Ode to Southend-On-Sea

Oh you always seem to find me,
Don’t you, the moon?
Oh if there is any one I am in love with,
I do think it is you.

Oh the thought does drift about my brain,
As did the sea air the last time I felt it about my hair.
How I miss those leisurely days beside the pier, or sat upon the sunny rocks.
For it has been almost a year since I have seen any real sunshine,
And whilst I prefer the grey days…
And much prefer the night…
There is nothing like the warmth of evening sun on your back,
As you read Murakami on the rocks with your feet burrowed in the sand,
The sound of children laughing around you,
And parents wishing to go home.
Knowing that Rossi’s ice cream parlour continues to modernize up beside the hill behind me,
But as ever serves the same delicious menus,
How I hear no cars but am ever aware of their rolling by,
As if they are sorry to be a break between the parlour and I,
And a cut in this beautiful scenery.
Such does the sea lie before me,
Does the industrial views of Sheerness.
I see the towering chimneys from here, and all the miles they lie away are nothing when it is all but water.
How the sea dips into any part of the shore it can,
It laps back and forth, each time growing closer to my toes,
Until it cannot go any further,
Until it slowly laps back as if rewinding itself.
All to show are the creatures and stones it leaves behind.

It is so very similar to the way a mind whirls about it’s memories.
How things roll in and out of your mind,
Further and further away,
And closer and closer.
When your current thoughts recede, lie all the ones that merely drifted beneath the surface of your consciousness. Misplaced or still alive in your mind,
Though perhaps not in life.
I adore my nights,
But please do not take away from me, my evenings at the seaside.



Oh, just this one more song,
May we stay?
As I hear Vera sing and you smile in the dim of the bar.
I know the sea is just outside,
And the stars sit happily in it’s ripples,
This fine, sweet, sea side night.
Oh I hear no more gulls but they shall return by morning,
And here it is all the clinking of glasses, the moving of trays,
The sweeping up of the end of a night,
And here plays that final song.
That one I asked for, to myself, just this one!
And here, still you stand, in that fine, fine suit you wear so well.
This is my favourite dress, oh won’t you dance with me,
Just for this last song?



A sweet melody, that brought you to me,
Vera sings.
And so you take your hand to my waist,
The other scooping my hand up into the air,
Stationary they hold,
As we dance, sway in this seaside bar.
Take me back to Brighton I cry,
Oh but this time,
Let it be love by the railings.
We’ll do the sweetest waltz across the shoreline, me and you.
The lights scoop the end of the pavement, and illuminate the pebbles of the beach.
And here we are, just us.
Oh where is everyone else,
Oh let’s just pretend they are all dead.
Just for tonight.
It’s just me and you, dancing beside tonight’s black sea,
And it’s just what love should be.
Oh why can I not see your face?
My sweetest figure in such fine attire!
What love will be but I cannot see!
I just feel all the adoration and returned love I swell with,
Released only in a smile to your ear,
As you ask me how we might get home.
And I tell you once again,
Just this one song more.

I might be something, dreaming.

Suppose I write a new, for the old?
My dreams have been so tell-tale lately!
And so unco-operative as I attempt pen them down!
Blasted, unrelated, unrealistic sub-reality of one's own mind!
But so realistic! It is the problem, they are so!
For I feel in them,
Feel as you might breathing in the rain on a routine stroll to work,
Feel as you might on that first dive into the cool of an outdoor pool!
The people in them, I have seen, mostly, I have!
I have grown with them, I mightn't have all of them any more,
But they have been here, in this supposed waking world.
And growl, have I, at waking on occasion,
To find they are still not here.

It is proof of my time-walking?
It is certainly proof of my dreaming!
And it is all of the dreaming, it is all of the mumbling in my sleep,
And the constant logging of dreams!

Suddenly, I awake and am onto something,
Suddenly writing is as writing can be,
And I've a beginning to that story I never finished,
And mightn't finish if I should have trouble sleeping again.
On all these notes and the above and below, I return to my dwelling, I return to the screen and pen my endless papers! It might just happen, I confirm, it might!
I may have stumbled onto what a life I am supposed have,
Or at least the same road.
Well, same city at most,
But the same nonetheless! On the map it all is!
I can be something,
Can't I?
As awkward as I am in daily situations,
As dull as my voice sounds,
As vague as I ever am,
As unshapely as I may be:
I might be something.

I might be.

3.55am, September 7th, 2009.

A venue, a pale black light tries to pollute the effort of a spotlight beside the speaker,
The same spotlight that, behind a veil of wispy smoke,
Holds the silhouette of the one I’d call a lover.
Hung in a shallow blue, his profile standing above his guitar,
The music hasn’t started yet.
Two elbows on a chrome Bar, I stand in waiting.
His heard lyric rolling absently through my mind, mingling with the murmur of a crowd in apprehension.
I feel like tonight is all mine.
Whether he looks at me or not.
Directly across a post-warehouse he stands,
The evening air barely venturing in,
His shadow turns my way but the faceless always remain the same.


