Month: May 2012
We do not need to be defined by what others think of us
We do not need to be defined by what others think of us – by how many flattering comments or “likes” we receive from sycophantic adulators – by how many profile-views we get, by how famous we become or how financially successful we are. For all that is merely superficial, reinforcing narcissism, which easily becomes ego-boostingly addictive and has no value in reality. We should be defined, firstly, by our attributes of love (such as kindness, selflessness, humility, compassion, generosity – what we give of ourselves); secondly, by our willingness to grow in grace, insight and awareness (the maturity process which has nothing to do with playing at being “grown-up” but means evolving into who we are meant to be); thirdly, by our creativity (what we heartingly draw on in ourselves to make something exist which wasn’t there before). It is these which should be our starting-points for self-definition. There are others too, which follow in their wake… ❤
The Most Humbling Aspect of Human Existence
The most humbling aspect of human existence is that it is possible to believe in something so passionately that one would be willing to die for it or even kill for it – yet that something turns out to be just another pile of shit. Self-delusion is such a real possibility that we must question everything until no stone is left unturned…
How Words change their Meaning
I’m always interested in how words change their meaning – especially when it’s a downgrade. Take the word “mentor”, for example. There was a time when this referred to someone (usually an elder) in your community who you could get alongside because they were quietly wise, authoritative, learnéd and knowledgeable. You didn’t have to pay them a cent for they regarded it as their duty to pass on their accumulated understanding via apprenticeship to the next generation. That was in the days when success was measured by wisdom and laudable achievement. Now the term is just an Americanism, whereby a mentor is some slick motivational salesperson who you pay to boost your ego and tell you that you are the best (even if you are not), control you and goad you into making loads of money and becoming a big shot, because in the USA success is measured not by your wisdom and acumen but by how much money you make and how much of a “celebrity” you are. Words change. Times change. And the downward spin of civilisation continues…
Mosquito Bite [poem]
In the same way that the cowardly
mosquito heatseeks another bloody
victim in its templezone — or indeed
the way that any other parasite
sets up a simulated limpet home
in a place where it does not belong —
those other creatures that I used
to flat revere (but now no longer
even write them in my dreamful
songs) will take the shirt-tails from
your naked arse while all the while
pretending there is no way that they
harbour any interest in your brass
and tell you that they only want
you for your mind (though we know
that they want nothing of the kind).
And thus on goes this stupid strange
unmerry little dance. There’s one
whose tongue is hanging from his
jaw (from which a group of puppet
strings protrude) while the other sees
what she can claw with tooth and nail
from deep within his treasure trove.
And let me tell you now that she with
breathless charm will never fail to
vanquishly disarm the mind behind
that tongue. Carefully using the
attributes which mark her gender out
not only will the tongue be pulled to
full capacity but he, not knowing any
better, will donate his whole entire
savery so long as she will freely give
to him her scraggy loins — he sucks
her flaccid tit, she sucks his limply cock;
it won’t be long before he has a hyper
nasty shock now grasping that it never
was his fire that she sought but every
little thing which glitters, everything he’s
ever bought. And so the dance goes
vainly on. At one time it would be that
she was seeking someone who would
give her safety when, with child, she’d
need protection in the wild; but now
it’s just a pale reflection of that primal
primitive desire. For sure it’s not to make
the offspring safe (for she is far too
selfish to with him create another life;
she doesn’t even want to be a loving
wife!) but solely to accumulate the
gleaming wealth that someone else has
earned. Eventually he will then be soundly
spurned when — with all his stuff long
gone — she, like the mosquito in that
stagnant swamp, has found another skin
to prick (another prick to skin) though
neither dancer taking part, unless they
have a change of heart, can ever truly win.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Summit Tryst [poem]
When you looked me in the eye and stared into my soul
for several minutes long (or so it seemed while timeness
passed us by) as you lay upon that cold but lively heap of rock
[it was, you said, the highest point of ground around — a fact
which spoke to me of huge and heavenly angel ultrasound]
I saw a thing I’ve never seen in anyone before:
It was a wholly open door behind which hid a hesitant but
lovely hand whose fingers pressed upon the wood, readied
so to slam, as if expecting footsteps lest some uninvited man
should through presumption take that stretchly stride to
realms beyond your mind and taste the drenched and
deeply dreamfeast that you truly muchly are.
The heart of me was spinning round so fast that even
I was sharp astounded when I richly moonly scented
perfumes from the air which flowed from way beyond the
entrance to that door. The beauty of that summit tryst is
knowing wide and downly that there could be so much more.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Virgin Flow [sonnet]
It was on a mountain as I recall
the first time on mine your silken skin flowed.
You had to do it then or not at all
(that’s what you said as you veered off the road).
Then we bumped through the darkness with greedy
desire. I was hard; you were wet inside.
“Please don’t think that I’m being too needy”
were your lyrics as you opened up wide.
But our needs were reciprocal, darling;
just as our moves seemed so choreographed.
My heart you were hornily abducting;
and I will never forget how you laughed!
Those hours when my head lay on your thigh
convinced me I would never say goodbye.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
e Acute [poem]
Why did you even bother? she said,
her voice a shrill and questioning siren
smiting him right upon his crinkled brow
like a smoothful stone hurled from the sling
of some crazy catapult’s foolish frightened
introverted now but outer hebridean
drowning lowly browness (yes the colour
and the dreaded level too). Although
it matters not a bloody jot if the ship sinks
slightly into view. Again and so she rankled
with that temple-beating bleating tone:
Why did you even bother? [He groaned]
Sting in the Tail [sonnet]
He opened the box, carefully looked inside
then sniffed the air which seemed to have no scent
of any former mouldy calcified
unedifying, ossified event.
He climbed into the darkness which he knew
from many other boxes of this kind.
Believing he could trust his overview
he danced with joy — but soon was undermined.
Just when he thought that all was light and clear
some pointed thing swept through the air above
and struck his bare unguarded fearless rear
(it didn’t feel like friendship or like love).
So from now on he has no more excuse.
Such nicely-packaged scorpions won’t seduce.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Out of this World [sonnet]
There’s only one sole place I want to be;
it isn’t on a map or on this earth.
It can’t be found through using geography
Not even if you look for all you’re worth.
You will not guess it using logic’s brain
nor with a compass will you this spot find.
If you should search too much you’ll go insane
(unless you see it’s just a state of mind).
For even though I’ve longed to have this dream
fulfilled for longer than I can recall;
there’s something dark about its central theme
which from all sense of comradeship does crawl.
The place of which I speak cannot be named
The answer’s in the fish which was proclaimed.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Unformed Dreams [poem]
doors
open
slowly
when we will not dream
(if they can come ajar at all).
With arbitrary molten glaze
my veined unfickle hand
plucks verdant schemes
for substance cannot
stand [or fall] unless a
loose pituitary gland is
basking in a daystar’s
earthy radiant core for
when we cannot gleam
with streams of lunarticly
lava flow then evolutionary
calmic levels cannot grow and
even all our raw and unformed
dreams
wilt
wanely
© 2012 Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 