The Difference in Dream

The Psychic and the psychical dream. The subliminal and the semi-conscious it seems. What can be 'known' and what must remain its mystery, except perhaps, unto the soul

Look Into my Eyes, Life

Look into my eyes life. Tell me what it is that is going on with you? Have you no conscience at all? and are you working on delusion? Remember when I promised to be true to you and obey your very wishes? Well, it seems that there was confusion in the air at the time, there was a kind of sleep and sleep is no beholder of time, and I wonder if time really is a beholder of Life.

Kaleidescopic Dream

Kaleidescopic dream, merging colours, asking for understanding, clarity, sanity. The crazy ship riding the horse around the edge of the crescent moon, life is given to someone who's awareness is not of me. The guilt is eased by the mysterious fantasy. The outskirts or inskirts of my life I wonder selfishly? Understanding is open ended. I smile a smile for the dreamer in the way that he is usually so real for me. We are as one, the dreamer and I, but a space exists somehow between us. The mind explodes/implodes. Unity is beguiling, challenging. The picture isn't understood or even seen fully. My vision shall increase as I increase the strength of my search.

Boomerang Girl

Boomerang girl, in the hurricane wind, magnetised and alive, daring and obsolete. Boomerang girl, who are you trying to fool? Didn't you read the news? haven't you noticed the years? Am I the picture of one who needs replaced? Am I the dream of the reality you saw in me? Are you yet in a dream? Has life made you empty, has it stolen away your heart? When you smile do you smile? and when you love do you love? Or the cold I see in you, the coldness of indifference and unlonging? How are you today Boomerang Girl and who have you become? Are you your own nightmare come true? Has your idea of love proved to be an idea of deception and spite? Deluded Boomering Girl and your nose in the air......

The Pussy-Whipped Marionette

The Pussy-Whipped Marionette, manipulated within his imprisonment, until the tugs at his person, that once could be felt can no longer be perceived. The soft and golden of her voice are demonic in their perversity. She has become the Goddess of her soul, although to perhaps deny this however unconsiously, she may look to a greater God, to a popular God in an apparently unselfish way. The Pussy-Whipped Marionette wears the haunted eyes of the moribund, his life, barely in touch with living, and his heart can no longer feel. There is no longer, longing, he is frozen in his lifetime, and goes ignored by the eyes of love, which he is unable to recognise anyway. The Pussy-Whipped Marionette, this morning is the same new day.

The Mind and the Outernet

what kind of diet is required for getting weight off of your mind? Superficiality? On the subject of which I think I will further pursue The Outernet.

Martha and the Vandellas

Dear Martha, Would you like to tell me in my perplexity, who or what, was/is a Vandella?

Sincerely Jimmy Mack

Bright Start to a Sunday

So I ask the Polish assistant in Tesco's this morning: 'Do you have a collander?' and she says 'No, but you will get one in Easons' (which is a book shop) and I stop and think and say: 'Its a Collander I want not a Calendar. A bright start to Sunday.....

Silence and Understanding

I think that silence knows understanding when it is at peace with itself. But silence does not necessarily know peace, but knows an easier way to peace. So understanding I think can be found within silence, a certain kind of silence. I guess silence has to be manipulated and interpreted, perhaps questioned. Perhaps silence is a suspicious thing.....

A Kind of Suicide

Its like a kind of suicide. You need someone to represent you, one to say the things you wouldn't think, one to act on your behalf, be the bold you, hold your hand for you, make you smile for you. Decide for you, be your guide for you, be the singer that you are, the poet that you could be, helping you to breathe easily without responsibility, live your life for you, by killing the life that is within you, and you are the one with the dagger at your throat.

Does Life Work?

The Strobe puffing its light into the darkness of the room. A world in tears can become a dream, that haunting feeling overwhelmed by fantastical simplicity, the dark colours of life, obscured, life working on the outskirts of its own life, wearing its blinkers, transferring them to me, looking for my innocent embrace, for my niave compliance. Ultimately though, I can only deal in the truth of my mind and heart and I ask 'Does Life Work?'