The Forgotten

The lights of the Road from far away seem
Like jewels from necklaces of forgotten queens
As they lie buried beneath below
Underneath centuries of dust, trod long ago
Who knows what memories they hold
Of lives lived, loved, joys and sorrows untold
What mountainous heights scaled and depths plumbed
What pleasures experienced, temptations succumbed
Their lives lived, in the halls of time placed
Their memory no more but not yet erased
A little flower of joy does spring
A little bird of hope yet sings
Of their wondorous lives lived so long ago
As they lie buried, cold and dark below
And these harbingers are descended from old
Ancestors who sang and flowered in those days of gold
While no men remain alive, of them to sing
Yet in the earth, the rocks, the trees those notes yet ring
Of a time of love and loss and war and shadows
Yet the setting sun in the brightest day glows
And none save birds are left to sing
Beneath the tombs of the Forgotten Kings

Cognitarium

Stumbling upon a consciousness
With the mind numb
And thoughts darting, forking fast
Inside the flaccid congitarium

Finding, seeking, hunting a rhythm
to escape a truth now out of scope
So that the new reality burns out
any possibility of hope

Pain brings sensation not sorrow
Hence it's purpose is void
Thus it is nulled, humbled, mastered
It's reason for existence destroyed

We seek eternally, the meaning of time
Searching, gathering to the limit of ability
And as its scope expands limitless, we become
Prisoners of our own infinity...

Delusions

The grey clouds part
Comes out no hopeful ray of light
But a piercing blast of hated heat
And with it our hopes depart
Oh cursed land!
Barren of hope and freedom
Why must we dwell
In thy cruel unyielding bosom
While our dreams lie dead, cold and fell.

As the traveller of the dusty roads
reaches the end of his journey
and for the last run his mind goads
Him, for truth is near, he is weary
And the righteous victim finds
that the author of this most gruesome of deeds
the defiling hands that perperated these crimes
are his own

For when along the dagger-path you walk
when you teeter beside the razors edge
Both sides are one
Both sides emerge
equally dark in the abscence
of opportunity
And that last instrument of denial
fades through the blood-stains of time
A futility called hope...

Quotations

"...I hate the sun on principle: it gives little choice and permeates noxiously into every aspect of existence. Driven by our NEED for light we are forced to accept unwanted unneccessaries alongside the satisfaction of our ravaging, primal need..."

"...reading is like masturbation, rarely does one orgasm but one keeps repeating in quest for that first earth-shattering experience..."

"...thought is the sole posioner of deed. An excess: leading to hesitancy and over-calculated error; little, to risk..."

A much maligned verse...

The queen of hearts
She made some tarts
On a hot summer's day.

Being unwise
She didn't realise
That the King of Hearts was gay

All the kings
With silver rings
And moustaches dark as soot

All except our quiet, queer King
Without the silver ring
And clean shaven to boot

But not so naive
Was our queenly wife
And she found out the truth

"Off with their heads!"
As they lay in their bed
Cried our Hearty wife

But laws have changed
Become less deranged
Now 377 is gone for life

Now bug-ger-ing
Of its odious ring
Is forever shorn

And queer-O's say
"I'M GLAD TO BE GAY!"
And the day they have won!

So the queen of hearts
She made some tarts
On a hot summer's day

Eating the tarts she made
Screwn the Jack of Spades
The King of Hearts contented lay.

End of Creation?

Why don't I write anymore? Why haven't I drawn for 5 years? It's a strange and irrelevant question, forgive me for lapsing into this phase of self-importance, ironically the very act of my apology to the reader implies a conceit of presuming that there IS one!

And it is this that I seek to address. I haven't drawn for ages because I was afraid of drawing, of not being able to complete my task efficently, not merely out of a lack of skill, but due to a warp in my logic, a lack of completeness in the vision of the thing I choose to represent in my art or my prose. An unneccessary, unnatural fear, not merely of being wrong, but being wrong and ignorant of its cause, in short being irremedially wrong.

I found that when I viewed paintings I had done years ago, weeks ago even hours ago, seemed empty and vapid. Not devoid of complete meaning and purpose but worst of all: lacking in perspective.

I tore them up. I burnt them and scattered their unseemly ashes.

What a fool I was! In my conceit, to believe perfection would be attained so easily! If one's goals are achieved without effort, there would be no meaning to the word GOAL then. Magic, as a force of life, would have a logic but would be devoid of a REASON for existence.

It is this realisation that helps one grow, I shared it with you; dear Reader; not to help you avoid my mistake, because that is impossible, you have to make your own unique mistakes and learn from them, but to share with you this greatest truth, that I have REASONED, and that which you have reasoned before me, or after me, is irrelevant, for in the light of the absolute truth, chronology is of least importance...

All Rational things are logical
All logical things are not rational.

That which has not a reason for existence, does not. Logic is a mere gauge of possibility of existence, not a determinant of it.

So fellow humans, do not, in pursuit of reason, be led astray by your own logic and leave the Path of Reason, and do not forget to forgive my patronising, condescending, preachy choice of prose! Humourous articles shall follow soon... Bye! Gotta paint!

High Hopes

Just saw the video yet again... haunting... lilting melodies carried on the breeze that bring tears to the eyes. Melodies? Sacriliege to call them just that... Visions of beauty that rip one out of disillusionment, carrying them away to the ZONE the ultimate destiny of the ones to be truly marked.... the TRIP the aura exuding a mystical power over something above mere senses, somethings connecting at a fundamental level to the mind, unhindered by chains of delusion or impossibility, something pure... transcending reason... transcending life. The essence. The reality. To be there.

I love you Syd Barrett... Gilmour... Waters...
Mary my Mary my Jane my pain! Where art thou when I'm in need!