HOME

WRITING

KEYS TO THE CITY

I: A New Career In A New Town

II: Dream Life

III: Paintings As Prayers

IV: Late Summer Evening

POETRY

Rose Crowned Evenings

Moments Of Pure Ashtray

The Personalised Circus

Berlin Undressing

Blind Children On Western Streets

Lucifer Says He Won't See Me

Say

Absentee Note

Boy

Christmas Curtains

Fountains

July

Swans On The Surface

Girl Smoking On Balcony

Stained Glass Window

Terrible Vision

The Insurance Was WILD

The Sea's Smile

Van Gogh's Lights

The Disappointed Prince

SHORT STORIES

Tectonic Plates

Turkish Pizza

Cuddle Parties

A Night At The Circus

The Catch

Chekhov In Kreuzberg

A Stolen Dress

Two Contract Killers Get Arrested

My Uncle Dick

Death In The Cafe

Performing To The Curtain

Getting Past The Curtain

OTHER

La Traviata

Babylon Berlin

Living With Samuel Beckett:

An Anti Essay

MUSIC

CONTACT

JULY

 

July 2012

 

A reign of dull humidity, soaked skylines and bemused flowers:

July you failed your promise to your sister Spring.

 

You had promised me many things too:

I had visions of radiant gardens, quaint footpaths

Illuminated in terrific light,

Bicycle bells and the humming of bees,

Streets aglow in vibrancy,

The colour Blue silent and formidable above.

 

But the greyness drums all surfaces like a dull blade,

Bruising and nullifying.

O land of disappointment!

My plans paralysed, my imagination impotent.

In a month in which boredom is usually banished,

I am confined to an empty bed and a wet ruined garden

- And hear how I moan! For it has now reached the point where I seek shelter in verse.

 

The clouds crave a new release

and so spill their ravenous new rain,

And I stand by the window,

watching this same scene once again;

This numbing spectacle,

where trees noisily shake,

where infant flowers

do nothing but break,

This numbing spectacle,

clutching me back to days inappropriate,

the fleeting echoes, the teasing familiarity;

I see and experience it all again:

O Time! Your footsteps, your songs, your emotions -

What about mine?

 

But it must fly, fly away,

fly away into the never,

and O I do know this,

even as I jump and rattle the skies,

like a young boy challenging butterflies.

 

Time, where do your memories go?

Do they lose themselves in the innocent breeze

and find their way to the heavens?

Or do they fall and sink to depths I know not of

nor wish to either.

 

There’s nothing like resignation with the rain,

each moment, each memory, falling further away,

further falling for the pouring horizon of all that is past;

drowning all that could have been.

Pour rain, pour! You’re ridiculous in your volume;

But I am not bitter with you - I’m not even wet.

though your rain does soak all I had sheltered.

 

I will try to smile as your drops fall through,

for like the empires of old,

and memories of May,

this will all just pass;

and might there not again be days that shine? that reign with light and good!

Where sky and ground become synonymous in loving reflection,

Where rays go forward, too young to sink with these marshes of memories,

Where they soar with naive grace for something else, something else,

For puddles can only float for so long.