New Age Turbulence


Grey in silvered, for a sound so rare
Honesty so lacquered, stiff as wired hair
A syrup stolen, a Trump beyond compare
Dichotomy totalitarian, everyone beware

Rich as fruit, slickened in beeswax bliss
Mind your own, pardons, serpentines hiss
Coiled in persecution, judges never miss
Values all forgotten, blind witness to this

Never ending sagas, no Lilly to a pond
All rights bargained, burning every bond
Sliding mirrors, just before a respond
Weaving territory, wave a magic wand

Booming in distance, freckled little noise
Distorted tiny rumbles, beyond little boys
Pounding in motto, the ethic employs
An upcoming wisdom, someone enjoys.




What am I here for?
What is the point in living?
What am I here to do with myself?
What am I?
What am I supposed to be in nature?

I’m sure, damn sure, it’s not to make other people rich or have a life of no meaning. If I was rich my life would have no meaning, I don’t rate money that much. All it can do is buy things to pass the time, with no meaning. I grew up with many rich people, their lives had little meaning. Never appealed; knowledge and freedom did. Doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate or respect money, I do, but there is only so much it can buy.

I see all these things and people around me in my experience, like a kaleidoscope on routes. Going places, somewhere to somewhere else, then back home, then out again. Moving, shifting, shuffling, some seem to keep the same familiar routes, others want different ones. I’m stood there observing it all, as it moves and passes by. All oblivious to me seeing.

There are patterns and variations, I see women from far places here in a cold rainy land. I see I’m white and suited to this climate. I see they are darker, all covered up in material. That is their religion, but there is a person underneath, it must desire some similar things to the ones not covered? How did that person get here and why would they be interested in a cold, rainy climate? I like the rain, I like the cold, the sun too, the bitter wind by the freezing sea. I know I’m meant to be here. But what for? What to do?

I don’t belong in the heat, I burn, it makes me unhappy, tired, hot, bothered. By the sea is fine, for a while, but home is where it is cold. Then I think of slavery, moving people from their home lands, to take something from somewhere and put it somewhere else. To mix it up and put it out of place, what is it supposed to become? Leave it there and dump it, it will be abandoned, no idea of why things don’t make natural sense. How cruel, thoughtless, unintelligent and wrong. Everything has to belong and know why it exists. It is natural order.

Then I think of wars, war after war after war. Killing, killing, killing, knowledge gone, culture gone, sense gone, knowing gone, habitats gone, music gone, language gone, family gone…voids, identity, holes. What’s left? Machines, war museums, fragments of art or culture from around the world. I think of my relatives who died in wars, I think of all they knew, who they loved, what they loved, who they wanted to be. Did they want to be used for killing people for me? The future, the yet to come. Because I’m here now thinking about them, seeing other people, seeing the machines still standing, advancing to killing more. I see the machines are still here, only I can’t hear the sounds they made when they were alive working them. But if I listen hard enough I can imagine, du du du du du, sirens, chaos, alarms. Who organised that orchestra of sound?

What was my experience of freedom? A TV, watching life through a screen of how it should play out. Talking fruit in adverts, bears talking about kindness, Coca Cola – always, cartoons, Santa, comedy sketches, some random weirdo commentating on decorating a home, home shopping – a thing being rotated with a light to make it sparkle. Religion and songs of praise, a Queen’s speech – what is this world I was viewing through a box? Fruit doesn’t talk. It’s bloody madness, what was it teaching me to be? That thing was switched off a long time ago. I’ve been thinking and observing for a while.

There are graves, there are machines, there is the TV with a plug. That TV is a machine too. I look at that TV when not turned on, it doesn’t do anything. Yet my mind, that is still on. When out I hear people talking about a lot of TV. I see a lot of magazines about TV. I go back to the war museum. I look at those machines again. I go back to the graves. That mind, it is still on. It is still seeing people from foreign lands. I see the cars, the petrol, I smell the fumes. OIL…..I see cars on TV, cars are machines. They have a human driving them. MACHINES….du du du du du, sirens, chaos, alarms. BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, overtaking, get out of the way, sirens, alarms. Humans and machines, driven by oil. Driven by oil, humans and machines. Who organised that orchestra of sound? The drilling, the talking fruit, the home shopping, the religion – my mind, my poor mind.

At a point I was driven by oil to the cold bitter sea. Just to drive to the edge of this island. There it was before me, water, waves, sound crashing and life. Thank God it was there. There I stayed a while, watching, observing, it moved, it was not plugged in, it had a pattern that made sense. I spoke to that sea, I had a question. “How do you know what you are doing? You look so in control of yourself.” It ignored me, it kept on moving in time and tune with itself. I observed. I asked myself a question “why are you talking to the sea in jealousy of being in control of itself?” I answered, “I feel lost, I was hoping it might answer me with direction.”

I’ve been thinking ever since, hard, like the sea. I’m driving myself, only now conscious of it, there is no plug, so what am I connected to? Answers that come out of nowhere. I’m consciously driving those answers with questions. Only I ask the question first, the answer comes back out of nowhere. Where is nowhere? It’s beyond me, just like the sea. In the sea I have to swim, but where will I go? Fishing for answers. Then my questions must be the conscious direction of learning to swim. Maybe my purpose is to see that I am driven to ask questions? That is how I lead in direction of learning to swim when lost. There is a purpose to that, it has some meaning. Without questions I am never lost, the answers are guiding me somewhere unknown, beyond me.