i listen to cohen again and wonder if i’m obsessive in the wet, warm drink i sip the spirit water, and ponder i react first with emotion, the weight takes a while to settle i’m let down and i let down there is no reasoning with the passions. sometimes i feel like i’m not a real person—a lack i’ve sought in others credit for debit, the difference solo temporal evolve the revolving door, better round than in any task, i’ll find a way to do it my first instinct may be wrong but given infinite time…
i mentioned earlier this week my trouble with receiving unconditional love. my confused adolescence. well last month i had romy on my playlist. her album, mid air, has been on repeat in my ears for a while. highly recommend.
‘my mother says to me, enjoy your life’
i’d seen my mum for my birthday dinner the day before. i was tired. at the gym. listening to my angsty feminist icons playlist. and i felt overwhelmed by emotion when this came on. the instruction is both comforting and implausible. why is it such a struggle to be happy?
i grew up in a loving family and still managed to be traumatised by it. i felt so unworthy of my parents’ love. if you too have been troubled by this issue, then i suggest the way to deal with it is to pass it on. to try to love universally and unconditionally. i don’t want to make excuses for everyone. but it’s not easy living in the complicated world, and we all have different perspectives and abilities. there is no right level of selfishness, anxiety or generosity. similar actions and intentions lead to dissimilar results. we don’t always know the consequences before we cause them.
this is the last part of part one! i will be dissecting it in the blog over the month. i’m not going to post every day though. this six months of contect has really taken me more like 18 months of work, so i’m slowing down a little.
the poem continues of course, but from july i will be posting less frequently while i work on new music, and on my first novella ‘comin’ up: a neurodivergent memoir’ which will be published later this year.
chaos vikings marchin’ under summer’s radiation space tunnel violinist, what did we do to you? reflect on convalescence’s end, my reaction improved stars are parts of empires, feart to boo a ghost i schedule noxious imbibition and obnoxious noise projection with colleagues, on a rager, dipsomaniacal the bread, my sour domain, hers an egg on top perfection is a conspicuous imperfection.. pun-ridden dogger-elly sub-nonsense in ifunereal nomenclature and dress but i did have six toasts today, all of them doublers (lentil, tuna rocket; salmon shallot; ched spicy) you meet someone you know from gossip our hour our sense our self in each case you can choose to cooperate or cheat and hybrid work means shivering alone by a lockfast window on a sunny day my favourite track, the album’s last round the oval, and pound the quad on the verge of an irretrievable memory, a texture, a vague sense tangled shoe, cockapoo, over you, road rash tattoo honestly what are the odds? the prophecy came first much too soon, then again a bit too late we all rely on the good souls who forgive us.
have you tried the toblerone, insolent infant? it’s cheap if you can afford a lot of it i have a theory identic twins in tandem are set at random on their paths different, but the same
all through the night, we have no past, we won’t reach back dilatory breathing, with the inmates chewing fat i always laugh when i chop onions, ever since my pet cat killed himself liberty’s light will lead us there, libraries gave us power elongate the environ of the emblem of they who shall be emancipated pishhead magnetism combines us, their yolk won’t define us (con)serve – not conscripted infantry but torpid flabby midgetry superiors drink-sodden day-to-day erudite popinjays oh god this ship is sinking fast, just hope we make the buddha last if everyone had to pay market rent on their home forever the market would reach an equilibrium that would be better for everyone except the rentier class, who belong in jail, and may well end up there were there lots of you? well that’s a posse honestly i’m just trying to live the most wasted, safe life antediluvian nipponese amble celebrants and another two bunnies the next poem will be called the gilet years sugar rush stroll, the last of my 30s, then back to the wall more nippon, this time kitchen, with an ambassadorial element i’m 40 tomorrow and honestly everything hurts, throbs, stings or is otherwise stiff champagne dog run sling factory tour bonnie umbrella honestly right now i feel ok about myself, grateful for what ive been given and have achieved in my four decades so far maybe i’m ready to start reading novels again found the partick co-op for a just poetic society if things are going to change anyway, they may as well change for the better ditched blade draped bed and became bin overladen something about ikea bed linen i watch a boring football match in communion with a centimillion europeans all good souls forgive each other
have you tried the toblerone, insolent infant? it’s cheap if you can afford a lot of it i have a theory identic twins in tandem are set at random on their paths different, but the same
i like to try and keep my desert island discs up to date. you never know when lauren laverne might call.
