This.

This is not glowing or even angry. 
Not bitter and or twisted,
So what is this?
This is in no way angular, 
Or singular or regular. 
It is just uneven but not irregular.
This is not on a treadmill, 
Or in a rat race. Neither is it complex.
It is not viable or buyable.
It is simply this. 
What you get is what you see, hear, taste or think. 
It is not someone else.
This is not a beginning, middle or end. 
Neither is it robust. 
This is now adequate yet dreadful.
This is not circular, orbital or oblique. 
Equatable? Possibly. 
What it is not, is a knot.
This is no longer intelligible,
It not infinitesimal or forgettable. 
This is never discoverable.
This never ceases. 
This has no cancer or damage. 
This was never infantile or made.
This is neither neutral, positive or negative. 
This is not prohibitive or lax. 
This is not It.
This is not absent 
Or meaningful. 
Not over loaded or likely Carboniferous. 
This is not a dark watered lake. 
It contains no hidden extras, it has no  prize. 
This cannot look leftward at life.
This is not interesting or lovely.
This is shapeless in its form
This is not arboreal or cleaved.

This is often incommunicable.
This had no crib. 
This is still not understood.
This is neither ephemeral or eternal. 
This has nothing extra of Cosmos,
This is tasteful.
This is without anything within. 
This requires nothing. 
This is devoid of feelings.
This is not congregational. 
This is not able to be condensed. 
This is neither crushable or weak.
This has no union by faith. 
This is not within anyone's remit. 
This is not irremovable.
This is not a strain. 
This is neither steerable or useful. 
This is not conceited. 
This is neither righteous or wicked,
This is however wounded.
This is unable to heal.

This can never be rigged. 
This is not case sensitive. 
This is no longer a word with worth.

This is not a world apart, it is here.
This is not a subject to study or a victimless phrase.
This is my cause, my case on which you may rest.
© 2020   Christoper Thompson   All rights reserved.

Scribe

To be a scribe
Requires two tools.
One is in your head, the other?
It is like the soft sharp tip of a pencil.

It waters you down, it wears you away. 
It is not quite a buckle, but it is safe enough to be going on with. 
It is not a mere stick of wood,
To do, you have to have lead in your pencil. 

You have to hold on tight, 
You have to have a heart to write. 
Your breath is your graphite, 
And there is always a rub which inevitably leaves its mark.
 
Have you made your mark today? 
And so the thin dark line offers unlimited life,
It is a line which describes your story. 
Unlike a felled tree which is heart breaking. 

You explain with disappearing lead, 
The scribbled events and connections. 
And hardness becomes irrelevant 
As you turn to wind on time. 

The curly shavings fall like aspersions 
You sharpen your focus. 
Then in the next breath, you rejoin the wood,
Which has fallen to your wooden floor. 

In all reality there was never a belt to tighten. 
However here you will always find 
More paper and pencils. 
So write a new note for posterity.

And dread nought 
Other than having nothing to scratch on the paper. 
Because these tools are so easily burnt, 
And your ideas are easily lost.

©2020 Christopher Thompson. All rights reserved.

In One Leap – Staffordshire to Devon

It is more than simply talking. It is more than thinking about windows. Picture this, for here is where I’ve been and for all this while. Here is the very place I have recently left.

Here was never. Not settled but for ever similar to seeing through a looking glass, watching for a reflection of the mind. Like someone stretched, this is a faceless portrait, grainy, without grace.

Here I have the look of a gazed being, showing neither contentment or honesty. Here you see no glimmer, no proof of life, no proof other than perhaps a ghostly image conjured out of the realm of a disjointed imagination, A phantasm of proton gradient architecture, being just another needle in just another haystack, stacked at the end of just  another equation. And not even looking like a wordsmith, I command no attention from anyone. I figure in no ones plan. I configure myself in the far corner of existence. I arm wrestle my soul to the ground  every now and again and refract my marrow in Oxygen. This way I am become toxic and reactive even to myself. My words are thus ignited by the passing flow of Consciousness, and the blue flame of delight.

Here is where I am come to. It is not my grave.

©2020 Christopher Thompson (words and pictures). All rights reserved.

Picture 1, Cannock, Staffordshire.

Picture 2, Buckland Brewer, Devon.

Mystery

Here is the very green cut.

And the sap shows itself as a running

Clear juice in the vial of time.

On a gradient of eternal length,

Is balancing a Proton awaiting the descent.

A crib and a grail are the story

A mystery.

No matter.

Here is a servant dead,

The very force of life

Deadened and hidden.

Crushed under the weight of knowledge,

A childish crush, an evil.

And an old man held to account

By history and reflection.

I belong to the unsaughtafter

Those deemed forgetable.

Copyright 2020 Christoher Thompson all rights reserved.

I Missed Your Blink

This is no steam-room.
We have all gone cold,
We are in fact all gone, post coal gone, cold.
We throw only our shadows on the wall.
And it is not from the light of a furnace, 
But by virtue of our lantern of disguises.
These are our only sauce of our heat
It is not night time forever.

These canvass  were never for stretching.
I think out ~ loud, "Use yours as a veil if you want".
Mine is a sketch pad, somewhere on which to skid.
A sketch pad for my marks, formation marks, for my muscles.
Here in the boiler house
There is little room for flight.
Therefore with our heads filled with or, of, stream, 
We depart from each other at Sweet 16.

©2020 Christopher Thompson
All rights reserved.

Ambience Organics

There is a place for us to dwell for a short while and ride upon our dreams. Dream on.

©2020 Christopher Thompson All rights reserved.