Moab v1

I've been reading Stephen Fry's autobiography and it has had rather a profound effect on me, both in content and in sheer execution. He writes of his obsession with the written word, with swilling around phrases and syntax in one's mind and then allowing it to express itself by opening your mouth or twitching your fingers and letting it pour forth. I don't think I can ape him - after all, he's had years of experience and has quite a gift, but I've been inspired to make some sort of attempt regardless. As he puts it, quoting some long-dead author I've never heard of or some musty tome that made the rounds in the 70s:

"Language is the parent, not the child, of thought."


I'm paraphrasing, I can't remember the exact line. But it was something like that, and in most things Mr. Fry has to impart, it is exceedingly beautiful. Most of what he has to say is caught up with the subject of love and masturbation and that moment in one's youth when you finally figure out what all the fuss is about - all the Shakespearean verse, the trashy poetry and the poignant film that you've watched finally hits home. Where beauty is revealed to you in all things - the mundane, the everyday. Sunsets. Grass. The scent of old books, the sound of old records. The heat from a footpath. The mist in the morning air. Beauty becomes apparent in things that were once merely 'pleasurable' or 'pretty'. It's a bolt from the blue.

I wish I could devote more time to this. In fact, I probably will. Right now it is nearly 1am and I'm not expressing myself properly. Perhaps I'll do this post in multiple parts. Yes, let's do that. I've made a start, after all. One mustn't expect pure eloquence at this hour consistently. I have so very much to say.

A Rat

A rat, a rat.
Your teeth are blunt, little rat.
You can only draw a drop of blood.
Pinpricks from my fingertips.
Sliding down your throat.

Crazy Jane had seven cats,
and seven cats caught seven rats.
Each rat had seven fleas,
and all were swimming with disease.
The disease spread to Crazy Jane,
and drove her totally insane.
Is she alive, or is she dead?
Does she scream with the fleas in her head?

If you are diseased, little rat.
I'll rip your head off with my talons
and swallow it.
For the theft of that single drop,
I'll empty you.
Do not be diseased.

Crazy Jane lives.
There is still time.
May she protect you.

Your filthy double filled me up.

Dream You're Falling

The lord of dreams sits on a throne of cloud.
His eyes glimmer like diamonds from coal.
He never shouts or screams like his sister.
He doesn't need to.

You should put away these books and lay your head down.
You should turn that vapid smile to a frown.
You should let the dream-lord break into your mind.
Unless, of course, you're afraid -
of what he might find.

Morpheus.
Syllable of dolour.
Mighty in his weakness.

You dream you're falling, some nights.
His breath whistles past your face.
The ground rushes towards you.
And then you wake and get out of that place.

His throne is the cloud above.

There is no need to fear.

Numbers

They make the world go 'round, don't they?

One you are. Is that enough?

Two it takes to tango - or more.
Perhaps three or four.
I know where the numbers sit.
Put them in lines until they fit.
A balance, stark upon the screen.
Meals, tickets, things unseen.

A few zeros in the wrong place can crush you like an insect.
They intersect and commune,
and there's never going to be enough room for them all.
They fill you up.
Have a care that they don't consume.

Banks, balances, bills, checks.
Lead us all a merry chase.
There might be a crash, a slump, a wreck
if numbers fall out of place.

I'll crack the whip and make them dance.
For my safety.
Security social.
An uprising, a numbing.
The signals on the screen can make or break you.
So have a care.

Have a care that they don't consume.

They make the world go 'round.

Avert Street

Tumble down to the forum.
We're to see a play.
Light the world on fire.
Burn the shadows away.

I'll devour my oppressor.
I am the greater,
you are the lesser.
I'll devour my oppressor.

Come down to the banks of the Tiber.
You're to be sent away.
Light the night on fire.
Burn those who play.

I'll inspire my oppressor.
He is the greater.
I am the lesser.
I'll inspire my oppressor.

Sing his praises in the street.
This is not the way.
Set the blaze and beat your feet.
Burn his shadow away.

Pray to the gods to avert this plague.

A Second

I'll stay awake all night.
The sky shimmers.
I fought this tooth and claw.
Grant me this.

Father of Lies

This is not a dream.
Sit, sit.
Let's have a conversation, you and I.
I have so very much to tell you.
And little time.

This is not a dream.
Go, go!
Get out of this place, while you can.
What I've seen is not for you.
You should not know.

This is not a dream.
Stay, stay.
While away your time, at my side.
There's so much here to please you.
Try the wine.

This is not a dream.
Speak with me.
This is not a dream.
Flee from me.
This is not a dream.
Lie with me.

All writers are liars.
By the all-hail hereafter.
There's a place set for us.

This is a dream.