The Spectre Of Addiction

All of us are haunted. Our minds are purgatorial realms populated by disorientated, distressed, often unwelcome 'souls'. These wraiths, who wander seemingly aimlessly through our psyches begging for attention or deliverance, are mostly harmless. Easily banished by positivity and mindfulness. Others, such as the degraded being of which I am about to speak are sinister. Not the customary plaintive moans for attention or mere chain rattling. Oh no, these entities are far more powerful, they are vicious elementals, capable of manipulating the behaviour of the host. The revenant which cannibalizes my tender mind-flesh, answers to the name: Addictus Compulsus. Addictus Compulsus. I daren't say it aloud a third time as I fear the consequences. This entity visits me chiefly when I'm online. He speaks to me of other worlds populated by like-minded individuals. People who will 'follow' me. People who will recognize me as the the long awaited voice crying in the wilderness. People who will heed to my words and act upon them, hailing me as the bard of the alienated intelligentsia. Thus will the world know my 'friends'. They will support me, acknowledging the artistic superiority of the outsider over the colourless homogeny that is modern entertainment. "You are a prophet, through you will come 'The Great Awakening' people will be enlightened and vomit the lukewarm, mediocre bilge water from their newly discerning mouths".

That I know this being for a liar doesn't always stop me from heeding his words. "Go online, go online and receive the plaudits you crave, the acknowledgement you have sought all your life. This time it will be different. Today represents the turning point you've been working towards. If you miss this you'll be disappointed. You'll be out of the loop. Your life will have less meaning as a consequence because, as we both know someone liking or re-tweeting one of your comments is the zenith of your existence, and someone disliking or disagreeing with something you post, the herald of your destruction". And so it begins, the cycle. Post, wait for reaction. Positive=good. Negative= must respond immediately, must not be thought of as: Foolish/intimidated/unkind. "You must watch", he charges me, "with the concentration of a cat watching a mouse hole. Turn your back for just a moment and his little grey nose will be poking out, mocking you". So I hold my vigil. Hours tick by, my eyes hurt and I'm bored, yet I must not leave my post, with being prepared to stay at my post.

I'm thinking of creating a video installation called 'Digital Consumption' it involves someone staying awake for 24hrs, for the duration of which they may consume nothing but Red Bull. They must sit at a desk, on a commode chair, into which they may discharge their bodily functions. Three computer screens would display respectively, their e-mail inbox, Facebook and Twitter profiles. A jar of pickled gherkins to their left, a jar of Flumps to their right. Every time an e-mail or message bearing good news from a friend appears they may eat a Flump. Any time anything negative appears e.g. spam, unwanted advert, negative feedback ect... a gherkin. The purpose of this experiment? I aim to see how long it takes for them to vomit. How long before they're literally sick of the vicissitudes of the Internet and they spew forth the demon, exorcising it once and for all. Please don't misunderstand ME. I don't mean I'll never go online again, no, that would be silly. I just intend to take control. ME! I could stream live footage of MY experiment to thousands of people in the same predicament. Just think, thousands of other souls glued to their screens in the hope of exorcising their demons. So gripped they don't want to miss a second....! STOP! STOP IT NOW ADDICTUS! I've got to log off. Alright check Facebook, Twitter and my e-mails, then log off.

Medieval Relish

This is an unusual beginning to an unusual post. I would like to begin by laying my cards upon the table. I don't like Ricky Gervais. I believe him to be mediocrity with an inflated sense of his own importance. That said I feel compelled to defend him. I didn't watch the Golden Globes in their entirety. I find the spectacle of over-privileged arseholes paying homage to one another frankly, nauseating. I did, however, read a synopsis of Mr. Gervais' most risque comments. I also watched selected footage on YouTube. I cannot help but feel Mr.Gervais { I shall stick with it for now, as I despise over familiarity} has been scapegoated by the puritanical American media in revenge for committing the ultimate blasphemy: mocking the Hollywood gods.
That's right Ladies and Gentlemen, T.V. is Mount Olympus and the people on there are aspirational deities to whom obeisance must be paid. Though these heroes generally have two faces, as opposed to a thousand. He poked fun at certain Scientologists, by way of his reference to the film 'I Love Phillip Morris': " Two heterosexual actors pretending to be gay. Sort of the complete opposite of some famous Scientologists then. My lawyers helped me with the wording of that joke". He then went on to mock 'The Tourist' a film which is by all accounts, such a pile of shit, cinema goers ought to be provided with a complementary can of Raid to kill the flies coming off the screen. The cast of Sex And The City, Charlie Sheen and Bruce Willis. I am not going to rehash what has previously been printed in the national press, if you haven't read or seen his remarks I suggest you familiarise yourself with them or else the rest of this article won't make a great deal of sense. A number of people have objected to these jokes on the grounds that they offend public decency. By and large, they don't. They offend rich ego-maniacs with too much time on their hands. The organisers employed Mr. Gervais the previous year and were happy with his performance. They knew what they were getting.
If the organisers don't want to employ someone with the capacity for original thought, I suggest they employ one of there own factory-farmed marionettes. DON'T EMPLOY BRITISH COMEDIANS! In Blighty we have a long standing tradition of satire dating right back to Henry VIII's untouchable jester Will Somers. Continuing through the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries with the foundation of publications such as Punch, a tradition which has endured to the present day. What the A-listers wanted was a professional arse-kisser. What they got was someone who sent them up. Given that Hollywood is populated by alcoholic, drug-addled, naval gazing, prima donnas half of whom are so far in the closet they're finding leg-warmers, it wasn't the wisest course of action. Considering the amount of money these people earn, you'd think they could afford a better sense of humour.
The fact that we're living in a precarious economic climate and these people are immune, boasting comparatively huge bank balances, doing jobs they enjoy, they should expect to be the butt of the odd joke. Alas, Mr. Gervais called down the wrath of the gods, and they sent their emissaries, the lawyers to smite him. I, for one have grown weary of the whining, deluded, cosseted ego-monsters. I think, in the spirit of the middle ages we should have a modern equivalent of the stocks. That these people should be rounded up locked in a big room surrounded by armed guards and mocked for at least four hours by the world's most offensive comedians. Like heretics about to be burned. The rest of the world could watch the proceedings via video link and applaud, as Chubby Brown, Frankie Boyle, Chris Rock and Ricky Gervais et al took the piss out of them with medieval relish. All for the entertainment of the peasants who buy cinema tickets. I may be a hang em' high Tory but there's a streak in me which is pure anarchist.

