At the forefront of knowledge

Is the edge of uncertainty

Where reality is really

Only a projection of information

At the rim of the universe.

There, black holes loiter with intent.

They seek to break the sacred laws of physics

Which, as everyone knows, state

That information cannot be destroyed.

This is the point of no return.

All the information that ever existed is here

And black holes are held at bay – for now

What is inside is not inside

And what is outside is not outside.

We are merely holographic projections

Rendered flesh at this event horizon.

Asimov, of course, knew this

Way back when computers

Were not ten-a-penny.

He knew the truth, or guessed

That the universe is one vast computer itself

And we are merely its slavish programmers.

Though not living out purposeless existences,

As some believe,

But proving that life does have some meaning:

We are the way for the universe to know itself





Today I am a poem
A page in a book I have yet to write
Today I am writing about me
And how I dream in Technicolor almost every night
I am writing about my id, my angst, my inner self, my outer shell
My Yin, my Yang, whatever I am.
There is no escaping this private hell.
I must set my angst free
From the unbearable anguish of life
With the hope of triumph over adversity.
In my raging anger I have lived not died
And now I have nothing else to hide.

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 To the other side of the universe

I emigrated

I wanted to see how the other half lived.

Well…I needn’t have bothered;

The services are no better

The trains are never on time

The postman never rings twice

( I know – he should always ring twice,

But I think he was a bit confused)

And there’s a bloody bus on top of a roof,

Just like that one in Bexhill





                                                       Hunter S Thompson at work


            Nights when we were young

            We raced the wind;

            Banshees in our wake

            Dracula lying in wait.


            We had left him oozing blood

            From the stake wedged in his chest

            In the Rainbow Cinema.

            But with vampires you could never tell


            Hair slicked back, stiff with Brylcreem,

            Newly perched on our Raleigh three-speeds

            (with dynamo)

            We explored the world,

            Our winkle-pickers pointing the way.



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                                                                         Pett Level,Winchelsea




            He lay in the box quite comfortably

            His waxen face staring into infinity

            Looking much better in death

            Than he ever had in life.

            It was all that I could do to peer

            At him through slatted fingers

            From the back of the room;

            The ever-present smell of tanning

            And leather aprons absent now;

            More than forty seeping years of it

            Scrubbed away one last time


            His moped – a natural progression from pedal power

            When his legs gave out –

            Lay discarded in the coal shed

            At the back of the house.

            (No driver you see, and mother still had the shopping to do)

            He dug turf, cut down young Sally trees,

            And turned over his bit of stony ground endlessly.

            In summer he clipped sheep slowly

            With a machine bought by post from Clerys,

            Carefully stowing it away in its box

            When the shearing was done.


            The clay pipes he sucked on – their broken stems

Held together with blood pricked from his thumb –

            Were redundant now

            And his three bottles of Sunday-night Guinness

            Would stand corked under the counter evermore.

            Who would dance half-sets with her now?

            My mother enquired of no one in particular,

            The smoky saloon bar stunned that the music had felled him

            Knocked him to the floor in the middle of the tune.

            He lay there with a smile on his face

            Knowing it was over

            And I never got to know what was on his mind.


            We put him in the ground

            And sadness trickled through me

            Like a handful of sand through my fingers.

            Later, everyone stood around

            Eating sparse ham sandwiches

            While I stood there, dry-eyed;

            He was a great man they all said

            Slapping the back of my overcoat;

            Sure he gave forty years to that tannery


            And what did it give him?

            I wanted to shout to the throng;        

            A gold watch and a tin tray

            And both had his name spelled wrong


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