A rebel without a clue.

The enfeebled sun of autumn wanes As clouds dart across an horizon Deep in a treacherous increase. If it isn't a Manic Monday Deconstruct the playlist Turn me on to Jimi. The Independent on Sunday middleclass. The Sunday Times middle of the road The Sunday Sun middle of the butt crack. What makes the news tick In the same frame; leaning either way They must sit, code, decide to cover the headlines parallel not parallax. At ten am ingress increases Inversely to progress Less achieved as the stampede Becomes grey. Truth: silence is impossible Silence! I command thee Two shout One sits noble betwixt.

Actionless action Thoughtless thought Knowing knowingless Perception perceptionless Dao is I. Empty and plan. Metaphysic kept our proverbials warm Consider it inconsiderable, All the tangle means nothing All the worlds words are a logical mess. Fury is a firebrand livid flamed Upon a star it burnsout; ending This was never Yet departs Eventually blank: We drift without a candle.

Leaves are yet not willing Straining to rejoin the form And hold up autumn Still standing green. Glowing grateful grin Shining sun sing Slowed in perambulation. Emley Mast slices A westering sun Spicy glows fronds Wait in rows Come down the valley Clinging Branches pointing Home. Leeds City workers are autumn thieves Sweeping up the fragile ends, Along with cigarette butts, Of leaves withering dead. A strip of moon cupping vapour Thinning clouds present Blue, where spiders do weave truth. Instance death Waves body dance Outward ripples An ankle twists Celebrate life. See the mad? They suggest insanity, Being their residence, Is a form we know not. #1 Rich. Never matter. Material is nothing. Bent. Nailed too. Occluded detritus. Included atrophy. #2 Piled up before. A beast who preys. On those who pray. Totem. Lustful licks.

Stood waiting - surely death must be frightenly cold. Such freezing of every emotion, body and pain. But what then? The Universe is inhospitable in all parameters except stars. The season's change makes it seem beyond a joke. We lie in bed and do not wish to lift our head. It creeps into every bone and nerve. Between toes it forces me to rock and fret. Bus home and time to descend into East India Youth.

My mind has been filled with beasts of absurd proportions and I was unheard among the cacophony of their blasted voices.  The space I was looking for was marginal and obscured to my sight. It was there but like the thin ribbon floating on the current of broken branches, spinning turmoil and helpless hopes heading beyond the steady shore in a forced drowning. Between the heaving, the rushing and the dominating of the presence I could find no means, no shore and no foothold. It was all lost for I. Now I stand, after nearing a suffocating end,  drenched and gasping for meditative air; peace brought lower to my soul beyond lungs like a spinnaker forcing and heart bearing a capstan fully wound-up under earthly pressures. It is relief to feel calm as the storm water retreats. After a purposefully felt mindful day (I had resolved to have yesterday evening). The bad weather gone and the demons drowned out at sea. Against the odds I stuck to this crazy confusing track with voices ...

Nothing I do is worthless It is a reflection of Truth Troth to being and equal not being Holy is the whole reality Discernible in pure view.

There is no hope. If I can't imagine ever finding peace, for all time, what real point is there? MOH is the worst head throbbing Four Seasons. The rulers have broken we with more need. 26 weeks. Half a year. Six Months: aeons. Time is pulling my teeth out. If I got a job how long would I last as another mere number ten digits long - vanishing. Should I just grasp oblivion prior to the end of this year? Who can I talk to right now about my absence of hope? Oh buck up your ideas boy - father I am sorry.  I was always sorry but it never made any difference. You hated my faults and you hated my apologies. It must be the poison running along my arteries. How can I connect if I fear leaving this damned bedroom in case I just end up drunk yet again, forget for a moment then running it all over again? What is this emptiness and bitter retreat?