The concept itself is referential to the inherent symbols placed upon it. I am conscious of the abstract in which any concept has been placed and seek to arrange syntax in order to explain my paradoxes, parallels and perversions. I will lead the questions to the water as they call to quench their thirst and the answers will be drawn up slowly, refreshing the mind so it can think in clarity and without constraints of discourse or society.

It is in my own discourse that I will appear as post modern in thinking, rejecting discourse as a whole yet still feeding into the troughs of prose and writing. I am not scientific nor political despite the papers to which I lay claim. However I am fervent in understanding simple lies and complex truths. With this hunger rising, I will abate it with the occidental paradigms and realign the stars in my own sky until I can satisfy perceptions of absolute reality.

I will send you a horse
He will clip clop up the valley, treading on hard stones as he goes
But those stones do not matter to the sturdy horse
For he has hidden inside him something much more treacherous.
The cats on the hills spy him with a curious eye for they are suspicious of his secret;
The trojan horse I have sent for you
has almost completed his journey.
All that is left is for you to allow him in;
he will raise his hindquarters in the air and buck and jolt and shake his shining mane
And not once will the horse toss his head in shame.
He is proud and worthy of carrying the deception to you - because it is you that planted the seed.

My antiquated philosophies on love and mind,
appear to me as quite lucid.
Yet as I delve into
the writing of the greats -
Descartes, Baudrillard, Nietzsche,
I think my own work is perhaps tired, in need of review.
(but they are pure thoughts nonetheless)
So in the late hours of the night,
I change and think and read and write
And hope that in the day I will agree with my conclusions.
Yet in the meantime I can turn to the works of the masters
in Philosophy, Poetry, Science and Arts
and discover the truths they wished to impart
on the world.
For it is these subjects that influence, inspire, move and make.
So for now I'll settle for knowledge and wonder and rest till the morning sun
beams through my window
offering knowledge in the freshness of clear wake.

Oh you can sing and you can expel the profound ideas all you like, but your words are still arbitrary. Banality seeps from your pores.

Sleep is for prisoners: a way of blocking out constraints. Even if only for a short while in each cycle of 24 hours.
But you can't sleep; you sing to yourself and to anyone who will listen in the edges of brightness and darkness.

-----

So beautiful that only the brightest of diamonds are allowed to trickle into the depths of her being.


-----

The tongue of a mistress
The markings of mackeral on skin
Greasy like your hands
A sign of work created by malice
Hair may well shine
But eyes are dead
A smell of sulphur, ready to explode
a chemical voice into my ears


-----

Downhill we roll,
wrapping ourselves in sweet coatings of stable roots


-----

Grey cheeks, pallor flesh
But I am still pink on the inside


-----

Your wings are cumbersome
and cling heavily to your body as if alien in being.
I will give you freedom. I will pull away from your flesh those hurtful wings;
Unload the burden of torturous extensions.
You'll feel lighter, your feet will grow new claws
You will push out and stand heavy on the ground due to purpose.
You will not drag your sorrow anymore.

At the north face, he stands firm and tall. He represents light.
His opposite lies in the south,
where she undulates under ice, in the extremities of the dark waters.
They face each other, with significant distance between souls, and
yearn for the day when the winds will unite them.
They are opposites and share an emptiness between their distance.
There is much going on but they cannot reach.
They do not exist as one only, but bounce light from one to the other, completing their fire and ice dance in the reflection of their division.

It dawns in the morning
It sets in the evening
And we think it's the same every time,
Our worlds will continue to turn
on the well oiled axis of familiarity and yearning.
The fire will still burn, even when waters threaten to end it.
But over and over, again and again,
perseverance and inspiration
prevail over those times before.
Some evenings -
Silly things.
We are good at what we do - we always knew
how to dispel the wind and bring the sun.
We hide our ears and sing with the birds
And realise that in the morning it all starts brand new:
Different in detail.

We'll slowly gather our belongings,
cautiously but without fear.
There is an authority that has bestowed upon on us
a less than savoury taste on our tongues.
She is sweet but like saccharin.
false but steadfast,
significant to the tastebuds.
Has she slyly injected my veins with ice?
My blood runs cold when she speaks.

It sits, opaque and offensive, offering nothing more than insipid tastes of something quite unnecessary for my human stomach.

When presented to me, with its smugness, my mouth produces defensive juices and causes my jaw to ache.

It is heavy, sitting on the stomach like an intruder. It makes its presence known and wants to be avoided.

You crave and you carve, you think you still need to feel brave as the red nectar seeps from tired arms. Feet are bruised from walking never ending circles. Heart is full but brain is dull. Fingers still attempt to fix mistakes made by the tongue. United in power, heart and mind come to an agreement and the courage is put to the test. It lies in the forgotten dusty den of your mind, where dead spiders dwell but their webs live on, ready to catch your weakness. You are still suffering in a desolate green of renewed spring growth. Summer is not far away, it will enhance your cold memories of winter's depths. And yet as you carve for the hundredth time, a wry smile appears on the previously down turned corners of your mouth and cravings become less significant, because a knowledge of rebirth has sprung in the pleasant spring.