Crow

Crow, shuffle of black air

Crow, cry of larynx tear

Crow, shroud of blackest eye

Crow, widows quiet cry

TV Guide

Reflection in the dark wine of a glass. He spins around with his glass held aloft - his malbec reflection like that in a fish eye.

*     *    *

Crufts on in the background. It's the agility round and the collies weaving through the sticks are almost hypnotic. He has a feeling that crufts is something a bit evil, why else would it move from the sterility of BBC 1 to the blackness of Channel 4. Remembering that puff-ball dog (that looked close to death) winning a few years back he flicks the channel satisfied that crufts will not have his endorsement. Sportscene. Highlights of the Celtic game had just finished, he only caught the analysis which annoyed him as they'd won 5-0. Now all he has is drawn out descriptions of flashpoints delivers by an ex-Livingston and  an ex-St Mirren player. Why do football pundits always wear such shiny shirts? Rangers had managed to win, so he wasn't interested in their match highlights; only their failings provided entertainment. In effect, he supported hundreds of teams, Celtic....and anyone that happened to be playing against Rangers. This week it had been Ross County - he'd even put a bit of money on them at the bookies to make it more exciting. The guy behind the plexi-glass at Betfred had asked him something about 'the Staggies'. Greeted by his perplexed expression he muttered something about 'fucking tims'. It had seemed quite harsh, though I suppose that's what to expect when your team win everything in sight. After the Rangers game there's not much worth watching in Scottish football, so the channels roll on. He's on his third glass of red wine now - that's a full bottle as he doesn't believe in half-glass culture. Just fill it up and get up less often. That's efficiency. There's a very pleasant tingling in his head, trickling down in to the rest of his body - by far the most sensuous and enjoyable stage of alcohol intoxication. Shame it lasts such a short time. 

There's some strange show about making pottery on now. It's like The Great British Bake-off but with pots. There is a judge now crying with joy over a contestants pot, and for a moment he thinks he gets it - the emotional impact of a perfectly crafted pot handle. Now this judge is talking about feeling a contestants rim and it all feels a bit farcical. Unbelievable that he was almost in tears over ceramics - get a grip! Then this judge is nearly in tears again when describing the potters' respect for the craft. Somehow this pottery show kind of captured him and it's on until the end - an emotional older woman wins and she cries a lot too. An Asian guy comes last and he leaves in a very collected and stoic manner. Next week they are making toilets - full on flushing toilets. Madness.

*   *   *

His beard is in his mouth and his cheek is wet. Wiping his face, he can see a small woman gesturing at him aggressively. He had fallen asleep. The Inbetweeners was on and the gesticulating woman indicated that it was very late...or early. Did deaf people have different sleeping patterns? Imagine having to wait till 2am to be able to understand what your TV is saying. I suppose there's the option of subtitles. Maybe there should be a button for the sign-language person to pop up at any time, like they are just waiting prone under your TV waiting to spring up and gesticulate. If that's not a sign for bed, I don't know what is. Night Night!  

A Flat.

Those leaden legs and the grasping of

The dregs.

They’ll be standing in the cold till hopes

Grow old.

“You got a gaff mate?”

God - I really hate that word...gaff.

Time to relax.

You’ve got an address.

That frantic hour has passed.

Enjoy that menthol fag in peace.

You’ve got a place to take your mess.

Now the gauntlet of the buzzer

Where a man is truly stamped

That question - “is it ground or top?

- you should know, it’s your mate’s girlfriend’s brother!”

“Hah! It’s nextdoor”

There’s no feeling like it

That arse on a seat feeling.

Perched on the edge of a moth-eaten two seater

You’re ready to break through that flimsy glass ceiling.

Plastic bags everywhere and none of them shopping

This is it.

The fuel for not stopping

“Might as well just finish it

Might as well call that number

This is going to be a good one man

I’ve got a feeling

How high is that fucking glass ceiling!?”

Empty stomachs and dead phones abound

This is the stuff that dreams are made of.

When there’s beauty in so little

Distant friends become best

Surroundings couldn’t matter less.

“How was your night mate?

Aye, it was good.

You see that massive line after for food?

Nah.”

The conversation has reached its height

Now booze takes over, he’s on top

It happens when the pills don’t stop.

Even sex is behind

An acceptance of the flop.

A currency more sturdy than the pound

Investments made, in cunts that are sound

“A wee tan of yer bucky pal?

Aye awrite.”

And it’s passed around...

Cigarettes are snacks

They fill in where booze and drugs can’t

“Any snouts?”

You’ve got a 20 deck of marlboro lights

It’s an open invite to all future nights.

