Poetry (written 1997)

The Idea

Fresh and pure,
glistening wet from the birth canal
of the creative mind,
it stands unabashed
in the stillness of unevaluated bliss,
neither proud nor ashamed,
just an expression of newness.
Pure creativity. Unrestrained.


Let it Smash
Collect it and structure it
Put it in a box
Synthesized, organised,
Compartmentalised and classified
Then drop it from the highest cliff
where the wind gusts wild and the spirit is free
Watch it fall, fall, fall, fall
To shatter against the rocky ground
in a million fragments
For the wind to whip it up
And send it off
Twirling and swirling
in chaotic abandon
happy in the knowledge
that chaos breeds life
where order creates habit.

Dot the i’s
Dot those i's and cross those t's
gloss that image till it shines
and if your rubbing breaks the skin
rub that spot with frantic care
to restore its perfect look.
Rub. Rub. Round and round.
Harder still.
It hurts!
Then rub to make it go away.
Rub. Rub. Stop all else!
This is where the problem lies -
That robs perfection of its spoils.
Rub. Rub. All day long.
Until the gloss returns.
And I can stare in perfect bliss.
And rub the image raw.


Out There
They laugh and joke out there;
the unselfconscious fun of the free;
their cheery voices mingle
and jovial banter flows.
All the time,  I lie in my hut
timid like a mouse
scared of being judged
as my mind judges  -
and hiding from the pressure
to entertain and impress
with confident wittiness.
Oh self imposed pressure -
Crack and Break!
Let me leap forth from my lonely hole
to sit and be with friends
relaxed and open and free
as me - just me - and no more.

Let Go
Oh to tap deep inside me
For the incessant voice in my head to cease
so I can be and express freely
Gush out of me - colours and sounds and shapes
No judging what comes
Who cares if it's good or not.
Who is to say!
All my life I've put what comes through a filter
Moulded it, judged it, analysed it
Blocked it up till no more than a self conscious trickle
Fuck that, let it gush - please let it gush!
Why so scared?  Scared there is nothing there?
So want it to be rich, but is it barren?
Is there nothing to me but lifeless dust?
Is that why I force it out like squeezing nectar from a flower.
to be left with pulp; beauty that has been mashed.
So self conscious, always assessing its worth.
Sometimes it comes and I exude relief.  There must be something there after all.
Then an empty patch and the terror sets in.  That impotent, nagging doubt.
Shatter the dam that holds it back.
Let it burst and its expression be pure and wild.
Screaming, bursting, pouring bubbling,
unrestrained creativity
from deep inside my soul
broad, vibrant, brushstrokes with exploding colours.
Open the arteries and let it come.
And when it does, leave it alone.
Please, leave it alone.