PARANOID AMNESIA

The Time Machine

If I had a time machine
I would not care about
the ancient mystics,
the great pyramids, or
the giant Sphinx.

If I had a sailing ship
I would not bother searching for
new species to delve,
new spices to obtain, or a
new world to explore.

I know of a kingdom neither
Columbus,
Cook, nor
Magellan could find.

And this kingdom is
by far, the best.

There is no greater hunger
that can starve my heart,
that has power to dispirit my soul, or
that can imprison my mind.

No force of gravity exists
akin to your magnetic pull.

Like the rings of Saturn,
or our moon’s tidal force,
you, my Dearest
are a universal phenomenon.

Unlike any nuclear explosion
that is ruptured into nothingness,
your eyes - deeper than the Mariana Trench, and
your touch - softer than Chinchilla fur,
still holds true.
Defying indisputable law,
disembarking me breathless,
motionless, whilst
debating the nature of my own being.

Now, when I look up
and gaze into the infinite beauty;
I see glowing spheres of sadness,
red and blue.
A relic of me and you.

So let it be known…

That there is no history
I would rather relive.
Because you know, my Dear,
there is no other I would rather be with.

And that there is no desire
for me to turn back time.

Unless it be to the history of
you and I.

The Eyes

He has the mind of a million eyes,
shoved in the corner he’s thinking aloud.
Fixated on the straggling cattle,
the raging bulls always cowed.

He’s got a wretched tale to tell you,
one to make you cry.
Sleeping eyes live sleepy lives,
they’ll never wake to wonder why.

Tell me why it is you see,
peering through wide oculus.
Red is red as blue is blue,
conforming with the populous.

The Seekers

The Empire has chosen
to raise its drawbridge.
Ships shall not enter
for reasons umbrage.

A war with allegiance
divided by seas.
Omitted your conscious
of your saviour Pisces.

This land declared ours
we pillaged from fools.
The land of the luck
we’ll teach you in schools.

The Aftermath

Confused and drifting,
my bones feel crushed
into dust.
Through the pores of my skin
they are sifting.

We’re living in shambles;
entangled and mangled.
And no-one has the answers
that I have been longing for.

How can we get away
when we live in such disarray?

Please forgive my clichés
but I have no escape.
I’m at war with my head
from a genetical
mental mess.

Generations have fucked
this into me.
To harvest the blame
unto the farmer, his wife, and
the Summer rain. 

The Trip

Inner-self starts to slip away.
Fleeting fields of grey
from self-induced decay.

Talking tongues
in the back of my mind.
Transform into tantric
transcendental seeds
as I sip from the cup
of mystic heated wine.

Roots unravel to absorb
an abscess of knowledge
that can’t be taught.
Roots unravel to absorb
securing the structure
of common thought.

Deny the moths.
Deny the ruined.
You cannot see
what they cannot see.

Stay here with me
we’ll be complete, and
we’ll cut away
at the ancient dogmatic display
of age. 

The Awakening

Opened my eyes
for the first time
forced to forget my name.

In and out
of a spiraling brain
to enslave.
Insanity will remain.

Mind spins
into solid rhombus.
Echoes adapt
through the conscious.

Only the shell
is submerged in time.
The soul is dripping divine.

The Prodigal Son

Dearest Father, distant Mother. Please forgive me, but I’m in a bother. As you can see - this life for me - is not something that I believe. The abuse, the finance, the frowns, the red stain on our teeth as that third bottle went down. Do you remember the sweet crackling of the AM sound when you used to drive me round this old town? I stop to try to think about the good ol’ times that we’ve had… but I was bad and you got mad; now when I sleep I meet the sad old hag. I don’t want you to feel that I blame you. Please believe me when I say that I can understand how tough it must have been for you; a baby boy of 4 with nothing more than his suitcase and fear in his eye of post-world war. I’m sorry you had to hear it this way, but I could tell by the tone of your voice when you called me today, that you sounded far from okay. I just need both of you to know that this isn’t the end even though we’re drifting further and further away. I just need to be free, please let me be free so I have a chance to learn. Knowing when, and only then, your prodigal son will return.

The Running Blues

I feel inadequate; forever haunted by generations imprisoned in my head and I’ve grown tired of lying and wearing masks only to pretend. I don’t ever know just what I’m doing here. I’m engulfed by fear whilst trimming away at the hedges with shears; embracing the end of these 24 humble years. This numbing feeling ain’t ever disappearing; I’m past sinking, afloat, now drifting towards back to the shore. Alone with myself - the stars to guide - as I think about it now, more and more. The mud in-between my toes has got me so low now my shoes hit the street to the beat of the Running Blues. Maybe I’m just too old-fashioned anyway? Because inside my own head, it’s constant raining every day. Only lately it’s beginning to sink in that maybe I won’t ever be okay. I have nothing to gain, yet everything to change. And I know that if I don’t make it out today, then I’ll continue to crawl throughout this hazy maze, knuckles and knees grazed, as the smoke from my lungs breathes more and more grey into my final day.