right up there, maybe my favourite song of all time, is ‘why does your love hurt so much?’ by carly simon. and love does hurt.
falling in romantic love is a massive, multifaceted thing. it involves accepting vulnerability. it means taking on another’s pain, as well as sharing in their pleasure. you sign up for the highs, but the dips can be brutal.
and as you fall in love with someone, you change them, they change you, and you change yourself. and, if it is meant to be, after a while, you will have grown together and found a way to be together.
the love epochal is meant to be both earnest and ironic. on the one hand, i really am making a conscious effort to love my fellow creatures, whether they deserve it or not. but you know, its hard, i’m not jesus, i’m prone to moderate instances of rage.
i shout at drivers who cut me up on my bike, or who almost knock me down when i’m being a pedestrian. i believe this helps me balance my tempers. we all shout and gesture a bit then go on with our days. i don’t dwell on it too much.
but i know that its not really the driver’s fault entirely. why have we designed this world like this? why do we let people operate heavy machinery in residential areas? why don’t we enforce the rules of the road? these are all systemic problems. so when i call the man who almost knocked me over, ‘a fat bald prick,’ what i really mean is: ‘if only we could find a way to cooperate rather than compete, the bond of love between us would glow warm with mutual respect.’
i have a new verse out today – the text was previously published in edge of humanity magazine, so please check that out if you haven’t already (see link below). now live on youtube, spotify, etc.
every coincidental couple share or will share a day (assuming all live lives that lap over and aside) when one is either twice or half as old as their partner. we only live in relation to each other: brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, children we are all in second place again, lo siento, i feel your pain then a vow: to talk much more on the telephone hazy jane mountain range and a mouthful of blood the chip shop salt and vinegar on the edge of the breeze decline is the consequence of a millennium without conquest bring all ye visigoths, only the sack of london can save us now sometimes perspective illuminates sunny convalescence; can i modify my betrayed reaction? is there space for love without condition between event and response? the universe is comprised of information thoughts are but ephemeral forms deleted from the records for eternity, locked within an evanescent system but are some things unforgivable? let’s hope good souls can hold a grudge with compassion.
chorus
have you tried the toblerone, feckless bairn? it’s abysmally pricey, but so is everything else i have a theory that brexit is the effective sack of london, by hitler different, but the same
this bipolar love hurts so much round infatuated hertz bevvy bivouac, coke and jack in the sack i read about his suicide on teletext in the 90s a poet tortured, bill teller of the apple orchard never socrates unsatisfied nor pig in shit: we are socrates in pig shit, always and 4 real. i cut a lana del rey tattoo into my arm, is that self harm? each generation must make the material their own smell tomato paste and cheddar, my da’s cooking, my home a feeling of disconnection between body and homunculus post-prandial down-dumpsy meek remainderman rain run ink on scar tissue, perineum to the sun this isn’t a cover up, the red rose, the guerilla’s fist i am a loaf of bread, origami, a process in purgatory every pain and every pleasure you caused will be inflicted back and you will judge yourself getting there—a tired prayer to monotony four goes on the playstation then i eat the whole bloody toblerone all that’s left is our dismal materiel we all rely on the good souls who forgive us
chorus
have you tried the toblerone, feckless bairn? it’s abysmally pricey, but so is everything else i have a theory that brexit is the sack of london, by hitler different, but the same
throwing darts with some colleagues, i realised that if i really pay attention, i can reliably hit the board, and occasionally hit the thing i am aiming at. i came fifth out of eight. not very impressive. but why would a good soul care? they may be compassionate if, for some reason, darting competence was important to me. but the good souls don’t care about competence or endeavour. they just love other good souls.
it’s funny how the tease works, that the hint of a thing can be better than a lot of it. the feeling of being left wanting more. i think that’s why cigarettes are so popular. so fundamentally unsatisfactory that you need an infinite amount of them. typing this makes me want one now. and i quit a long time ago.
the love epochal. n.n. benn 