Tuesday, 15 May 2012

Scarlet Church

from a collection entitled Letters To God


So I'll tell you something 'bout religion

The church of truth is built on love, inclusion, free food, as much ear as you can get and a warm genuine smile straight from the heart

You couldn't make it up

All religion is beautiful because it reaches out and touches

Media, slating religion, is the antithesis of that

Media takes

Religion gives

Unconditional love

Buy in or don't

We're not bothered

We've been chewed up and spat out more times than you'd care to imagine

Yet we're still here; the glorious default; the foundation of good; the heart of love

And you can get lost and cut loose

Your mind numbing ignorance is no excuse

Best not interpret my love as weakness

Easy for magnanimous me when I'm in and you're cast out in your bleakness

In the end we win

You think you do as you please

Yet sooner or later you're all on your knees

Your status doesn't count because you bought it

Learn the lesson or you will be taught it

Next Time

(for Gemma)

Sated states of carnal ubiquity

You dangled these in front of me until, parched with the salty skin of temptation, I made to grab

Lurched, more like

May be you didn't

May be I imagined the whole thing 

Anyway, so there's me all lip-smacked and drenched  in a quivering hunger

Turns out you were just playing games

This new deep need of you written all over my face

And all you're chasing is the chase

I scratch it up as an extra wrinkle and notch it down to experience

A lesson learned, hormones churned; a false corner turned, or was it ?

You see, now I can't switch it off and nor would I wish to

I missed you

This time

Green light

You don't listen

You talked through all your food, eating none of your words and I sat opting out of the moment, skirting through all Thursday, Friday and half of the weekend

Dancing with poised gait and intention through a sequinned string of golden promises

Yet you weren't asking me to walk through waterfalls

You were asking me to listen

My turn

I would have but I didn't know

See, I wasn't listening

I didn't mean to leave you

In my head I was never letting you go but he walked in and the room span

That said, nothing is beyond my control so don't fool yourself

Life is a cavernous hall of free choices perched high up in the gated safe-house of living

There is room to move in the prison

Room enough for us to shoulder the burden of responsibility for our choices

But not room enough to mirror, signal, manoeuvre off

You can't choose to unlive

You can only die and that's not the same.

Irrevocability doesn't make for considered behaviour

It's only a real choice if you can make it and then unmake it later, yet not do so always knowing you could

It's how we get our best lessons - you've got to go there to come back

Yet try dying for a day or two and then mirror, signal, manoeuvre back into the old routine

Enough try but none make it

Oh you're listening now

Saturday, 5 May 2012

An Articulation of Friday

from a collection I wrote called "Spit Mancunia"

Wandering aimlessly is my first sign of summer

Heat-flecked coffee house tables across a half dozen urban village enclaves of city centre quarters

Bohemia threading the shadow of retail malls

Adjacent detached

Newly hatched like last year never existed

A persistent sense of novelty despite fresh memories of the last lap

Happy illusion

Trapping an inkling of total inclusion

So I am at one with the place

In time with the race of it's myriad concerns

My need for fresh anticipation churns my belief

That being here is a seat worth having

And I feel unwashed relief that simply by existing I am kissing the heartstone

And just missing out on ever feeling alone or worse

The over-arching throb of facile boredom that is often known

For robbing friends and friends of theirs and others of a purpose for throwing off the covers and running headlong into the curtain-breached daylight to greet what awaits

The unknown known at the gates

And the realisation of the trick comes later

As is such with the un-hard lessons of age 

Un-hard since they are forced and consequently come easy

Mandatory lessons are breezy since we don't have to try, think or know why

And the sense that this right now

Right this second right now

Is all that we feared it would be not

We hit perfection

The rub of the hub of the sweetest aspect of the centre of the very best part of the sweet sweet-spot

Which, looking back, was always a time when things were real good yet it was that coupled with a lucid nerving pulse of pure anticipation that so much more good was coming

It wasn't

But the pipeline delusion worked

The sweet spot was real.

Due to the aforementioned combination the prize took form and lurked

Long enough to suffer my exposure

Branding on me the lesson that heaven is a place where composure is so low on the list it barely pretends to exist

Since in that realm the essence is feeling

Not looking or doing

Just feeling

In that state just being is so hectic

That the internal state is the metric

Then ...

