everything is all light
the brightness of light
is shades of darkness
the loudness of sound
is degrees of quiet
every dream is a revolving door
every suicide is the failure of death
to have the last word
put your fingers in your ears
close your eyes
think that you are dead
you are not
how to inadequately describe a sea swim
the sea always different
sometimes out
sometimes in
obviously
sometimes half way
then there’s the rip
rough calm black blue cloudy
thoughts suspended in a stir of sand
black stormy sky east
bristol way
the surf and then the spume blown
by an east wind
laying like a crocheted doily
linen like
then suddenly
the sun comes out and it is dazzling
whiter than heaven
dazzlingly awesome
look how i stand mesmerised
around me no one to say
look look
oh wow wow
i do
out loud
then
it’s gone slowly slowly slam
black is the loneliness
of eyes that are shut
just the sensation of cold water
all that is left is physical
until the next rebirth
of the death pull
under my toes
unseasonal
time’s train
faster than the thought that autumn
is so much like spring
but without the promise
same height of sun and sky
the skuddering of it all
in the clattering of a tinkling
the icicle minds its business
like the tips of the daffodils
unsure is the name of the day
wrapped up
it’s all in the reading room for thought
the poet
is reading his poem
all wrong
impertinence is
just that
i prefer the way i read it
the way i rote
the translation
the genetic modification of meter
the cadence in my caudate nucleus
knows better than this
contractions
i am 75
and only just learning to speak
for fuck’s sake
all those regrets and the regret
that i am still falling short
in the same old way
such contraction ends in the nursery
the colour of the cot and that tiny chair
back from the running it always ends
there in that little room
all the world’s dark lanes walk in unannounced
and in every dark wet window
my father’s face concurs
it was always raining
and it still is
it was always cold
and it still is
every corner dark
and they still are
draw the curtains
don’t let the moonshine
alight on these tears
out with the boy’s tonight
down town like
the Tâf estuary at Laugharne
green with envy
thoughts meandering flat
in the flattery of an anxious sea
creeping slowly out and in
the scene growing distance
from the worm to the stark rising
of the shore trees
black with wrack words
hanging like seaweed
telling the weather or not
of yesterday’s stormy thoughts
[ NO END? ] insight
can you move closer to an event that has not happened yet
like your deathday
is that (not) set far away but lay
unresolved in the chaotic data of chance
or does happenstance move an event
towards you moving towards it
all in the tilt of the pin-ball machine
nudge nudge wink wink
for if non-existence ends time for you
then you are moving through time to a point when time ends
for you
so you’ll not know when you arrive
at a point where departure terminates in time for you
is there a math somewhere that explains it [ ALL? ]
but if you do not speak math can you ever know
but then again
it is all perception bound by experience for you
does time have distance when you are sitting waiting
for a date to arrive
time exists when something happens
when non-existence arrives is that an happening
or is that an happening minus a one pixel of time
half pixel quarter etc
please don’t wait for my answer
after walking this ledge with me
i haven’t got a bloody clue
but a thought taps on the window
repeatedly
the end of this poem nears
in time
it will be finished
you will know that before i do
for another anagram of time
mite 🤪 be added to divide
the distance by half then half again
never to arrive
but it will get close enough
to be as close as damn it is to swearing
to say that it has arrived
there it is …
[ NO END ]
in sight
are you moving away from your birthday
are you travelling through time
from your birthday to your deathday
or
are you standing still watching time passing
can it be both ~ now there’s your thought
no time before you were born (for you)
no time after you die (for you)
so you are in the middling time
muddling along
[ NO ENDS ] insight
your end is behind you
your start is in front of you
what a turn up for the books (that you could have written)
that you simply are until you are not
[ ARE YOU? ] moved by this ~~~ or not
