Saturday, November 7, 2020


We're heading now towards the last poem in this section, composed after I fell in love with someone who didn't return the favour - oh the pain, the anger, that dreadful sense of insecurity and exposure when we give ourselves wholeheartedly to a fellow human being who is simply not interested in us.

But there is more going on here - you have followed now my collapse of mind and in this piece, more so even than in Invocation To A Muse and View From The Window, I prove myself simply beyond redemption. Why? Because I blaspheme against the Holy Ghost, something expressly forbidden in the New Testament. I am renegade here, marrying my twisted idea of God Himself to the Muse of my previous poem, His 'light dull and dim' wholly at odds with a deity who in fact loves the world He has created and saved for us by shining bright, loving light in its darkness.

Here, I am as far away from Sung Eucharist as is possible and the simple reason is this - I am in lust, not love with my partner desiring carnally, not with soul. And it has been three years since I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, three years in which I feel I have made no progress in recovery so that I stop taking one of the key medications necessary to control my condition. I am with Geoffrey Rush bouncing on that trampoline, in Unrequite...


What hurts the most, I think, is her coldness.

That my naked effort top the mount, peak, summit,

Arms open, crying her in to share some warmth,

Is met with silence. Worse, with scorn.

Go, poet, I think she says, romance churns my plain.

But I stand, bare, exposing my hood to the fury, and you laugh.

You had me for your slave, you had me for your play,

And I, stamp, stuck months agone,

Do only peel me now.

I tried, I tried, though quite was bestest offering from my heart.

Almost. Might have. Could of. Quite.

I loathe you for your blindness,

That in drunken puke you spewed my face, you spoke your greatest sage.

You see no joy for us, which sadder should I be – me, you?

Might I burn that agony of soul to ash,

To a cinder Krakatoa would belch,

Boxing the cold, dead smoke in an urn of stolid peace.

You earn love, girl, and I, your loyal subject, now turn face, back, behind to pasture fresh.



Muse, you are unkind. You are jealous.

So you spit and spite.

I do not want you.

You are ugly. You are cruel.

I will not give myself to your subjection.

If you wish to fight with me,

I will give you contest.

But don’t use females bring me down.

Don’t use mortals – do it off your back.



I think this marks the start of something fresh.

I hope.

Strange we never stop to think how hard it is some folk.

Old man off an escalator toughs it out with stick.

I want me back on top, here,


There –

There I was, like shining man,

Bouncing trampoline,

Arms open, trench coat over nudeness, staring elements.

I thought I saw right in, behind the sun, atop the sky, straight through the wind.

I was in everything, wit manifest my whole,

The briefs, the teachers, builders,

Shops, trains, buses, cars,

My atoms had dispersed,

One billion billionth, nay, the sizer,

Too unquiet regarding which I spread and furled and breathed and spoke and lapping many


Did glory in a God who mangled up his can.

‘Go,’ I said, ‘go leave us be. Too long has your intrusion broken base of this world’s spine.

Too often have you promised that which breaks and empties.

Too bad we must attend ourselves before you aid, augment.

Go, go now, and never, ever, turn.

Gods are for primitives; churches are cults.’



‘Gods are for primitives; churches are cults.’

It rang in my ears like the day after rave,

The time when we drink and we dance misbehave,

It stung like a bee when it floats o’er the lawn,

When the butterfly flippers and takes all the corn.

When the youngsters are talking on clothes, boys and girls,

When the flirters are pulling and twining their curls,

It minded me Scripture,

When prophets in picture

Had flames licking right round their heads,

When old Holy Ghost,

Who detests us the most,

Haunts young and old daily their beds.

Most powerful them all.

Dangerous our health, steals our wealth,

No, you mustn’t, don’t give in,

Don’t you worship, don’t you sin,

Wait! The can is thrown my face.




‘Poet,’ he booms, ‘corrupt ye not my slaves.

This race must war extinction, for then all my work is done.

Get gone, shut down, shut up.

Rise not o’er your station, for know this – you will fall.’

‘Lord,’ I remonstrated, ‘you are false.

You are fickle, frail, so I marry you myself to Missus Muse.

Come, join hands, I master the proceedings,

You, my soul, her, my invocation, ground to burn.




I stood. I left the pair to fornicate and birth some vile fiend.

Go, I told myself, go, use new found knowledge so to better man.

If faith must combat faith, and land must fight ’gainst land, then spread the word these terrors are

among us.




            Turn the hatred stacked upon our race,

Which finds it issue in the skulls who term you mad.

You see, you see,

Your head aches with realisation.

How must you forward, when all that stands front topples back?

I know not, I confessed,

Give me Kratoa, dress me the race,

My penance is nigh for this falsity case.

The only coldness I know is yours, ego fist,

Ramming your hand down my gullet and throat,

Pushing my head under pond, lake, and moat,

Don’t make me chuck in my angel’s embrace.

Gone are the days when I bowed to your whim,

When your diadem ruled me in light dull and dim,

Now I move, stretch, feel my way to a truth never oped this race.

I see, I see,

My mind reels in received wisdom,

Perceived threat, I go,

I must,

I will,

We meet next.


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