My Turner's Hooch

Turner whistles his way to work. The sun is shining, still cold though- but he feels warmer as he walks. Maybe the wrong coat... but after work it will be cooler. Probably COLD. Turner stops whistling and says 'Hello!' to someone. I don't know who it is. I don't know everything do I? He stops outside a big block of a building, dark grey-blue marble. Big, big wooden door. Entering a code- beep beep beep beep- Turner thinks about how lovely his lunch will be, special pack-up today! A very beautifully made sandwich. This is one of Turner's ways of worshipping himself, of letting Turner know how much Turner loves Turner. Turner is not mad. He knows that he is all of one piece and that by self-enveloping this one big piece; the only piece really... for, without himself how would Turner's world exist?!- and, after all, the world is only the world because Turner can feel it!... where was I?- Oh yes, Turner knows that by surrounding himself with his own love and support, not to the point of ignorance or arrogance, strictly and pointfully never that, that he stands a very good chance of being strong enough and certain enough to withstand the suffering of life. He takes time to admire the fact and act of life. He allows himself to feel glad of things, small and large. He allows himself to feel sad about things, small and large. Now Turner is in the building, he has walked down four corridors and unlocked five more doors... now he whistles again. Twenty three pairs of magnificent ears prick up, twenty three glorious beings sit or stand to attention. Turner bellows a joyful 'good morning!' and a gorgeous howl of loyal and godly love fills the air.

When It.

I try to follow the advice that people I respect give to me. And i'm simply mad about honouring my mistakes as hidden intentions. I'll quickly fall and worship anyone who challenges me. I want to be happy, or- I want to be content. Because I don't believe that Something will make everything alright. I think that I should be able to find contentment in being who I am. But, who am I? It's funny because although I ask myself that, I don't care who I am. Because. I can't be anybody else can I? My thoughts are a torture and perhaps this writing will occupy them long enough to give myself a break, make a run for it. I feel very sad when I look around. Somehow even looking up doesn't give me the same thrill it once did. Although looking down serves the blood in the same way; I am changed. Taking flight. I still can't think of it as transport. Not in a mechanical sense. Sometimes when I am walking I will suddenly have cause to look down, it's a long way- I feel giddy- I accuse my legs of failing me for three years... but they are as innocent as I am and because there's no justice... I have to get used to it again, to accept- to be blase- I now have to embrace or reject all the other walkers. I could ask my Dad 'why?' and he might say, 'Because legs is legs.'

The Envelope

I don’t think my turmoil envelopes the world,

Or that this darkness covers all-

Only that it fills me and hurts my heart,

Withers my hope, and takes away light.

The act of making notes on experience sickens me,

I find grief in the disgust I have for myself-

But cannot stop it.

Making the words with the mouth, making the sounds echo-

Slumping into a day- unbelievable, I am horrified-

Who am I to feel such sadness?- I have no need to feel such sadness!

I have no want to feel such sadness!

It is here though, such a dead weight.

I think if my body were dead, then the weight would lift wouldn’t it?

This is madness, screaming grief-

I will not harm those I love, I know- I have felt this way before- and

There was a large and beautiful space… before it became so cramped,

So terrible,

Again.

I do not see the space; the opening up and the light- but I believe it is there.

Dream.

I had a heavy dream last night- it was bleached and beautiful- I dragged a railway sleeper along the side of a river and knew I was a poem, and knew I was alive, and knew I was suffering for something important; myself, alone. I had lost someone and would never find them again. The river made marshes that forced me up and into the forest. The light was gold and fell through the thin trees in sharp bursts, as though the start of an autumn sunset had been extended into lasting for hours, and hours... I finally came upon a village, and passing the houses- that were small and made of large pieces of limestone- I was compelled to enter one... An artist from India lived there, his wife an architect, his urge to create softened into a wise and arching kindness with the ageing he had thought he would not meet. He cared for me and gently undid the chain that was fast around my wrist, and I was separated from the railway sleeper... I was a small boy with pale, pale skin made brown and grey from dirt & bruising... after that, some incredibly soft kindnesses were bestowed upon me & I began to grow strong. The walls were hung with perfect works, and the surfaces arranged with perfect objects of colours exactly right. The light did not alter.

Crutches

I can not journey far, each step laden with effort so that some small, small distance makes bright pain and opportunity arc. Find a way to harness this opportunity, to make it more than something only possible... turn breath to life and light to vision. It is hard beyond explanation. I have made myself desperate with the wait for understanding, even though I have known all along that understanding is not possible; language is not telepathy; the well can not imagine the unwell; you can not see my suffering- I can not see yours... and, more- to have fallen ill within the years of a usual drift and separation, oh. In circles close, and in those, larger, bounded by political and broader social curves, I am nearing the edge- am becoming truly peripheral. Not by choice. That is what must be understood. Not by choice.

Yet.

Despite the pain and sickness I feel myself becoming lighter.

'Unfire'

CHRONIC

CLICK BELOW FOR FREE DOWNLOAD.

http://alisiacasper.bandcamp.com/album/chronic-new-album