Round Zero (Son Of Flesh)

I am standing in my corner, shrinking inside laced Nike boots and red shorts splashed with garish, yellow stripes. 'I don't want to be here', I think to myself. I tried talking myself out of it but cauliflower ears make you deaf after a while; however I hear just fine tonight.
The crowd cheered me on to my current sponsor padded roost and my manager has been kind. I see him down there at ringside talking to the judges and promoters. I was broke before I met him; so poor that even my shadow got sick of me and left but now I own a five bedroom home isteaed of a stingy three and even have a diamond encrusted wristwatch (although the second hand impresses more than the jewels.) Add to that the 'Go Get 'Em Kid!' encouragement of my trainer and I reckon I'm on a winner.
The trainer has assured me that this time next year I will even have my named stamped on the back of my dressing gown, maybe even tabloid columns. I bet the other chap across the ring tonight isn't promised such things. In fact my handlers tell me he is a loser but that I must fight him to draw the goldfish and rough looking terriers to my circus.
Nevertheless he looks in great shape tonight and without that Hate-Em-All expression hanging from his chops this fighter would be quite handsome, a proper looker. Bet his mother is a middle class lady who married a labourer for the sheer hell of it and now her son is looking for the same wreckless excitement. I don't want to fight him or damage him in any way, I just want to talk quietly and sink a few beers with him.
Thats not what the rowdy mob want; they want bruises and blood, teeth smashing like iron on glass, they want rabid and raw. If I listen closely I can hear growls of 'Go On! Mureder Him Son!' and 'Tear His F**king Head Off!' They ought to be up here where I am. Its not so easy being brave when its YOU behind the bell.
There are young, blonde women to be found too. Head to painted toe in make up and handbags they sit close to their gentlemen friends like parrots, clapping their flabby wings after each punch and smiling at anyone who can afford to keep champagne beneath their up turned beaks. I must admit these shallow, veil thin tramps are way out of my league. My fine lady is at home this evening, dressed in black and carpet mules, reading tarot cards with her crow painted friends. She's not searching for my pugilistic victory in those cards either; that simply wouln't be 'cosmic'.
She doesn't mind me boxing, as long as she doesn't have to mop up the blood herself. (Being vegetarian has given her a comical irrational fear of flesh and weakened her.) I love her mind. I wish she wanted children.
Out of nowhere the bell has shrieked and is shaking the ring epileptic. Time to work, time to pile the green stuff on the silk topped table at home. It is showdown with the chiselled man opposite and I must beat him, thrash him, turn him into a messy pulp that his mother would shy from. I must try to cripple those strutting legs and utterly break his spirit.
I'm happy that my parents won't be seeing this drama; they are long under the earth. Mum was a devout Christian with a soft spot for chaos, while father worked hard digging graves for them both. I wouldn't have wanted them to see me perform under this bloodthirsty spotlight. Rest In Peace dear Ma n' Pa!
My finely toned opponent is advancing slowly toward me, his entire body glinting with sweat and ink. Cheers rise high into the showbiz rafters and suddenly my name is no longer audible.
My eyes drop to the squeaking of my rivals boots on the canvas; he comes closer and I see the beauty of anger on his face. I like him. I like a lot.
My heart is seething in my chest and I feel as if I'm standing on stilts. This is it! Trigger the fire alarm! Flood the arena! Rip out the seats! Go to the restroom for a better view!
I sink deeper into my stiff boots. I am too gentle, too modest for this bonanza. Rewind life in a flurry of punches and start my soul again.

The Rotting Emblem

We die each day, but some of us are more aware of it than others. I feel death every morning on my shoulders as I draw on waking breaths, every afternoon when I yearn for early evening drinks and then upon reaching those drinks I feel deathly petals curdle me, making me brave but very alone. There are Love and comforts aplenty but morbid slivers still penetrate the happy baubel, there is no safety from stabs of doom.
I feel everything; the crushing wind in my heavy chest, the dim light on the horizon and cramps in my legs as I shuffle from one sleep to another. There is seldom any daylight for me because the day is when I switch off and play the charade of living. A shell afraid to drown in sober pools. I barely function to be honest. The only force I have left is what is allowing me to type the words before you, the only will I have remaining in my spirit.
One shouldn't think that I am sad or in a state of despair, on the contrary I am quite merry for eventhough I feel the rot around my ankles I am comforted in this fog. Hidden. I might show all the pomp of a peacock but I have the heart of a salamander and need dark rivers to hunt and wallow in dying fathoms. I know cursed things. I know of End.
In all these years of some would call a young life, I have held an insatiable hunger for death. Or to be more accurate the final moments when death's mighty bayonet strikes. As a boy I would gleefully kill frogs and birds just to watch the fatal moments, and now as a man I read last words of condemned prisoners and obituaries, soaking up the misery. And until now I did not understand why I had interest in such grim things because certainly I do not delight in it. Im never thrilled by death. But now that I sense dusk falling behind my shoulders I understand; I simply need to to SEE. I want to try and find an answer of what lies beyond the grave by reading the faces of the dying.
Futile I know because whilst going through death rattles the nearly deceased is still in this world and can have no answers but I persist in trying to decipher some kind of answer. Perhaps when one cares this deeply about the End they have almost reached it themselves. And I do feel my veins wilting. No agonies or torment plague me but there lies a dullness in my soul which at times is tough to shrug off. I am stabbed at all angles from liver to my heels and there seems to be no chemical nor prayer to soothe it.
I walk in cemeteries and smile at the stale eulogies. Those gone (but never forgotten) keep me warm and hopeful and I understand their discomfort. There is voice to the departed and grit in the sun yet most are deaf to the stubborn melodies. Cakes and jokes are substance to mortal lips but dust is for the damned. Those damned to see it all.
I feel the sweat of ages fall from my face as I attempt to run through the day but there is never any weight lost from my burden. As my muscles get lighter the more the tomb offers a fancy seduction. Maybe this is not sinking afterall? The footprints before me know the path and just as I am sure of the wine stirring my whiskers, I am also aware of the end of flesh and hours.