Time elapsed and we turned off at the junction

Where life took on a more normal form and function

Yet we were there

I was there

And that journey forever permeates my soul

Informing the ageing man

Such that the ride, in the wider sense, is never over

Perpetual four leafed clover


I wouldn't go back if I could

Today is the town and my hut here is fine

Built from yesterday's sticky slung mud

The hearth is where the mud hut heart is 

The doormat threshold braced for all tomorrow's parties

 ...........

 gk 05:05:12

Saturday, 25 February 2012

Oasis In The Water

(The poet and the objects)

The wind did a dance like an old romance
Giving flight to the flocks of birds
A sunlight shaft set the poet at his craft
Now he's carving up shapes from words

The pond did shimmer as the moon bounced a glimmer
To the music of the rustling leaves
The wordsmith smiled. His senses riled.
Now he's stealing all the rhymes like thieves.

Night sounds cut a glare as if spatially aware
And their essence made the stars shine bright
Like a lyric tirade he plied his trade
Spilling meaning on to canvas white

The sky made a play for the fallen down day
Wrapped tight in a leaf of cloud
He ate it whole and insatiable, stole
All the beauty of the trees lined proud

His face turned white
Teenagers in flight
Base jumping off the boulevard mounts
Yet his pen held neat
Poets never miss a beat
Lest they miss the chance to capture what counts

Mother nature smiled down at the writer on the town
At least someone was loving her work
That all this felt right - impulse jotting in the night
Made him homely where impostors might lurk

When the night and the man got tired, both ran
Though never from infinity's gaze
They're dancing alright
In a place just out of sight
In the shadow of your lovelorn days

The poet or the stuff?
Who's real ? Who's duff ?
Who's mighty in the midnight run?
It's the pen and the sword in poetic discord
Separation is unity's son.

......





