Handover

The rebel generation
Soon shall step no more
Handover
I feel the baton slip
All hail
The coming of
The automaton swarm
Unless…

Not No More

I can’t pretend
Not no more
Not no longer
I can’t talk a good game
About numbers and profit
Can’t beam with fake
Excitement at being
Given more of the same
To do
Even the money don’t
Matter
Its potential for
Transformation into
Material things is
Far less important
To me now.

I wanna chase
Rainbows
To the place
Where the
Sunset sky
Meets the horizon
Make music
Sounds and art
Write
And read.
Please
No more of this materialistic
Claptrap of benefit
To no-one
Nowhere.

Escape
Now there’s a thought
Shall I do it?

Buckling Earthquake

I’m trying
To be
Good
Cool
Relaxed
To ride
These
Buckling earthquakes
Of emotion
With a nonchalant
Smile
Redolent
Of ‘commonplace’
On my lips.

I’m trying
But its hard.
Each peak
Each trough
Sends
Butterflies
Fluttering
Excitedly
Through my
Existence.

This beautiful tumult
Has arisen in me
Because
I know that these events
Are all but
Everyday.
That
The startling
Synchronicity
Noticeable at each
Step on this
Route-to-what
Has
Me agape in wonder,
Contemplating
The form of future
That destiny is planning for me
This time.

Dark Cloud

Looking back,
My life was daisies and buttercups
High jinks and delinquency
Drunkeness and laughter.

I would have had it
No other way because
There was love at the
Heart of it all

The skies were always blue
Except when it rained
But then we simply inhaled
The aroma of musty earth
And waited for the clouds to clear.

But what now?
What apocalyptic mushroom
Is this? Casting an ominous
Umbra across my meadows
Of joy.

From where once the sounds of
Laughter and music tinkled –
Even from the playgrounds
Of my adverseries – I now
Hear the strident roar of
Unreasonable rage.

The daffodils are being trampled
One by one. The daisies and their
Modest beauty are invisible to those
Now blind to such things.
Hard serrated metal replaces soft
Verdant lawns.

My playground of simple things
Has become a theatre. A stage on
Which I fear ever darker deeds will
Enact themselves upon.

What Life’s About

When I was young
I watched adults cavorting,
Drinking, laughing, dancing.

And I thought ‘So. That’s what life is all about’

Now I am middle aged
I have seen old people suffering.
Illness, unhappiness and strife.

And I thought ‘Oh. That’s what life is all about’

I suspect that when I too am
Old, infirm and lonely, I will
Perhaps look beyond my immediate circumstances,
And see something bright and eternal shining through the gloom

And I’ll think ‘Ah. That’s what life is all about’

Still Learning

There’s always more to people than meets the eye.

Take me for instance.

wordpress-logo-simplified-rgbI can be critical and evaluative as will be immediately apparent from my other posts on this site. Certainly, as one who seeks to cultivate that cool beloved of writers, I like to come across in my prose as ironic, objective and knowing. The result of this affectation is that it is sometimes difficult for me to reveal other (perhaps more genuine) aspects of my personality. This difficulty is nothing cognitive or philosophical – it’s emotional. The truth be told, it’s foolish embarrassment. In a writer’s world where only knowing irony is respected highly (or so I believe), I’m sometimes a little ashamed to be my other self.

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Pop Goes The Freedom

Hackney Social Club

Hackney Hipster Party (2007) – Photo by Montag

The creation event of twentieth century popular music – its big bang if you like – can, to my mind, be traced back to a singular event in January 1865. That moment could be characterised as a dark black explosion, the shock waves of which reverberated for the following one hundred and fifty years. Despite the myriad creative ways in which this basic story has been retold by the powerful and the political, it is, to me, a tale of slavery, of freedom and of novelty.

In this piece I’m going to ask you to suspend the accepted narratives and to think hard about the origins of what we now call pop music. Through this I hope to arrive at some conclusions about the trajectory of music – and society – in this the second decade of the twenty-first century.

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