Month: Dec 2013
MY REAL INTEREST IN THIS LIFE can never be the surface, the mundane, or merely what appears to be. Graphical user interfaces are useful pointers [holograms] but they can only ever be as real as sunlight on the moon. I hanker after what is going on behind the scenes, beneath the veneer, under the hood, beyond the words, under the radar — the outer limits — on the farthest side of everything. When you look at me, I do not only see your face. When you speak to me, I do not only hear your words. When you move, I do not only see the motion. I see your nakedness in everything you are or say or do or move. This isn’t something that I’ve asked for; it’s just the way it is. Unfair? No, not at all. For I bare my soul to you, if you will only look and not enshroud your eyes like others do. Please know that I would not exploit or ridicule the hidden things I see in you or hear from you. For you — I mean the real you, with all your facets, rays and gleams, your heart’s desires and wildest dreams, beyond the world of what things merely seem — are prized beyond belief: treasured, cherished, valued and adored. Each one of us: a masterpiece connected to the unseen by a silver cord…
© Alan Morrison, 2013
A flock of birds flew past the window like momentary reflections of some sunlight on a lake. A donkey brayed in the distance. The muffled chatter of grape-pickers rose up from the vineyard like early morning mist. Anticipation dangled from the trees and something smiled. As soon as she walked into the room he knew that she was ovulating. There was no scent in the air — no visible evidence of fecundity — nothing significant in the eyes or facial expression. It filtered through the ether like a message from another world — one to which he belonged and where he longed to be. The body language, though a little awkward, was what one would expect from a woman meeting a man for the first time; though he listened to everything: her fruitly womb, her slightly broken heart, the notes of music played behind her velvet words (where legato met staccato in sonata form and where no coda had, as yet, been written on the stave). She shook his hand and sat down in the chair which plainly hadn’t been designed for sitting but merely looking good. Just like her, he thought. As soon as her eyes locked with his, the bottom of her tightly guarded world began to slide away. Something unfamiliar (though not unknown) had spread like brightly-coloured ink on blotting paper through her head. She thought “The tide is coming in” but had no knowledge how those words had come into her mind. A suggestive roll of thunder beckoned urgely from the hills. “That’s where we now belong”, he thought, “and where we soon will be”…
© Alan Morrison, 2013
A clock chimes — and lifestyles are defined
by time’s relentless cowardly march as
tock after tock kills tick with serial precision
in unforgiving jackboot waves of rhyme.
This orbly sphere spins crazily both on its axis
and around our burning solar centrum heart
which thus enables us to measure what we
think of in our heads as something starting
going forwards shunting shifting from a former
backwards place (but nothing really moves).
Those feet of mine have never slid beneath
the table of this world nor ever could.
This world will never throw my way a wreath;
my only hope: to be misunderstood.
In early years those elements would sting
but now they glide like water off my back.
For in this world to nothing I will cling;
I’ve learned to deal with anything I lack.
But there’s another world beyond our view;
in fact, there’s more than one outside this hole
of green and brown and red and black and blue.
The urge to leave I barely can control.
No tables here will fit (as I have found);
and nothing more will keep me on the ground.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
Who stole your lovely soul?
That’s what I truthsome want to know.
I listen leafly to that hollow hole
you claim is you but, as I listened in,
my mounting sense of darkness grew.
Who tiptoed softly stealthly steally
through your pristine rooms and
stripped them nudely bare? And now
a sombre stillness looms with icicles
and half-untarnished cutlery abounds.
The packaging for my 14-track CD album, “The End of the Song”, is being designed to my specifications right now in Switzerland. Very soon, the first 1000 will be printed/duplicated by a company in Madrid and sent to me, in time for the February release concert/party here in Tarifa. The image you see here is a mosaic of Euterpe (of the nine muses, this is the one specialising in music), to whom the title track refers. To whet your appetite, here are the lyrics of that song:
I’ve used up all my words —
emptied out my heart;
there’s nothing left to feel now or to say.
And even if this tune’s been done
a thousand times before,
these thoughts still burn a hole upon the page.
The sound of rubble falling down a cliff face
[never seen a face so high and deeply scarred]
fills the updown arc of my waking dreamscape
with a thimbleful of treasure — tocsinlike.
Record all signs and omens, said the hag whose
apples had been left inside my car (without
a single word of explanation, as it seemed so far)
and so I put my pen to work — a catalogue.
Wandering wiseless on some smooth
indecent steep and sandy dune
he wondered if those grainly rumours
could be true that he should stand
astonished, still, in front of only unly you
who’s not (viz. yet) been met on this unset
trajectory of pain and pleasure ride.
He waits just as he’s done for thousands
more besides this molten lava year
(if time indeed exists outside this sphere)
as fragments of ideas hurtled down
through treacle air around his cadence.
It’s good to have the windows open wide
for scents and sounds can enter as they please
and birdsong through that open space can glide.
So long as Summer holds, the room won’t freeze.
But predators can come while people sleep
if bars have not been placed around the hole.
Deft pedlars of deceit can sprightly creep
into your house if you won’t take control.
To speak more plainly than you’ll think is right:
(for you who keep your lace-net curtains drawn
[I know against these words you’ll dogly fight])
behind those drapes you’re just a blinded pawn.
Pulling back the veil brings cries of “Slander!”
Most prefer mythology to candour.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
I play with every precious moment
dribbling down the parapet of time.
This four-ball juggler plies his art
and staggers from not one intrinsic
nanosecond to the next but none;
then puts his cart before the horse
and, reaching down into the wallet
of his moon, he slides a card into
the greasy hand of fate and asks if
it’s too late to be a caller at the door.