Posts Tagged depression



The essence of all is consistent.

What adds difference
and lifts the plain to shining peaks
or reduces it to valleys dark

are qualities.


Beauty stands proud

as the mediator that defines mediocrity

and all that is foul and all that inspires

and all that gives life value.


It slows our time

and distracts the mind and the eye

and causes the soul to cry

and to laugh and to ponder.


If beauty be science

and the grandiosity of knowing.

Or the pause that knowing gives to observation.

And the gentle confusion that then arises.


That response we have

to a mere curve

or to a change that’s different.

Or some shift in balance between weights

that has some hidden mathematical rhythm,

or some subtlety that knows

real wisdom and causes us to falter.


Some subtle insight that speaks

of an embellishment to our view

and which stands just slightly out of reach.

That soothes our heart

as might the passing glimpse

of a friend who smiles

but who we don’t know.



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Regular day again


I may as well be on a desert island.
Life under a dome of hot sky blended seamlessly to sea.
Empty beaches, sighing trees, whispering waves,
and solitary boulders that stand silent, watching out for me.

There’s a magic supermarket here that’s run by AI.
It feeds me and provides a regular supply
of washing up liquid and beer and tobacco
and sausages and pizza and shit like that.

Sometimes there I see shapes like people.
Mirages amongst the stacked shelves.
The hard and real stacked shelves.
When they stop they merge with the tins and the toys.
The voices of their children whisper want
and no one sees me moving amongst them.

Sometimes they stand in my way.
I move through these vapid creatures that
belong to a universe that isn’t mine.
But sometimes I have to walk around them.

Outside in the baking hot sun that sings cicada songs
in hot white light that dazzles off glass and the distant sea,
I pause and listen to the sounds and the light
that travel through me and which never carry my name.


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Sunny suicide


A mild wind in blue sky with sun glinting
off snowy Cretan mountain peaks,
bird song amongst orange groves
ripe with fruit waiting to be picked,

reverberated to a double shotgun blast

as someone blew his brains out

and spread them over the plaster landscape

that was his for too long.

As I wrote mellowed by birdsong,
righteously writing about what was wrong
with no cognisance of what went on
just below my balcony.

A moment came and passed.
And I learned about it from the news.
Written a long way away.

And now when I gaze down,
the birds still sing amongst the oranges.
And the dogs still bark.



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This is a poem.
I can say whatever I like.

Poetic licence and all that.

I can say without fear of ridicule
that I am lonely and mystified by life.

The whirlpools of logic and illogic
and unfathomable stupidities.

And the wonders and astonishing things.
Aspects of grand realities
that seem distant and huge.

And I’m allowed to confess that I cry,
often and loudly,
because I’m a two sided coin.

And other things too.
The sense of smallness
that makes me gently humble as I look around.

That sense of contiguity with all that is
that occurs occasionally.

My smallness and my scope.
My all encompassing modest place.

Watching wise if I’m lucky.

Defined by my context.

Laughing while crying and vice versa.




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When you reach a point where what you need to say cannot be expressed, and there’s no one to express it to anyway. That’s when you hit despair. When suddenly the odd phenomenon of being alive feels like a sensual experience that you’d rather not feel right now because it’s so uncomfortable. And your time is spent waiting for it to pass. Like being too stoned or too drunk, and waiting for the world to stop spinning because it isn’t fun any more. Fun sort of but not actually, and you want it to stop. And only what’s beyond this state is desirable. But beyond seems so far away. And it’s not allowed anyway. And seems to be impossible.

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The modern way

I’m dying. My feet tell me so.
As I pace back and forth
Between hope and despair.
There’s no stairway to heaven here.

There’s no way to wisdom
Or any such feast.
Just meagre scraps that fall
From processes I don’t understand.

And as for love,
There’s no such thing.
Instead there’s a place in an hierarchy
That deserves regard or doesn’t.

Take your heart and crush it underfoot.
I might have loved you
If you hadn’t looked at me like that.
When I confessed my nature
Didn’t fit the modern way.


