Crescendo and Diminuendo

And now the sun is rising, something dies... And I can't begin to write or say anything. I hear the calling of the gulls in the sky invalidate me. Something is dying and along with it, I feel myself dying. I see the opalescence of the sky light up, but I can't see any worth in it. I feel with a slow realization the wretchedness of everything. And I feel deathly tired.
Writing is useless. Not a thing to be gained from it. No surcease of sorrow, no intimations, no companionships. Nothing. But there must be something, something somewhere, that is beautiful, pure, fresh, untainted. Somewhere there must be an incorruptible core, otherwise it's all in vain.
Nothing is ever communicated by me, not a word of my language is ever understood. In the long run it's wholly meaningless, utterly corruptible, non-translatable to other spheres of thought. Yet there must be something... There must be something...
There must be a golden state! I want it and would die for it in an instant. And maybe dying is what it takes. I must soar above it, I must leave it all behind. And I repeat, there must be something...

No. It is time to begin. I am utterly sleepy again, sicktired, sick of hearing all the noises I must hear, all the sights I must see. The winds of the old rail tracks are rattling in the trees, which is such a mournful sound, like the mournings or blessings of old ghosts.
No lamplight down here, which makes it scary in the middle of the night and all blasted and hollow.
This is the kind of old train tracks where drunks stumble and curse in the dark, or are just namelessly sorrowful with dreams of sleep, returning home. They might as well be blind among the trees and sharp stones. I know his thoughts because the old bum, the old drunk, the nameless ragged teenager of no future and alcohol, is me. None other than myself.
Here are some of the gloomiest, most inexpressible thoughts that can echo and slumber around in that brain: "I, suddenly, full of bright anguish, just suddenly passed the playing field beside the dark slopes and the empty windows of the school building at night, and I felt and saw in the window, something that pierced my heart in an old rage mingled with beatific peace, the sad papers and collages stuck up on walls with coloured papers and pieces of glitter, the cluttered-around empty stools inhabited by no-one, similar to that nursery or primary school which I myself attended and which are empty now too, as empty as me on this road, in the dark, sniffing, uplooking, never quite catching the flash of light or the smell of some ancient and beautiful scent in the musty backwheeling classrooms that connects me to the ghost..."

Meeting Joe King

We met Joe King outside the pub.
Robert engaged him in conversation.
What band ye in?
The Queers.
It's too smoky in there man, he said.
Lots of passive smoking, said I.
Huh?
Passive smoking.
So you guys from here in Edin boro?
No, from Fife.
How far's that from here?
Across the bridge.
(This clearly means nothing to him).
.....
"We took a walk around Edin boro.
It's nice".      

Fragments of Poetry

Perhaps one day she'll close her eyes, and fall,

Maybe her body will feed the earth.

Perhaps her yellow hair will scatter into corn,

Her blood become roses, her loves

A great tide of sunflowers. The earth will welcome her

Like a mother, suck her dry of desires and fears-

She'll be dispersed in the endless womb of the earth.

The earth has a magnetic pull, a woman to a woman,

Drawn by blood, drawn by weight, drawn by 

Too many years of love, to succumb, and merge. 

A new bloom grows in the ash- an edible bloom

Which has its own delicious dew- new tears of relief I bless it with.

A new dawn can come, smiling between grey apartment blocks,

Penetrating night. And a small word can come like a chuckle from your solar plexus

Like a child's word. A small flame, knowingly enkindled,

Unexpectedly, of its own brave accord.