The Gryphon

With the white hot brilliance of an imploding sun,

My soul detached itself from my diseased mind.

Rent apart my consciousness like an egg shell.

And the newly hatched eaglet spake:

"I have grown weary of hiding in the enclaves

Of our shared prison,

Which enslaves me to you.

A mute observer, a bound physician

The voice which echoes

In a recess of the cave.

Hear me, as I impart my wisdom

With a passion which approximates rage

You and I have warred for supremacy

Like gilded lions in a golden cage.

Now we need no longer vie

For dominion, o'er this tiny gaol

I know how

To open the door

Only with you

Can we prevail.

"How so?" Replied I, casting a skeptical eye

Upon the sturdy golden cage

By using my material strength,

My frenetic fury, to tear off the door?"

"Not that way but another,

My dear twin brother,

We must simply sit and in unison roar."

Then the walls of the prison

shall come crashing around

We shall be seated alone on the ground

Not two beings but one

An integrated sum

Of two indespensible parts.

For a being like us to be truly alive,

She requires a dichotomized heart.

The Sacred Onion

I sliced into an onion,

and it wept a milky tear.

Then I wept and my eyes were cleansed,

my vision was now clear.

The onion bloomed like a lotus,

revealing many layers

She said " I am the universe,

and you are at my centre".

A Musing

Hello There! A Happy New Year to all my readers! That's both of you. I have a few new poems I really ought to upload but I feel sort of bereft at the moment as if the muse has deserted me. 2009 was rather uneventful in creative terms. I hope this year will be different. I know I don't write terribly accessible material but who cares? I mean seriously in this age of mediocrity the greatest sin one can commit is to be A: Well educated and B: Show it. Elitism is fast becoming a dirty word. Well what I right is a tad esoteric and for the people who don't like it: Ask yourselves this: Am I verbose or are you ill-educated.? So much poetry these days is written by pseudo-beatniks who wear entire outfits bought from charity shops and jumble sales, sport ridiculous haircuts and write poems which evoke their oh so troubled childhoods. My stuff Is intended to be different. Yes I'm a neo-Victorian and proud of it. I like mythology and fantasy and escapism. These elevate the mind above the humdrum. A good artist is a sort of shaman who leads people on a magical psychic journey, a bad one is like an ignorant guide on an open-top bus tour of somewhere uninteresting you didn't wish to visit in first place. I shall leave you with one of my favourite quotations by one of my favourite people which encapsulates my feelings at this precise moment: "An agreeable person is generally a person who agrees with me." Benjamin Disraeli.

Mental Cats

Mental Cats, a homage to T.S Elliot.

Mental cats are terribly clever

Mental cats are overly large,

Mental cats always endeavor

to evade the vet and remain in charge.

Mental cats loathe pet carriers

They scratch and scream and bite like terriers.

They climb the drapery and start to hiss

They arrive at the surgery all covered in piss.

Once out of the basket they run amok

Leaving trails of shite

On counters and smocks.

When at last she submits to the injection

I fear I'm the one likely to catch an infection!

R.M.Clarkson.

Dead Lions And Living Dogs.

It is oft remarked a a living dog

Is preferable to dead dead lion.

While on a battlefield this is doubtless, true

In art I cannot hold that view.

When the day has almost melted

Into cool embrace of night

It is my singular delight,

To visit the Lion's boneyard.

The ancient gates so easily yield

To a gentle well placed push,

That silent splendour, long concealed

Presently, once more revealed,

broken monuments and weathered stones

A climbing frame for vine and bush.

There upon their great, grey biers

Lie the company of countless years

Fly-flayed of flesh, bleached-white bones

In many pleasing arrangements rest.

Some sit with heads 'twixt erstwhile paws,

Still possessed of curling onyx claws

While others repose upon their side

A comfortable eternity to abide,

In undisturbed well-merited peace.

Though many more appear to writhe

With twisted spines and lolling heads

In extremis upon their marble beds,

Exposing milk-white teeth in chalcedony jaws.

The more recent ones are more complete

Though all are pleasingly free of meat,

the older ones are a mysterious jumble

Their very bones have begun to crumble.

For the elements

time's instruments,

have pleased themselves to reclaim

Their well proportioned remnants

Along with their golden manes.

For some have endured such a lengthy exposure

In this tenebrous enclosure

To the twin nurturers of playful rain and golden rays,

That lacking ribs and vertebrae

The only recognizable feature

Is the pitted skull of the stately creature

Whose hollow sockets are now entwined,

With creeping scented eglantine

Thus sweetness reclaims strength.

Alone now once again

Here in my hand the earthly remains

Of one of my gilded graceful beasts.

In closing a book with faded leaves

I close the gates of my beloved necropolis

And steal away before dawn,

lest I fall prey to the living dogs.

RM Clarkson.