He’s waiting out by the church,
She’s searching for another name,
All the while knowing who she wants tonight,
But everywhere else holds the anticipation of a romanticizing technique.

Dreams those night,
Of making love to nothing,
But feeling more toward it than any thing
Writhing around and wanting more but finding no one there.

On a quiet day.

Written December 23rd 2010.


I had been thinking, and a caped figure appeared.
In no way did it threaten me, or question my wellbeing.
It merely was, and I quietly accepted this new found fact,
Shrugged it off and let it be, the way you would new information in Geography.

"You've been dreaming", it said after a time, and without looking toward it, I responded quite blandly;
"I have, yes."
In it's presence, I felt rather calm, collected, quite happy for a for a figure to simply watch as I went about my average business. It broke up the day, I suppose, gave me a little more to think about.
"Responding promptly after anger is not always wise", the figure relieved. I wondered briefly what this figure may look like, if it were male or female, old or young.
As it spoke next, this appeared not to matter.
"Occasionally you will feel a pain in your right wrist, whilst the pain is not normal, the cause has become so. I understand you are confused as to whether or not you are falling in love and also in to the wondering of those passed on having ever been in your life at all. You will write, and not many will read. You will see your day times through white misted glasses, occasionally filtering through a gold haze. You will see more nights than days."
He stopped promptly, he had not moved whilst reciting his words, though he had swayed gently. I didn't really look toward him, more around him, as if the choice was not mine to do so.
There was a brief spell of quiet once more, in which neither of us did much of anything. The caped figure's presence began to grow cold, a similar feeling to one you recieve when you realise something you enjoy is coming to an end.
"Oh and, the face you recognised in a video long since made?".
I then looked toward the face of the caped figure.
"You did know him, and you will".

Our Day Will Come.

The nights are sweet, in other rooms and between our beds,

Not a sight familiar, not a permanent chair,

I've washed my hair in several showers,

We've attempted dining at all sorts of tables.

But of course each object melts in comparison,

To my strong image of you.

I made myself sleep this morning, I dreamt and was aware, I woke and refused to give in. Back into the dream, it took me to other worlds, it swept me up and attempted to drift me out to sea, it took sun from any sky and put hate in the voices of others. Oh it threatened me with faces and long gone places, but I slept. And this time, I woke when I wished to have woke.

Yes, as I swung my legs round the bed, I collapsed to the floor on a numb leg, but all the pain of yesterday and the rest of today has been beautifully worth it. Not long, I keep on, not long here again. Only I find it hard to picture my kitchen, my wallpaper, these days. And I've never really been one for 'seeing to believe' in the physical world.

Too awkward to kick back, to uncomfortable to fall asleep on the sofa, I wait with tense bones by the window - not for winter to pass - but for my season to guide me to my next destination. Perhaps make a home, oh can I even?

Am I scarred and unable to settle, is it just the new I seek now, now that I never pitched camp?

Keep the future painted with accents of a past I never had, it would do me well to actually drive on with it all. Is it that I have waited too long, that in the porch of next year, I long to just step in and not wait a second more? Am I angry and impatient, oh patience of 10 years! Patience! What am I now, that I've never known impatience?

Nothing manages to freeze over in the city, I see no glittering webs and dusted hedges?

The leaves do not crunch here, the sludge slipped in with the rubbish just slips -

I have waited so long.

Do not let it just be words! They can be the fuel, they can tie us together, oh they can slip into physicality but if I ever stopped talking just for a day, would I crumble in your eyes?

And yes, how I stop myself, and yes how I hesitate! I disgrace my own wants and knock on my own front door!

I've much to pull through to,

And much that I want to,

It's you in every mirror, in every photograph, in every suit! It's you,

And it will be tomorrow, I can be tomorrow!

So let it be today, dear body, let it!

I've needed all of this,

I've need, fed and swam into!

I remember being told - both in the morn'.

I remember treading carefully through the snow,

Rocks turned over, twigs peered through,

Leaves lining the trail of foot and paw.

I will be joyous again.

Our day will come.

Empty Says The Glass

Does passion leave behind?

You will never know any thing like what you think you are meant to,

They whispered that through countless trees,

of which I had tried.

When did honey start falling through where only sun light did before?

My world a treat if only I could move such 'Crazy Feet'.

Some one mentioned democracy, i steered a conversation toward conifer and braile.

And how might a blind man read should he have never seen a tree,

And lay his fingers upon it's bark?

Had no one lay beneath a star, and realised it was still alive?

Had it been only so long ago,

As i usually wish it to be.

Where had i been, and who had i been lately?

Oh save such sweeter thoughts for the journeys you prey to thinking upon.

Came across this from March 2010.