The Curious Taste Of Street Ministry

Nobody can ever be always correct in what they say. In fact the longer the years run toward all End then more often than not people are more likely to know nothing. And I as a poet and hedonist certainly claim no wisdom or knowledge from oracles. Sorry folks but I have no celestial inside scoop on how the world works or how the masses ought to behave, that kind of physics I leave to better men.
I do have ideas however, and thanks to a few near brushes with death, I also have a 'feel' for certain things. A stubborn thought which I cannot shake that life as I see it is exactly that; life as I see it. I have also been blessed with a fantastic radar, what I call my 'People/Bullshit Meter'. It is one of my most reliable tools which ive never known to be wrong. Unnerving in its accuracy, I use it to stay safe and find the substance in fellow souls.
No I do not know the mind of God but I am sensitive to the spirit of Man. I know when they are Lying or being Honest, Giving or Taking, Ranting or speaking Sense. I know I am not wrong in these instances.
As ever in cases where one believes to have a unique 'gift' there are people who feel threatened by it, or they get confused and begin to think that I believe myself to be a Sage of some type. They are misguided for I hold myself and beliefs no higher than the average worm and being down here in the ground I am at advantage because from here I can only look UP at the mechanics of Life. And thereby see more truths.
There are those among us who are confident in their chosen subjects and because they think they exceed in that area they limit themselves to only what those boundaries allow. They only see the BACK if you will and therefore completely miss the heart of things. Dangerous is the physician or carpenter who thinks they have seen it all. Those dedicated to one single faith are trapped and blinkered, rotting under one sun because they foolishly shun the ideas of others and it is these who claim to know everything.
I am not so bold. Or limited. There are very many subjects and past times that I pursue, which range from sensible to the downright morbid, but I am not a master of any. I am always searching for new angles or avenues, keeping everything in check and alive. I love to challenge the common thread and whatever current craze the herds are feeding off or praying to. It only offends the numbskulls and far from wanting to insult those types, I am actually trying to make them drop the shackles. I have never been in the buisness of body slamming ideas or heartfelt beliefs.
It might seem to a few that I am stirring the pot in order to provoke a reaction but that to my thinking is a very shallow thing to do because outlandish statements are easy make and just by loudly proclaiming that JESUS IS GAY or GAYS ARE EVIL fails to do anything constructive and tends to make most of the audience think a tantrum is being thrown. I don't do anything for shock value. My statements simply come from having lived near to calamity and are honest reports from my discoveries therein. There is little point poking fun at individual beliefs and doing so certainly never teaches anything of any value.
And that is all there is to it. I have swam in the darkest of waters, prayed in the most heroin ravaged temples and in doing so I have learned things that the sober and sane could never quite grasp and feel a need to share sometimes. When I come across things which are contrary to what Ive learned in these cess pits then naturally I am forced to attempt to correct them. Death teaches one to ignore comfort and safe boundaries, it teaches one to always look from UNDER never from the TOP. Most importantly of all death tells it how it is, forcing the tattooed pupil to accept the cruelty of Life.
There is no malicious intent, it would be too selfish, too self indulgent and these ideas come at too high a price to be able to be sold so cheaply. Nobody ought think im gunning for any single person or charity in my writings, that would be a grevious mistake. Plus I don't dabble in flattery so to dwell on any individual would be of no interest to me. Certainly I admit that at times it sounds like im railing at a targeted victim but that is because raw truths ring in solid chimes to everyone. We ALL hear good mantras but the trick is not to be deluded enough to believe its for YOU.
This mad poet knows nothing of interest to a clear world. My ink is not spilt to unleash fantasy on the page, nor am I author to bliss. I am merely a stethascope listening to the many beats of Life before unfolding them as my morbid brain sees fit.