When light’s the enemy (unless it’s a clipper)

Curtains are a man’s best friend.

Though whether you call them spot

Or take them for a walk

That will depend…

10am has magnificently been and magnificently went

On buckfast, your weekly food budget spent.

That realisation time works independently of your phone

Thank God for Uber.

Find a charger.

Time for home.

There’s no silence like it

It’s what Sundays are made for.

The brunches and lunches pass like smoke from a spliff

“Good night bud? Where do you live?

Aye mate, Just off the edge of that sheer cliff.”

Now this is your door, isn’t it?

Struggle the key in the lock

So much less forgiving than a baggie

Blink

Throw your body on the bed

Forgive me?

The Dead Grass

Longing for the touch of green,

inspiration and passion lacks.

Only blacks and greys are seen,

a forest of adjustable seat backs.

A host of passwords and usernames,

Gym accounts and pay-day loans.

Roll for corporate mind games,

136 days to sun and sea foam.

A whole life lived through a screen,

Hunched double – dead eyes crawl.

To cash and coldness our futures lean,

Waiting for the chiropractors call.

Those robotic hours tick away,

Actions listless, pale; pre-programmed.

Their potential crumbles here to lay,

Beauty eroded now greying sand.

Compliments and encouragement shrouded,

Veils of self-interest – a narcissists marriage.

Tool to execs, our true value clouded,

Lambs to the slaughter in a golden carriage.

These mice don’t look quite right,

It’s definitely time to go.

Step back while I take flight,

Notice served, 4-weeks as the crow.

Numb

I still feel, though it's a phantom,
A knowledge of what should be.
Something brings a tear to the eye,
In an unknown place, a smile flourishes.

Simple pleasures are all I have,
They cut through the haze.
Complex thoughts seem clogged and coated,
In if's, but's - a battalion of unknowns.

Moments of real feeling surface,
As dye in water, amorphous and flaring.
Though at one dissipate,
Leaving only a memory - pastel pink for red.

Where does the importance lie?
I can't see from the fog.
Will it be as before, comfortably waiting,
Or different, shifting beneath this cloak.

The birds remind that life goes on,
Flitting from house to house.
Not everything stays still; lethargy is not contagious,
Do they dance on the clouds as I sink in the blue?

I lived in naive comfort - complacent,
That I would orchestrate as master.
This is shattered, edges still sharp,
Digging in as she makes the moves.

They say that time is the greatest healer,
I just can't point to the pain.
It's balm just adds to the murk,
Giving tether to groundless thoughts.

From nowhere a veil's been dropped,
The sun's not quite as bright.
Things change, I accept this,
I just hope colours return as vivid as before.

Perspective

I've just had a seat on a chair in my room that I don't usually frequent. Quite immediately, my room is different - at least, it seems so. Different angles, shadows and spaces I have never contemplated but have always been there.

It's quite a stark experience - just perching yourself somewhere that's been neglected in a familiar space. Your mind travels far beyond the tangible pieces of IKEA furniture surrounding you. That fresh and unexpected picture, of what has become set in your mind begins a cascade of reconsiderations, realignments and adjustments of 'your familiar'.

Look at your life right now through the clear glass eyes of your youth . Look at your day today. Look at every day this week...really look. Find those overlooked spaces - what's in them?

Step away from the comfort of tried and tested relationships. Take a view from the outside, in the biting freshness of first meetings. Are you happy with what you see? Or is there dust and decay filling all the spaces that were once empty, clear, full of excitement and potential?

Look at where you are now from where you want to be. Look at yourself from behind the warm embrace of your mother. From under your father's unfaltering support. It's okay to be on a path to something - just be sure you can see yourself firmly on it from every perspective.

Breakdown

As it fell into the dark,

My body was not mine.

The sparks retreated as fallen stars,

In vision not in time.

Here I stood one year before,

A vision of promise, of solid ore.

Now eyes reflecting what I once was,

Mirrors - glazed and listless.

My image in passing gives me pause,

Sulking as a scorned mistress.

Here I stood one year before,

A vision of promise, of solid ore.

The birds reel; beckoning me,

Where I once felt at home.

The briefest moment for the world to see,

Then swallowed by the bluest tone.

Here I stood one year before,

A vision of promise, of solid ore.

Shaking. It travels up me; a quivering wave,

Through my feet to the tips of my hair.

No, this one can't be saved,

The weight's too much to bear.

Here I stood one year before,

A vision of promise, of solid ore.

On the edge - only one judge now,

To fall where I once soared.

It's over, I can finally bow,

Face the supple wrath of the board.

Now, shivering, here I stand,

A sight for sore eyes, a bag of sand.