Don’t worry yourself, purrs Negative Voice
I'm telling you this to protect you
No lead in your pencil
So pointless in fact
No person of worth would respect you

    Dear Negative Voice,
       I see what you mean
       But just a brief point for reflection
       I’m not sure I’m really an absolute waste
       Consider some minor correction?

It’s better for you, coos Negative Voice
To know that you’re practically useless
No rain in your storm cloud
So juiceless in fact
You’re toothless, inept, and excuseless

    Dear Negative Voice,
       A stirring reply
       Is this in totality truthful?
       I’m sure my ineptitude has measured bounds
       And even just sometimes, I’m useful

The beauty of living this version of truth
Is, you are at maximum harm
Nothing they’re possibly saying to you
Will add to your sense of alarm

Providing agreement to monster-y ones
Might also afford added aid
Appeasing and easing an excessive ego
May downgrade a wailing cascade

    Dear Negative Voice,
       Deep thanks for your thoughts
       A note of some gentle resistance
           I notice I’m having the thought that I’m worthless
           Historically helpful, but now with no purpose
       Distinct in my voice, yours holds limited purchase    
       So now I can give you some distance
           I humbly suggest
           This grateful request
       For inner, more peaceful existence

I don’t want to sound like a ******
Accidentally pretentious
I sense this, prevent this
With pausings in musings
But consciousness, man
It’s a whole thing, isn’t it?

Moving, zipping, travelling
Across time and place
No shifts in space
Ultimate game of Pong
Bats are half images,
ghosts of smells,
light or heavy ****** impacts,
sounds, songs, poems
Triggers lightly but firmly bouncing us from
now to then,
then to when,
but always here to here
Across time and place
No shifts in space

Sometimes transitions are smooth and buttery-safe
-- I didn’t even realise I was thinking about trains and now about dinner
-- ping, pong, ping, pong
-- a metronomic, Wimbledon soundtrack
But then one player hits the ball too short and too high
and then the
Echoing crack
Bats us into sometime somewhen darker
The feckless defensive player manages to scoop the ball
just before it touches sod, but too short and too high
and then the
Echoing crack
Strongly, crisply, sharply
Smashed into jangly memory
Clear and incomplete
Real and impossible
Laser focus on The Bad Thing
Other details, window dressing
Breathing quickens, heart keeps the beat
The Image, or
The Smell, or
The Grip on My Ankle
Is faithfully replayed
Full colour, Dolby surround sound, Memory cut
The Grip on My Ankle
Is faithfully replayed
The Grip on My Ankle
…
…
…
Mind taps out for a bit
Consciousness slide into foggy nowhere, no time
Breathing slows, heart keeps the beat
Might just stay here
Cool, fuzzy fog is my best friend
Until fog-resistant, persistent stimulus insists
that I return
Ping
Clear-eyed now
Pong
Pasta sounds nice
Triggers lightly bouncing me from here to here

I knew there was a turn
but it never turned up
and I kept walking straight
in search of it.

The road was familiar
the turn was on the left
in every known way
yet in the broad daylight
it left me.

I know you wouldn't believe it
neither did I
as alike a puzzled wayfarer
I kept on looking for the turn.

It happened to me.
P'raps it happens in other lives too,
the turn always there
keeps eluding.

Then when found,
it's no longer needed.

You have to fall in love with living first,
with moon and sun and stars.
With all kinds of human beings,
to make this world
overcome all kinds of fears.
To be able to dance.
Dance with you,
dance with you all night long.
All night long under the light of moonshine.
Until the twelfth hour.


Shell   ✨🐚