And suppose my love, makes no sense for you,
Every bitter touch and all that lays between.
I began to waltz,
I felt the wooden floor beneath my feet at the lights spun slowly above us.
Feathers hung from the faces masked,
Our own eyes only familiar.
I heard the sweeter sounds between the stair case and draped velvet.

I heard little laughter, I saw the weave between the bar,
Oh only one in white,
She disapeared between the dark of the crowd.
So smart, on several occasions he asked.
And why I ever denied, oh how.
I lived out a childhood dream last night.

Sweet turn slipped through glitter,
Must I always feel this way?
So simple it seems, to arrive gracefully.
My one night on the marble.

And so the twelfth, they say.

Delicate really, i suppose. And today is the 3rd. The 3rd of 91.

Oh it makes so little sense for such a large number

But being 91 this day, would have had you born in 1919?

I hope that is correct, for he has seen all I wish to have seen,

And much worse, much less.

Labels were correct, simplistic and for all,

What were bananas?

And the local shop was one.

The music when he was born, was rythmatic, so beautiful,

As he progressed it became swing, became Rock 'n Roll,

Oh to see it all?

I've a light feeling in my stomach,

aware that I spent just the other night,

Watching as he would've, in the old picture house.

Oh and how lucky you were, to have been born the year

I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles published.

Happy Birthday.

Toned.

Grant me, if you will,
The ability to forget, and then to re-live.
And the possible indication of where i went wrong the first time.
Of course, i am not asking you to go back.
What a waste and regain of time that would be.
All I'm saying is, my night was sweeter knowing that the next day,
I was to visit the seaside I'd never before seen.
Now i have.

~

Sometimes passion holds me.
Occasionally gripping at my arms and cupping the flesh,
All the while maintaining it's trade.
Brushes in my hands - pens, technology and hefty plastic expenses.
-
Passion is;
My carriage now sits empty, par the man two windows thick, through,
And so my voices carries out from travelled throat,
and trails softly around the bars, eightie's designed seating and mortgage adverts.
It's barely even a whisper. And it's slightly out of tune.
But all the while this circle line train plummets deeper,
It's route set and myself stuck.
It shakes my being comfortably, uncontrollably
And I watch the curve in machinery.
It's destination set, I wait upon an exit.
But that part before doors slide,
Possibly is felt when passion drives.

Narrow, aimless, blind but sure of an arrival.




~
Daylight showed me Essex was at my feet,
My suitcase merely grumbled along behind me in an adolescent way.
The train doors scraped some sort of farewell, and in my mind only did the train whistle aprovingly as it steamed away.
For a moment my hair was permed and a netted hat sat slanted upon it.
But sepia failed to make it's appearance today,
and so a chav bustled by me hump-ily, clashing music riding within his palm.
'I'm not a fan of lazy days'
She once said.
And half an hour later boarded a train so similar.
His voice played out a blur as she sat alone on the platform.
There was no breeze disguising traffic,
But the hum sat in the air around her had his tone to it.
It wound itself into her throat,
and caused her the deepest breath she'd taken that day.

Her eyes turned inwards,
but there was no deffinate way of seeing his face.
The sun then peered out from behind the wispy clouds,
it's warmth rolled over her as did her eyes roll outward.
They ached in protest to the newly found brightness,
and squinted accordingly.
A familiar tingle hit her throat,
And the sounds of live piano muscled it's way into the back of her mind somewhere.
She enjoyed it for no longer than 30 seconds,
And then, her throat and eyes dry, she left.

Trains.

I told myself yesterday. But I mimed it coherently today.
I heard the plug fill up with water, gargling and choking if only for a few seconds.
I'm sure the eye down there had squinted.
Maybe i shouldn't have called him
A lovely little thing.
Because he got the bus before last.
The centre of town had so many lights,
And I'm sure that water in the dock was deeper than it gave away.
The steel bench was grated and cold. But i was rather content,
in my tit and tat, with my tailored coat.
Waiting then, for just about any one.
I could see some stars, speckled in the gap through the clouds.
Still, they looked rather silver, and i decided they were standing in for the moon.
Who's place they had clearly stole.
My fingers were sort of, stained red.
I'd made a decision three hours before.
At home my bed was covered in cat hair.
And most likely dust. For a home from home was a then a permanent lust.



Some one ran in from the streets, they bashed through the door,
They were yelling to get there,
Screaming obscenities and love.
I must of been addicted to him by now,
For i was in the carriage behind.
Distracted by words on the door, I missed my stop by an inch
And had to leave with my hair behind my ear.
My ear not particularly present, what when stuffed with sounds and wires.
Shining like chocolate on a photograph,
I decided a greeting card wouldn't have done.
And thus my presence regained in your odd little town, 5 over from mine.
Demanding less subtle answers,
I called once more. But only through mobiles and automatic doors.
Constantly reflecting and smiling now and then.
Sinched in at the waist, hair really in for a trim.
You'd of mistook her for a local,
had a suitcase not entailed.

I almost forgot to write, and so to end before a story begins.