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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

NOW WAKING, NOW SLEEPING

 

APRIL 2015

 

 

If not now, then when?

And if not now then no.

Perhaps now, the nows:

I’ll make this quick.

 

There it was,

And there we were,

My shoulder forever.

The pair of them,

At my back, and by my side,

My two left right hands,

And their fumbling through things,

Eternal as it were,

And now they don’t understand,

And how these amber’d hours remark;

Of that I am not sure, of whom

To whom they remark upon, and of

The almost unquestionable attire of

That once something advanced upon,

Moving to, moving fro, perhaps moved upon,

I, transport and still; both states now one:

I’m sure,

Carried along, of being carried along,

Not along a shore of desire,

But as desire to a shore,

I’ll be well and truly completely

 

I’m, falling asleep again.

 

Now – still not now, I gazed surely not that far,

Or willingly not, the wonder of this current,

Or that comment - you see all too soon I all forgot

Or forget which torment, to which moment,

I pleaded as ignorant infant not.

 

Perhaps that the ugly alarm,

Perhaps is not that of wittingly any harm,

My singing bell, ringing out the charm

I didn’t see coming,

It woke me up as well.

I bow: like hell, and of no harm -

It was then that I knelt.

But I don’t know how, for I was lying down -

I’m writing about my alarm clock.

 

What happened?

 

I was en route.

I took a few things, a lot it took.

I took everything. As I wake,

I search for my meta- recipient,

Outside myself something’s always required, but it isn’t,

Or wasn’t, quite remotely liable -

For look what I mumble to thee,

What’s this I mumble to thee?

Is that what I mumble to thee?

Just look at what I mumble to thee.

O, thee…!

 

The thee, of no person, was in fact a time again,

Of the time seeming to be an apparent friend to him,

He linen clothed and uncleanly closed in his walls of fun nails,

Stupid sloth, he thwarted clean by lamp, chair, lamb and hail;

Hail a friend though to the friend of whom once knew what it was to fail!

Cheers!

(And having done so no doubt once failed as well at having to fail!) Prost!

Remember?

Or a nail of a wool – well the cloth linen make up was, no?

No: I know exactly where I was on Good Friday,

And there’s simply no going around it.

I will get out of this now, however: this now,

Thenowus, the 29th of April -

Now, this moment,

No! A last look…

 

…Like departed snow’s far off presence, (it hardly fell this year),

I deemed that there was nothing no longer more left

To suffer, the surface now forever dried chored and bereft,

No winter, no spring, it was a Good Friday;

Left them all I did and it all I did too, other’d, while others sang and Danced, drinking songs of danceable merriment and chance -

Skidded the street is and was,

Like when I tried to open doors that were not there;

These knockers call by a mistaken house,

Yet Fortune’d it was as the sleet did fall,

Washing away finally,

Till what was covered became believably left…

 

…Rightly left now with a night and a chair and a Tuesday,

The name of it, the day, or what was,

I had no intention to -

Sometimes hardly speak

Of what was hard to say too -

I confess:

A dream, a nightmare, a vision, a blank stare of nothing,

My two eyes: my two left four right eyes,

The bank cheque shared out to the humming, sunning,

Stunning people making jokes about what shit (inaudible) or

What shit (inaudible), what shit (Inaudible)

I confess (inaud-), the tills and the receipts,

Train tickets I do keep,

What for, (inaudible),

What for, (inaudible),

Oh all things I cannot hear!

I confess no more, or rather, I’ll sleep no more

And never did before, so I’ll not wake some more

 

‘today, this hour: come here friend,

no you better get you off to your bed,

your journey home,

back from whence,

 you once did pursuit your leave’

 

But it’s at the crowing of the minnuit courtyards,

When the last one,

‘Stand still amongst it all!’ says:

For he doesn’t say too much;

Like me, he sits in looking out somewhere,

And no doubt he sees too, a sky and buildings there;

Henced my fasted leave,

That too I forgot, (and that too I forgot),

Henceforth from now,

Onward is hence from this moment onwards,

Nothing, nowhere, diagonal, forever and everywhere,

Or where, somewhat additionally and with gross respect I stare

Backwards actually, now, here and there once more;

Another matter entirely to dare, as before

And go – and you see the star, your stars,

The railing, your railings,

And once again the sofa – this is in most cases your sofa.

And now? Now -

Now comes the murder.

 

The day is over. So is the night.

But now is not. I almost forgot;

…O my day, my day’s

Nights of nights!

What shall I do,

Which thought needs a gaze?

I was misled to think that

This night seemingly had space

For me, for no gaps it had, and there

Not even spaces in between them were,

And it together became now streamed,

Yet one night, a night strangely still seems,

Despite their fit for fragments swiped across

The day’s screen,

And I am not a fan of this either.

 

‘What happened?’ I once asked,

For I was en route, wasn’t I?

I have been en route all this time. No –

I have been in bed all this time.

Yes - at home, I stayed,

In a chair, and then dwelt in a self confessed

Lair of a sofa, so not even in a bed then,

Collected that’s who you are’s,

Managed to mix them all up,

Made any importance redundant

And any apparent filler too full,

And I don’t doubt you saw my sofa coming

(I mentioned it earlier – actually I didn’t – no actually I did),

Not literally, but literarily you see

(I think it’s obvious that I’d better go to bed).

You are blind dead like me,

But I do doubt this, but how did you,

And I do now; you do how? now now now, I’m,

 

(This unfortunately is audible)

 

But how did you see me,

How did you see me,

 

I saw you because you saw me you bumbling fool.

 

And it got later,

It’s getting predictable, eve now again the eve:

I realise now, you made me flee,

Only so much pressure a man can take,

But no, I’ll make some more,

And I won’t sleep till I finally close my eyes

And cease looking and thinking and reasoning surprise,

And I’ll…Help you throw me out of my own house,

Critique your own constructive criticism,

Invite you round to my new house,

We can… regard my affairs,

Scribe them out on sooty tiles,

We can (continue this line of complaint,

for what seems a good long while)

 

Soon I’ll set the alarm.

Numbly ring to what I tried to sew.

Humbly collect what now’s I once knew.

 

Thank God I’m alone again.

With you I sleep now.

With you I exit now.