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.

Sat in the waiting hour

I'm sat in the slow waiting hour until the distant 02:30 digitally appears; it's not for myself I linger, Piekna is set to fly and the alarm is set within me, a buzzing and a ringing held tight until the time to awake arrives. 

The time is not my time, someone else’s time I inhabit and live with like shrapnel lodged in my inner realm; the hour is wheezing, laborious, but I endure it for her.

Last week I was in Berlin, another melancholy spectre, full of it’s own trauma; a place struggling with a guilty ego hiding it’s crimes in full view of the tourist in the hope they will disappear. We all hope ‘it’s different now’ but there is still a bitter frisson that follows down the throat. People wherever they are will torment and destroy each other and Berlin is the airbrushed representative, bikini clad but with impenetrable sorrow etched on it’s old man face. Berlin cannot escape its distress and thus I loved it purely. 

My whole experience was crystallised in a statue in one of the museums; it changed me somewhat, creating a subtle divergence in my consciousness; it was a sow, looking up morosely, clutching pathetically at her belly. My only thought was: yes, it’s true, the misery lives, beautifully, terribly. Then I stared and stared with a blankness that only a touch beyond our imagined reality can feel...

I still feel it somehow in my bones as they breathe in it’s menthol glow.

Pig Woman is my Goddess 

She gazes into that night where inspiration lives and my life as an Office Manager is shattered and consumed by a million hysterical lips, my lips.

There is still 3 waiting hours to live until the time, I will sit with the silence and learn from it’s face the way to exist without words, without noise, without people.  I dread my return...

MG