At Play In Shackles

Stories about the dangers of obesity pop up nearly every day, with either one group condemning junk food or another lambasting the evils of gaming consoles for replacing the playing parks with joypad and sofa. 'We are a nation of couch potatoes!' They yell. 'Heart attacks are coming early!' They forecast. It seems woe is us as we fumble our way through burger joints and ipods.
But has anyone ever stopped to wonder why? Why are we drowned in technology comas and playing cricket on a 42" inch screen? Why can't we be bothered to get up off our pizza padded asses and get some exercise in?
Allow me to enlighten you; its all down to what I call L.L.A. or Lily Livered Attidudes. Or as others call it, the Nanny State. We have allowed these nambi-pambi minority groups trick us into believing everything is dangerous. And this has resulted in the 'NO' signs sprouting up all over the place.
I will give you an example from my hometown of Burry Port in West Wales. This wonderful little village has 3 harbours and a beach, and every summer when I was a child would be spent swimming and diving in these docks. My fellow bathers and I would spend hours swimming, free from the whims of the molly coddle brigade. It was a ton of exercise each day.
Fast forward twenty years and the harbours have been closed off by metal fences and those annoying 'No Swimming' signs. Teenagers can no longer indulge in the calorie beating thrills I was afforded in my school holidays, so who can blame them for retreating into the clutches of the Playstation3? Children have been wrapped in so much cotton wool by the L.L.A that its wonder to me how they are still allowed bicycles.
What is it that makes some so paranoid of everything? Sure there are dangers in bathing in docks but there is risk to most outdoor activities. In all my years swimming in the sea, be it beach or harbour, never once were there any tragic accidents. In fact there were more reports of accidents in swimming pools than at the beach. But hey never mind, make the harbour off limits anyway. In an impossible endeavour to keep our young (and old) free from harm the L.L.A. and yogurt knitters have created the walking cardiac nightmares we see puffing away today.
And those wretched 'NO' signs are springing up everywhere not only on harbour walls. Parks have 'Do Not Climb The Trees', fields announce 'No Picnics', on and on it goes until the scope for enjoying the great oudoors becomes very limited indeed. No wonder children today prefer indoor pursuits because the woollen hearted (and brained) have all but banned outdoor pleasures. Little good whining now that obesity is a problem, its the L.L.A. which have created the waddling fatties.
If you restrict all but the super safe (cricket with foam bats and balls anyone?) then people have no choice but to turn to their video games for thrills. At least swimming in those is allowed.
These people are cutting the young to the root by being so soft and we are already witnessing the results. It was quite rare to see a podgy child when I was younger, of course they were there but the majority of my classmates were lean and able to complete cross country running without breaking a sweat. And we had computer games back then, only then we were free to swim and climb so the games took more of a back seat. The 'No' signs will be a ruin for years to come on health and well being, and chubby children will become the least of our worries mark my words.
Of course there needs to be safety precautions and only a fool would deny them, but the outright banning of things purely because of an element of danger is sheer folly for tragedy will find another way: in our hearts.

The Truth That Hides Is Beauty

For two decades I have searched for beauty. Twenty fanged years have taken me to ruffian taverns, moonlit cemeteries, childhood haunts, lonely hearts columns and every corner of my dreams. The only thing of any substance that I discovered was addiction.
Everywhere I turned I was greeted with sorrow and mayhem, and drunken evenings that I can barely remember now. Even if I did the tales would be cold as a pauper's fire because flowers dare not grow in solitary confinement.
It was as if disease had spread throughout the planet and given birth to the common and the ugly, covering beauty in its sour mists and twisting the colourful into hideous shades of cruel pages.
Demons walked on every street, disfigured and lame and any hopes of finding a gin princess amongst the pulsating thorns were quickly dying.
Then suddenly on the evening of August 14th 2003 as I sat at a table drinking poison and throwing ghosts into empty glasses, I looked upand from across the bar I saw her.
In an instant the darkness I had weaved lifted, the sound of doom which I had orchestrated fell silent. I was alive again. At first I thought that I had succumbed to the effects of the alcohol before me and plunged headlong into a bubbled fantasy, but the smell of cigarette smoke and whiskey chasers made me certain of my consciousness.
Who would have imagined that a diamond could be found in such a dirty little town that thrived on gossip and weekend brevity! She stood alone at the bar like prayer on a condemned man's lips, her warm smile burning those who stood around her to dust, while her elegance put them to shadow.
No need for this doll to talk loudly and giggle for hysterical attention, her sweet whispers said it all; finally I had discovered the rose in wines.
All traces of the black pain which had perched over my grave disappeared, the wings I had desperately grown to escape this life folded and made the sign of the cross over my chest.
I gazed across the smoking ashtrays and frothy pints for thirty or so seconds, my eyes fixed on this gentle figure, and as I did I felt twenty years of bruises crawl back into their dungeon. Never had I seen such a vision of tranquility, never had I heard so many echoes of joy shatter through my wall of isolation.
At once I didn't feel alone anymore, even as she made her way from the bar and out of sight, I felt happiness coil around the grey phantoms inside my head, laying them to rest under piglet eyed love bugs. Soon after I learnt her name which has now become treacle on my tongue. It is the last thing I say before closing my eyes, the comfort that I seek when agony chases my spirits into despair.
I cannot believe the is a bad tune in NF, she is delightful. While others squawk like starved crows for the best seat under the vulgar spotlight, or fight for scraps of attention, Nicola F simmers quietly. Flowered beats seldom need a megaphone...