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Maybe the good bits
Are so good that we must pay
A pain price elsewhere.

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Good morning

Bright sun life today.
Dark cloud news arrived by post.
Bright star died by noon.

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Why’s it weak to weep?
To know the reason to laugh.
To round the circle.


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Random comment

A moment then when
I wanted to kill myself,
But then a small light.

Some random comment
In a song that said
It’s a wonderful life.

Such things connect us
In a web of influence,
So be careful

What you say.

And when you’re lonely
Then listen and look.
We’re all around you.

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Now happy

All seems to be sad.
My thoughts dwell on myths and dreams.
But now I’m happy.

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Fog hangs over me
And then children’s laughter shines
And I see what’s true.

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Depression view

When is depression a beguiling excuse
For expression?

Why do things seem clearer from
A lower perspective?

As though the sun throws bigger shadows
From down here.

Or is this just a view like any other?

A longer shadow is just as good a view
As any other.

Is there a part of us that watches and discerns
The longer from the shorter and sees
How we fail to see?

I sometimes sit and watch life
Without involvement.
Slithering thing sliding past my window
As I sit unable to do anything
But watch.

And then I think differently
And the words come.

But fuck it.
What’s this all about?
Being a miserable sod is what.

All’s a game that passes by
With a clickety clackety resonance
Like a train that won’t stop.

It’s too big.

So just sit back and watch
And laugh if you can.
And stop thinking.
Just watch.
It doesn’t mean anything.

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Passion engine

Do you know how an internal combustion engine works?
Its life begins with the turn of a switch by some intelligence.
This completes a circuit that leads to a bright spark
At just the right moment when oxygen
And fuel come together like a sudden insight
And ignite to make an explosion that forces
A heavyweight thing that would otherwise sit
Lugubrious and implacable,
Refusing to move.

Sometimes when I’m down
And my implacable mechanisms refuse to move,
I struggle to produce a spark.
Life seems stark.
My engine’s dead and as I consider
The alternatives,
It seems I may be so too.

So what’s failing?
The engine or the intelligence?



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Make yourself

That still and stagnant puddle you call your life,
that you sit and stare at watching reflections
that wobble and shake.
Isn’t your bum sore sitting there?

Just throw some causal random into that mirror
and make waves and see what happens.
See your slime smeared emotional vehicle
that drags itself oh so slowly through the mud of life.

It could be a soaring plane that dips and dives
through a sparkling sky of alternatives.
One small move is just enough to break the scum
and show the clear water beneath.

I know this is true. I’ve done it.
Laugh at despondency. It’s all illusion.
Shape your own vision of the universe.
It’s yours. You are it.

Howl back at the demigods and half dead.
Don’t take excuses or make them.
Grab the damn thing by the balls
And scream your own opera.

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The edge

In some boiling pot somewhere lies
Some bubbling guts and bursting eyes.
Remnants of some life spent
In malcontent.

I defy you to tell me
I’m destined to be down there.

I stand in some smooth green perfection,
Some field so green
And smooth
And punctuated by trees

And birdsong so sweet.
Yet there. Just over there.
Is that thin, dark line of cutting precision
That divides me from there.

So close. Where’s my way?
I tell you that line is a small thing.

It just needs acknowledging.
And you can stay green and free
And dance the wind with me
By seeing how close the edge is.

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The nihilist in me lies in wait
To change me and insist my fate.
Dreaded cynic who sits fat.
Lugubrious slob who looks down
On my efforts to rise and sneers at
Each solution that could be.

Some driven dark side of me that,
Seeing some shining sun decides
That shadow is the better way,
That actually the other view
Is the one that’s true and could lead me through.

Thus each small sight that comes my way
Is blind and dead before it lives.
I stand and watch as each spark dies.
Small chance that if allowed to grow,
Might have led to a life more lived.

This I don’t understand.
The contrary ambitions
Of my two halves
That fight and need
Each others demise.
I can only ever be half alive.

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