling the senses and body as all things said lead somewhere while the pen never runs out of forever words that keep coming, pushing forward towards perhaps just more of whatever is here now which leads to the conclusion that if here and now is not enjoyed then it is wasted; oh cruel mind full of perfidious deeds, where is the truth, where is the answer if not in the heart; must we run forever; last night I woke up dreaming this morning I was asleep while awake and that soon in the dreaming there'd be an awakening if I could only realize I was dreaming I would wake up and not be asleep; this morning I woke up then went back to sleep dreaming I was sleeping and last night was only a dream, then the mermaids came to tea and were very willing, but my car broke down in nowhere land out in the sticks so I sent for international rescue to be rescued but god was in a moody: god, who was in a mood, got down from his chariot and said to the next door neighbour: "bring me a barrel of beer;" "what;" said the neighbour who was also in a bad mood after a bad day; "I said, being me a barrel of beer or else I will turn you into a Sodom of Gomorra;" "Bugger off," said the next door neighbour and turned away from god; god got angry and burnt the neighbour to cinders with his holy wrath and then went and had a bath in the bathroom; the neighbour went up to heaven and said to god: "now what;" to which god replied: "sod off." God’s wife is a petrol head and lives in a cement mixer and eats porridge and combs her hair with her fingers and never goes to church on Sunday; she has many fine things that run through her fingers like sand in an orchestra of all she desires; her heart is on fire with love; she builds her dreams out of the ashes of failed splendour; she is not religious but she believes in her husband a thousand fold; she is fun to be with; god loves her and gives her presents all the time; end of broadcast; and whatever you look at increases so look only at what you really want; it's a big as a huge that calls down its wonder around me in this cave of little winds; a little wind is blowing my face cool; somewhere, far off I hear the calls where no moment is like another to come and play while I am here; my walking there is my journey and I can feel the walls crumbling with the wind of my breath; I didn't find Zen again, but it's ok, I have another name now; and this too is a leaf that flutters away in so many thoughts that say we are here and then we are gone in the very peculiar diner of our lives.

End.

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