Sucker 
I have joined the regiments of the contemporary undead 
or so it would seem. 
I did not notice it happen, but that I have adopted my place in that legion seems starkly obvious now. 
Another case-study of circumstantial, situational vampirism. 
That is what I exhibit.  That it is not wilful is not of relevance. 

Non-fictional vampirism holds no romance in its ethos. 
The lexicon will reveal that it holds more homogeneity with a 
swelling tick on the underbelly of an incapable, unaware animal. 
Sedentary, unconcerned.  Elegance is unrelated. 
Blanching everything I engage, and everything engaged is consumed and ejected. 

Such vast, limitless hunting grounds for such a wretched stalker. 
A predator feeble, unwilling and even remorseful at times - 
yet unable to stop. 
The washed out negative of another One. 

Teach me to give.




and all should play pinball 

Perhaps the philosophy of pinball alienates you. 
Found in indoor back-alleys. 
Uneducated noises, 
carpets cemented with filth 
and air that frames and hangs the odours of last week. 
But in the corner of this abject adornment 
there may lie one of the last 
        bastions of reality. 
The machine will not be tarnished like 
    its clothes 
for few have touched her. 
Eager to hold plastic guns; 
to press the buttons that deliver 
the special attack move 
    to an opponent whose technique 
    can never change. 
            Caught in the 
    habitual silver money-shovel- into slot repetition 
in anticipation 
of increase. 
I have witnessed 
post-human reflexes 
and super-perfected accuracy against a simulated 
                                               enemy. 
And no I do not invalidate 
that accomplishment.  I have been amazed.  Truly. 
But even at that level there is 
no unexpected challenge. 
                The wonder is the player 
        and not what is played. 
But few have touched the pinball table. 
Ignored because of its purity. 
'For amusement only', it bears the placard of stern unpretense. 
I will not pay out. 
I will guarantee nothing. 
I am not a screen. 
I am real. 
I will deter the masses 
                            and display no relent, no misery. 
    I am happy to go untouched, unnoticed 
    just for the infrequent gratitude of those who 
    know what I am.  What I offer.  What I am for. 
And so the buttons are lit.        Start.        Launch. 
The spring releases the warcry of the agony of frustration; 
coiled and repressed with one function, 
one goal so rarely 
        accomplished. 
And physical science 
                          streams forth with spherical certainty. 
Defend,        defend,        defence is attack 
                        there is no attack 
                            just utilised defence. 
I cannot explain what happens. 
I do not lie 
when I say that I can feel the 
ball in triumph as it travels an elusive ramp. 
I share the perfect gravitational motion of achievement. 
It is as if this perfect metallic object is the sister of a planet. 
Distant, yet exerting its certain pull. 
Yes, I am a part of all this. 
                I have waited for your release. 
                But cannot fathom what you are.  I really cannot. 
                In the last moment you are always enemy 
                but throughout you are sometimes more than ally 
                and that cannot be forgotten. 
            Constant change of allegiance but perhaps neither. 
            And there are many of you.  Concealed, still. 
            You are my focus yet are nothing without 
            your teritory of confinement, 
                    freedom and 
                        imprisonment. 
Yet however much I get to know of you or your palace 
however much skill and reflex I possess 
sometimes 
    you will travel 
        straight through or around my guard 
        and there will be 
            nothing I could possibly 
        do to stop you 
                and no blame 
            can ever be found 
        with you or me. 
            Just respect. 





Irreplaceable.

Even now do my loss and perhaps my lack govern me.
Lost.
Missing,
needed.
Concealed, unattainable. Crumbled and worn.
Skirted by events that rob and plunder;
and so wells up a churning, unquiet,
sore stream of stolen.
Never to be held again.
Even as I contend against knowledge itself
I find it to be a darkened hollow,
driven toward me at speed.
Impassable and without a wearied flicker of relent,
its ravenous air consuming and incorporating each moment in each place
into its vulgar body;
writhing, parading, leering,
untouchable
and truly hateful.
'No, I do not know the artist of that painting'.
'No, I know little about that'.
'No, I......'
The industry of knowledge is spiteful. Governed by famine
but 
knowledge knows nothing and
God knows
that. 

Boyband
 
With wet, spiky-haired callousness you snare them. 
You do not know what you are. 
Someone is responsible.  It might be you. 
Your trousers give you away. 
Cynically tight or ignorantly loose. 
With sleek-chested arrogance you will small girls 
into infatuation and hysterics. 
Why does no-one arrest you? 
You are men. 
whitemoneydignityteethdignitybackingtrack 
'Iwantyougirl'fashionrepugnantsmilecameranewdancemove 
I witnessed your mistake.  I was sickened, hurt 
and disgusted. 
Throw-away line. 
Guilt on face. 
Nervous bodily manoeuvre. 
The moment passed.  But you 
                are 
                not 
                safe. 
I know that you know. 
"and what is your target audience?" asks fledgeling pop programme interviewer. 
"eight to sixteen year-old girls," mutters chiselled 
facial-haired twenty-four year-old man. 
What does that make you? 
And you charge them their pocket money. 
Please leave. 




There is an ocean.

And how shall I pour forth my love when
I know not where it resides?
I know well the latent trickle that inspires my hope and
I know well the hindered drip, drip, drip of compassion that is not
issued by my will;
but seeps from my soul and is wrought through my soul by another.
I know well that this constant testimony speaks loudly of another.
What sweet assurance.
Even in the barren lands of what I have become, there is certainty
that I have partaken of that ancient living water, that flows before 
all,
for all.
When I turned to myself I found that I had nothing.
I even possessed less than this.
A vast supply of fouled liquid that could only extinguish life.
Long have I
wallowed bathed and feasted in this putrid supply. 
Within, without,
gushing from my hands, my years, my very being,
my all.
Indeed my abundance is as poison.
But, though as dead I turned,
I turned to find
that the drip, drip, drip had sustained me.