Wednesday, 9 November 2011

MakerMeeter

Chapter 6: Autumn Grady
Autumn Grady was a child-benefits millionaire, in local parlance. She had ninety-nine kids on paper. Only eleven in reality, but she was a busy girl nonetheless.
Autumn was born in eighty one. Her career began at the age of nine, when her uncle fixed her up with a position as a bagger-out on the Manchester rave scene.
Bagging out consisted of taking delivery of a plastic bag of ecstasy tablets in the morning and turning it into a bag of money by dusk. Her rounds took in the Pendleton estates of old Salford. She had a bike, a bag of change, a money purse and a wrist watch. No mobiles in the days of yore. Most evenings she'd circulate to a pretty regular schedule, so the locals roughly knew when she'd be around. From this premise, she operated much like a child completing a paper-round. Except she'd do laps.
The pubs had their own supply chain so Autumn would cater for the non-drinkers. Most kids and the smoke-from-homers.
Playgrounds, precincts and parks, plus a few gangland checkpoints. The role didn't much require a pro-active sales technique. Customers tended to "make an approach". Most locals, when sober, were predictable. Often no words were exchanged throughout a transaction.
Autumn was earning herself ten pounds a week before she turned double figures and there was no nonsense from anyone. It was well known that she was related to and acting on behalf of Twinny. Her customers tended to view her actions as a community service bound up with the requisite connotations of old fashioned altruism. She was known as "Little Autumn" or "The Twinny Girl" and treated with a respect and deference that many an adult would never know.
By ninety four Little Autumn had gotten real big, but by ninety five she was little again. She called her first son Henry after her granddad. Henry lived at home with his mum, his grandma, his step-granddad and his great uncle. The social services were fine with the arrangements. But getting a babysitter for when she was working the estate began to prove tricky, especially after she had Jermaine and Chamillah one year later. By late ninety six Autumn had quit the bagging out and moved onto child rearing for real.
She loved being a mum. Nobody called her Little Autumn or The Twinny Girl anymore. Not to her face or even in reference to her when she wasn't around. She felt like and began to be treated like an adult - a position that she felt she could never have achieved in such a tight window, without the kids.
She met Tetley at her eighteenth birthday party in Melody's bar in town. Blokes tended to come and go before Tetley, usually leaving her with a big bumpy goodbye gift, and she didn't mind that. She liked the kids knowing only her world, without having to compromise. Being a mum was hard enough without having to learn how to go steady with a fella at the same time. She figured she'd learn how to do that when she was good and ready.
She'd not long dropped Chesney so she was feeling terrific. Enjoying having her figure and her life back once more. Tetley took her home and knocked her up with Bronson by way of saying "hello" and "happy birthday" all in one. A kind of extra special introductory welcome.
The top six came through in consecutive years between two thousand and one and two thousand and seven.
Justin, Rebekah, Ashton, Little Black Mark, Sugar and Summer.
As a twenty six year old woman with eleven kids, Autumn was enjoying the top end of the social security benefits system. She was given a five bedroomed gable end house in desirable Monton village in the more well to do part of Salford.
Her time, to the last second, was devoted to her kids, and she wouldn't have switched it for the world. Her mum pitched in and they became closer and happier than ever. She'd never known her mum so continually buzzing. Like she had a new reason for being alive. It was like Christmas every day.
But the best thing was that Autumn started seeing the money roll in. All off the state so all legit. No dirty deals and dodgy hand to mouth moments. Her entitlement. By law. She was a proper upstanding citizen of the nation. She couldn't have been any prouder of herself and what she had achieved.
All the stuff she saw only as the furnishings of other peoples worlds, she now saw as within reasonable reach for her own life.
The whole house redecorated from top to toe on a yearly basis. To keep it nice and fresh and homely. A new L shaped five person white leather sofa. Two new laptops and a new massive flat screen TV mounted on the wall in the main lounge. Cable and broadband. Mobile phones for herself, her mum, her babysitter and Henry. Trips away to the Lakes and up into Scotland four or five times each summer. A second hand but good as new Renault clio. A dishwasher. A second loo and shower where the downstairs storage cupboard used to be. Five brand new sets of bunk beds and as a special treat from her mum for her twenty seventh birthday, a waterbed.
She had four triple seater super-prams and a voucher for unlimited free child minding on most weekdays. Then they suggested that she might want to think about going to college and getting some qualifications, to really harness the value of the state support for her kids right now.
She took up the offer and enrolled as a part time student of paediatric support. She figured that what she learnt she could apply at home and then, after the kids had flown the nest she'd be able to hold down a secure and enjoyable career working in the national health service. She liked to think that she would be giving something back to the system, which really was only fair. She didn't want to take advantage now. She wasn't that kind of person.
But something changed in Autumn when Tetley walked out. A switch flipped. The young woman entered a totally different mode of being. It can happen. She'd been known these last few years and a good many too now, as Autumn Tetley. First off, she set about a re-branding exercise. From early two thousand and nine onward she began referring to herself as Autumn Grady. Without fail. And she corrected anyone who left off the surname until society behaved as instructed and momentum took hold. Persistence is the key in such matters.
Autumn Grady and no mistake. It was as if she was re-feminising. Asserting her individuality and, with that surname, leaving no room for any bloke to come along and be part of her life in the future. It was an expression of new found confidence and strength and it was a warning to any potential courtiers to keep their distance.
But the name was just for starters. Then came the big make-over. The image re-work. It was, and is, a thing of beauty and class. You have to hand it to Autumn Grady. The child benefits millionaire, at least in local parlance.
.........................

Saturday, 5 November 2011

Move Me Back To The Earth


Move me back to rhyme and reason

Move me back to the earth

Shine and fade me with the season

Kill me off for birth


Rise my spirit with the dawn

And set me down for dusk

Distance me from fake and fawning

Fill my air with musk


Sadden my smile with hateful love

Allow me to go wrong

The path I walk is right because

It's my path all along


Drown my sins in absolution

Colour my wins in lose

Wrap my peace in noise pollution

Free me not to choose


Make my hope the morning light

Then mute it with my pain

Paint my wrongs as black as night

Then yield for love again


Cast me out from truth and value

Deafen my ears to mirth

Then move me back to rhyme and reason

Move me back to the earth


05/11/11 gk

Sky Peals; or Brutalist In

On these top-heavy mood swing, moonshine days between the two best seasons of the four we’ve (allegedly) been getting for our annual ration ...

The House of Words

The House of Words
built like a novel

She Travels Through Books

She Travels Through Books
the green light girl