It must be that simple.

The raw-ness of raw evenings,

And all the things you can’t say,

The utter pointless, swerve of

A future that is as stupid and undecided as you,

And the bombs will come and the children will die

And the images and films will be the same;

But there is never a reason.

It must be that simple.

It must be that simple

The greater good.

I always wonder what would happen if

The people who crowd the streets with

Such moral indignation,

And the obvious lick of the good and the true,

Were given their way,

Would utopia dawn, would a world of

Complete peace be the answer,

The completion of the dialectic?

No, but the point is the action

The pointless, heroic failure

Getting to the truth is not the goal

Knowing it won’t happen, that is the function.

The real reason for the horror is never

Defined and is probably dull and banal.

The conspiracy:

we live for the mystery

And the things they don’t say

Are the things in ourselves we don’t want to know.

So march March on, but know

You are walking away from the Real.

Ego Destroyed

I went away on a human holiday, distant from London's broken smiling slabs. The shore I washed up on was a different world, a silent, night time place, uncluttered, unfiltered.
The place I went has a name but this label chokes in my throat, hardly a representation of the rich picturesque void that now exists in my mind; I shall rename it the blissoramic expanse; a parallel world hidden from the London consciousness, not good/ bad, urban/rural, profit/loss; but a different way of seeing, a suit of different colours, shades and style.
I shrank in its bosom and found myself covered in folds of a gentle unknown skin; the night joined me and my companions down a shadowy road as we walked to a pub 2 miles in the distance. The Drunken Duck Inn has a name and story only real life can create; later that night on the return journey I found myself shouting at the gloom: ‘Who shaved me? Why am I wearing a cardigan?’ in tribute to those legendary ducks.  London was long gone, the darkness the expanse and the audible characters from behind the hedge were all.
As I walked along the empty road I remembered, not an event or a place but a feeling, a solitary fullness, I looked up into dusky sky and it was there, like a warm fleece enfolding. The hills and the trees huddled round and joined my conspiracy. The thrill of being a lone figure in the night, a silhouette, no people for miles around, technology seeming like a strange dream, invisible.
The cool air at my face created energy for the nothingness. The absence of people, judging things, pressuring things, gave everything more life. I saw images in the gloom, shadows come to life, traders, highway men, families heading for the Inn; a timeless invisible history coming from the hedgerows. Everything was smooth and mysterious.
I became childlike, full of inspiration and hope. It wasn’t an epiphany; there weren’t any ecstatic moments, just a long drawn out feeling; no threatening presence, just the wilderness and its dark beyond.
This is the point, as always, that words fail and I have no reason to care, for they are part of the problem. I sank into the rustling, groaning, singing void of the no-thing.
I laughed and slipped between my companions, but, with London, they were long gone, whether they had joined me I’ll never know, but I will follow that path to the pub to the end of the sunset. Ego Destroyed.