Antonio the Longboard Rider.

Antonio the brave longboard rider who carved angels out of marble and concrete, spoke of his seven-foot-one Greek father whose cock he envied, wanted to touch and understood its power, was one of the ancient messengers from the realm where the Nightbird heralds from.

He spoke of the Mafia in Calabria, Hell’s Angels and the delights of sex and art with a twinkle in his eye that spoke of the universe he carried inside of him. He hated his mother but, yes, there is a but, she was not his real mother. I talked with Antonio about my felt exile and he recognised it immediately; to be awake in what is seemingly a sleeping world. The proof of this, was that in all the chatter in the crowded Vietnamese restaurant where we shared some dishes together, the conversation I had with this shamanic smiling devil/angel was more beautifully alive and real than anything else around us.

We, well Antonio, spoke of corrupt policemen and gangsters. He derided the corrupt policemen with their enforcement of the rules they secretly break and I felt Antonio speak to the shadow within myself. I was or had been a corrupt policeman until I understood that I was telling the biggest lie. The one that proclaimed that I was what I appeared to be instead of a stark raving mad artist and visionary, just like Antonio, the Shamanic longboard champion.

Antonio knew that I had lied and instead of persecuting me, recognised the sadness this deep shadow had cast. I’m not really a gangster though, I love it all too much- definitely a writer though and somewhat mad. We are fragments of a whole, this is what I feel; the world, us, everything experiencing itself according to its own perception, wavelengths of light and sound experiencing itself at our chosen frequency.

This is what I meant when I asked Antonio who he thought might have authored all of the stories we’ve ever lived and read. Antonio’s answer seemed rather perfect: Nobody, we’re all just making it up as we go along. I suppose the question then is, what story do you want to write out of the ruins? Because here we are in this thing called life and you have is the you, you want to be, and the choices are so varied. Mine is to continue to believe in art, magic, freedom, love beauty, kindness, forgiveness and grace. Our shadows as hollow or as ugly as they may seem, ask us all to love ourselves and be compassionate, otherwise how will we ever love one another?

The Strange and Wild Bloom

I will not eat the pain you sell so plentifully anymore,

My soul will no longer starve with lies.

How many fears will you peddle the hungry and the naked,

As you grow fat on the frightened and confused.

This dark night is ending,

A new dawn comes.

The oppressed are rising,

And Love is flowering into a strange and wild bloom.

The Black Maria Collective

Black Maria has ended her vigil of silence,

She has called the dead to rise;

To awaken those who still slumber,

Uncertain of their own demise.

Her eight arms are lashing and three green hearts beating,

Stealing like a silent ninja through the deadened streets,

Pouring light into blinded eyes,

And smashing the temples of darkness where the inhumane gather daily to meet.

The gangsters and the rabid lunatics are pouring life into hungry souls.

Black Maria is raising the graces to fuck all senseless in our gaping holes.

The Darkest Song

A darker strain of music came to visit my world;

I tried everything I could to block the sound that felt like an assault upon my soul.

I didn’t want to hear the notes that pierced me and stirred shadows I thought no longer

hungered for my attention.

And yet the dissonant sound continued to haunt my nights.

The sheets on my bed bore testament to these nightly struggles,

In the morning they resembled the tattered masts of a ship caught in a wild storm.

I would hum to myself on nights like these;

Like a child walking past a graveyard hoping to scare the ghosts away.

The dark song started to follow me through the days;

Dogging my steps, seemingly so much taller than any shadow I could cast by my mere

physical presence.

It would screech loudly at me demanding to be heard.

I threw things at the shadows it cast.

It didn’t care.

I grew incredibly weary fighting the shadows,

Trying to block the deafening din of a song that terrified me to my core.

So eventually I stopped and just listened, too tired to do anything else except surrender.

Something shifted;

What has once seemed unintelligible to me in all of that discord gradually started to

make sense.

All that I had hidden,

All that I had disowned within myself,

Came to rest within my ears.

I sat there with my song and listened to the words,

And gradually started to make peace with what I had created.

Alice Falls Again

Alice has gone down the rabbit hole again,

Into the space between the chimes marked by the hands of a clock;

The maze that eternally changes:

The falling,

And Oh God! there’s even more falling,

And there’s so much s p a c e in all of that falling.

A symphony of chaos,

This fantasia of existence,

With cannons of colour that burst into life and spend themselves,

Until there’s nothing but darkness,

And a gradual surrender to always falling;

A wayward acceptance of the eternal unknown.

I wonder if Alice will ever come home again.

Dinner with the Shadows

The shadows are entering the room;

They have finally been provided with an invitation to sit at the table.

I am a nervous host,

Anxious and curious at the same time about how this feast may go.

And it is a feast that will be served,

As some of the shadows seated at my table appear ravenous to be heard and seen.

So, this feast demands that I am an attentive and obliging host,

And although I have invited them willingly to sit with me and dine,

I still carry the slight apprehension that they may be ungracious in their appetites and

devour me instead.

Nonetheless here we sit all together,

Resembling enemies who have much in common and now take tentative steps to call a


The conversation begins hesitantly at first and despite the nervous glances between my

shadowy guests and their nervous host,

It is clear there is goodwill on both sides.

The feast progresses well into the night, the conversation at times,

Moves between heated debate, genuine humour and at times tears,

Although none of those that fall are bitter.

The night finally ends for my guests and myself;

The sunlight filters through the uncurtained window,

And I watch my guests disappear one by one feeling sated by the night’s repast,

And the knowledge we shall dine again.

The Long Goodbye.

I’m watching you as you fight to loosen the last vestiges that tie you to this existence.

I’m watching myself in this space too;

The breath we take for granted, is the breath we fight to hold onto,

When the tides turn and we all return back to some infinite ocean.

Your body like a shipwrecked vessel on the shore of your white hospital bed,

Lists precariously to the side.

We work to hold you up and right this seemingly helpless position,

And you return after mere moments to where you were before.

The artificial light in this room,

Constantly reminds me of the weary attempts we make to try and make our days here

last a little longer.

The light in your eyes has dimmed and makes a mockery of all our futile attempts to

bring back to life, what is committed to dying.

So, I hold your hand in mine and stroke the rough texture of your skin,

And commit myself to this long goodbye.

Even Lazarus had to let go in the end.