song sound (poem)

I wrote this in 2017...

That's the kindv way around,

Leading my old heart to sing,

Finding my internal sound.

Dreaming of my next-best thing,

Hearing all the things I've found.

And the pleasure that life brings.

mesh

Lost my shape

Among the needles

Lying in wait

Turning to jelly

Waiting for the Ubermensche to send for me; the ones who did the work.

Dan Dare and his posse

They come to rescue me

With spells and incantations and pieces of space-age mesh.

I'm glad when the higher beings come.

They don't say much, it's best I don't know.

I just feel a sense of peace when they visit and stand by my bed, speaking to me about marvellous things, of visions of new lands, by the power of their minds.

More than a murmer, their words are like a reassuring tune that calms me.

"Charles... Professor... Stay here, with us."

And, I do. 

Hostages to the Die Hard debate

Every December the same thing happens.

Someone puts on a jumper. Someone pours a drink. Someone says the words.

“Die Hard is a Christmas movie.”

And suddenly it’s DEFCON 1.

Eyes roll. Voices rise. Someone storms off to Google. Someone else starts shouting about intent. Another person starts explaining structure like they’re defending a PhD thesis in a pub that smells of gravy.

But here’s the thing. This argument has nothing to do with Bruce Willis, explosions, or whether Hans Gruber deserved it.

It’s about Christmas itself.

One camp wants Christmas padded, predictable, emotionally regulated. Soft lights. Approved feelings. Violence kept well outside the ritual circle.

The other camp knows Christmas is already a hostage situation. Family tensions. Forced joy. Emotional landmines hidden under tinsel. For them, Die Hard isn’t sacrilege. It’s honesty. Blood on the carpet. Love under pressure. Reconciliation through chaos.

That’s why this argument never dies. It’s not a film debate. It’s a values test dressed up as banter.

validation requested

Yeah, please tell me what I want to hear.

Whether I'm any good, or not. The fear I'm not accepted may limit my capacity to be revered. 

I've tried the drinking and more thinking, I've tried to be Chuck and Johnny and Mac, I jump forward, shrinking back and dithering, trembling, afraid I'll never be famous. PLEASE, GIVE ME WHAT I WANT. I'll do anything and be whatever you desire. As my soul drops to the floor, I look for resurrection. Make me immortal: that's all I ask! I'm already greater than most men, in my own mind and estimations, at least. I just need distinction and recognition and don't care what it takes to get that. I don't need fame and to receive awards. I just want to be revered for the genius I am. Do your part, beloved fans. 

space

Stifling the primal scream

As the world requires that I ebb away

And repress all the things I have to say

Again, in the common interest

Keep on keeping on

Is our exhortation

That we would chisel into our gravestones,

If we could afford them.

As we collapse into dust and seep into the ground,

Everything we knew and the truths we found

Were lost like tears in the storm.

When the last person who remembers us is finally gone,

All that will be is the myths and the legends

The stories we tell of the known, re-wrapped in the new,

Will warm hearts and inspire minds,

Before being recycled back into truth, as fire ignites, so these never-ending thoughts, which appear to be ours, continue to operate further and further into the darkness of space, until they're lost or found. 

what are you worth?

What're you worth

when you can't do your job? When you can't summon feeling for the ones who are with you?

When all that you'll learn

about yourself in this moment, will be realised in the future, when all this is gone. When those that have loved you, have all passed away, and the deepest emotions have gone. The course of descent, of decline and demise, was all played out in front of your eyes, but you didn't see it, wrapped up in yourself, you never considered these pure ones, who gave themselves to you, to share their lives. Shame on you. As you slide down the slope towards the inevitable end, you'll see the irreversible fate you've constructed for yourself. You'll know it's too late and the damage is done. Ask yourself, if you want to live like that. 

weather

The wind doesn't know

When it beats the weather vane

Standing upright in the icy rain

Day after day

Eventually pain is numbed

In the never-ending onslaught

Cold steel

Lead and iron

Stronger than its onlookers

nom

They admire my rhythm, so they say, exotic and erotic and in many ways shameless. Far from guilt and the thoughts of others, my mind roams in cannibalistic unaccountability, not particularly burdened by the reasonings of the mob, until the rude emerge. Then chomp, chomp, chomp and nom, nom, nom, I eat them whole. Mutton and calf and anything else that looks wrong, talks wrong, or is wrong. Always hiding in plain sight. Can't be cornered when you can't be seen. So be happy and go on your way, until I come to find you.

GONZOLECTURE 

I have to write my way out of it

Whatever it is I have to find my way back by writing my way out of it. As my mind turns, my body girds and my whole being becomes a weopan against whatever it is I'm facing. The problems come, as sure as the world keeps turning. Days of repetition, intermittent lightning of inspiration. Gnosis seeping through the dread, into my mind, brisling through my bones. Electricity of meaning, keeping me alive. 

milk

She is not drinking the milk; she is baptizing herself in it. That is the difference. Consumption is passive. Ritual is active. What you are seeing is not nourishment but defiance, the body reclaiming its own mythology. The frame reeks of control: the sculpted abs, the arched spine, the precision of light on sweat. Yet it is also chaos, milk in motion, liquid rebellion against the sterile perfection of the gym. The image mocks the fitness cult’s obsession with purity. It is not health; it is theatre, the purification of sin through spectacle. He stands behind her like an echo of the same ideal, watching, admiring, maybe competing. The whole thing hums with tension, the worship of the body against the exhaustion of being worshipped.

GONZOLECTURE 

apple

The image presents a carefully staged interplay of color, symbolism, and control. The bright yellow background, green apple, and the woman’s red lips and nails create a sharp triadic palette, more reminiscent of Pop Art or advertising than a natural setting. Every element feels heightened, saturated, and precise. The apple itself, glossy and untouched, is less fruit than icon—long associated with temptation, sin, knowledge, and desire, but also with the sleek surface appeal of consumerism.

The subject’s gaze is steady, direct, almost challenging. Her styling, from the bold red lipstick to the delicate lingerie top, reinforces the dual themes of seduction and authority. Yet the key lies in the gesture: she holds the apple close to her mouth but does not bite. The power of the image rests in this suspended moment—the space between temptation and action. The viewer is drawn into that tension, waiting for a decision that may never come.

Traditional readings cast the apple-bearer as Eve, passive or doomed by choice. Here, the reversal is striking. She is not ensnared but in command, presenting the symbol as her possession. The apple is an object she controls, a lure she can offer or withhold. The entire composition plays with this inversion, shifting the focus from forbidden fruit to the spectacle of control, from temptation as weakness to temptation as power.

It is a portrait of beauty, yes, but also of staged desire—an image about ownership of symbols and the reconfiguration of who holds the power in the eternal story.

GONZOLECTURE 

fear and power

How can a man

Be so similar

Yet so different? 

Be so good-hearted

Yet so corrupted? 

As the fear to be good enough 

Is fed by the lustful fire of ambition 

The attempt to be validated 

In the eyes of others

As power takes over

Driven by the fear

It can be lost 

In an instant. 

Focus, serve,

Dedicate.

Preserve.

obfuscate,

Deviate,

Distract, 

Deteriorate. 

Hammer.

Smash,

Eradicate, 

Destroy. 

Only the strong survive. 

God is perfected in weakness. 

My weakness.

As the figure stands by

Watching silently. 

Who is he? 

What does he do? 

The only part of my expansive world that doesn't accord with the ideal. 

Tick. 

Irritant. 

Blight. 

GONZOLECTURE