The zip code of nostalgia

The zip code of nostalgia

Take me back,
to when  mud flaps hung off cars with one screw year round,
when waking up in the morning was the default,
because the excitement of a new day was too much to contain yourself in comfort,
besides, squeaky spring bases of beds always sunk you down into discomfort.

Take me back,
to when you’d tip toe to the living room,
to turn on a rotary dial TV,
whose clicks you’d try to muffle with your jumper,
so you could sneak in a cartoon or two,
before you loaded up on a sugar and milk laden breakfast.

Take me back,
to when holding your mother’s hand,
walking to school was not uncool,
but squeezing back and forth was a competition,
of who loved who more.

Take me back,
to classrooms where teachers greeted you with cheer,
with the rank smell of sandwiches in the bin lingering near,
an appetiser to get your work done,
so you were allowed to go out at recess,
and breathe the playground bins instead.

Where football on gravel, bloodied knees and palms,
were signs of a game well played, badges of honour,
where you always had at least one fight per recess,
enough to keep you on your toes knowing,
soon your number might be up to test yourself.

Take me back,
to when a nugget was introduced to the world,
and it wasn’t so laced with MSG,
where kids eating them might get fat, but not ADHD.

How about when report cards were hand written,
and words like conscientious were still written,
and ‘shows potential’,
meant you just warded off into a trade and made money,
whilst your friends remained at school,
still trying to sound out words,
still handing in assignments, hand written.

Take me back,

to where carving on desks was in,

words relating your ongoing suffering,

like ‘I’d rather be dead’,
oh that’s right, you can’t,
because the zip code of nostalgia,
is a number of a place in my head.


trust issues



The saddest individual is not the depressed, not the lonely, not the one fighting demons, or mental, spiritual, or emotional issues,  but the one who won’t admit them nor aim to rectify themselves, one grain at a time.

I can’t trust people who paint a veneer of perfect.

I don’t want a confession, I just want the truth.
That truth manifests in your presentation outwardly, the way you look at people, talk to them, stand around them, walk to or away from them, communicate with them, treat them.

I have serious trust issues with people who persist on acting outwardly.


Poets – one

poets 1

A sharp pencil is a sign of a blunt imagination

New series of random musings on poets.

Don’t be offended, I’ll probably contradict myself a thousand times with musings battling each other out as they come to me.
These are not absolutes, maybe thought provokers at most.
If you hate me or disagree with anything, by all means please comment and let me know how you feel or share with me your ideas.
Ever evolving, I don’t wish to stay stagnant.
With love,

Introversion isn’t always innate.

self confide2

In whirlwind violence, in it I ride,
Contain my silence, to myself confide.

Silence isn’t always passivity.
Containment isn’t always quaint.
Introversion isn’t always this neat and beautiful inner world we live in.
It’s a choice for some of us. A conscious choice.
Some have the ability to force our way on to the world, to extrovert our steps higher into profile, but still we choose to turn inwards.
It isn’t pretty as this doesn’t come naturally.
It is an inward battle of always trying to keep the lid on things.
Some of us are blessed with families where we can pop the lid around loved ones who understand us and give us the space to explode after implode.

Personality tests aren’t proof that you were born that way, they are signs of what you have become at that current moment in your life. That moment was built up to by a succession of moments preceding it, environmental exposure, experiences, ingrained beliefs, indoctrinated sometimes, self hypnotised at others, subliminally etched again at other times. No one was born completely introverted or extroverted. Circumstances lead us there.

My introversion is a work in progress, a taste I have acquired, a longing for something I tasted long ago, a turmoiled state of flicking between personalities without the need to label it a disorder or a personality trait even.

Some of us are born that way, inward facing faces, we draw and look inwards for life elixir.
Some of those people have trouble handling their emotions after being told that they are this way by nature. There is no such thing.

This is another ploy of the dreadful twin dogs of human manipulation called psychiatry and psychology, the industries that for over a hundred and fifty years have made it a business to hold people captive in their own bodies, in their own minds, in their own souls and then with quackery-trickery make them pay financially, emotionally and spiritually for their pseudo industry, of which they have nothing but dogma with the exception of neuro-science and some related fields that are actually within the realms of science, psychiatry and psychology for the most part, are not!

Of no doubt, there are people who are naturally inclined to draw inwards, from birth, sensitive, understanding, compassionate, thoughtful, thinking, contemplating and more. They come to understand themselves later in life as the stigmas of society’s  imprint on them when their mould just doesn’t sit in the comfortable cubicle of conformity.

This is only a rather new idea amongst what we deem modern and civilised society, but there is nothing civilised about stigmatising people, about segregating them into the slots of eye comfort, of ego comforts and of manipulative government comforts let alone false industry comforts.

In older societies, peoples conformity wasn’t as emphasised. Sure people still stigmatised and labelled the madmen, the ones who were brave enough to speak their minds and spill their souls, or sat on the outer edges of the norm, but there wasn’t this industry of manipulative quackery posed as valid authority sifting us into convenient boxes.

You can take from this what you will, or reject it completely, choosing otherwise to believe in the nomenclature of modern manipulations of humans, either way, be thankful some of us consciously choose introversion, contain ourselves and instead of being psychotic oppressors, go about our work mercifully leaving much of society alone. We know how to be out there, we can quite easily use our creativity, our imaginations and our wit to destruction, to oppression and manipulation, but we choose to live and let live to the truest meaning of those words

Question for artists…..


Comfort begets laziness, 
begets stagnation, 
begets impurity, 
begets pungency, 
begets death.

What do you feel allows your art to manifest? Is it comfort, is it knowing your bills are paid, debts taken care of, money in the bank, ease of lifestyle and sound body and mind? Or is it striving and struggling, pain and or illness, discomfort, trials, tribulations etc? Or is it a balance between the two? Is it something else completely? How does your art, be it writing, painting, music, drawing, crafts, spoken word or any form of art, manifest. What are the conditions you need present to have it come out of you?
Please share your personal view based on yourself, not others.

On writing.


Franz Kafka said to his adoring Fiance

You once said that you would like to sit beside me while I write. Listen, in that case I could not write at all. For writing means revealing oneself to excess; that utmost of self-revelation and surrender, in which a human being, when involved with others, would feel he was losing himself, and from which, therefore, he will always shrink as long as he is in his right mind. That is why one can never be alone enough when one writes, why there can never be enough silence around one when one writes, why even night is not night enough.

Yes, this true! I agree wholeheartedly with him. Any writer that needs an audience to complete his work is a show pony, not a stallion of the desert of words.