The aeroplane

June 3rd, 2011

clouds

I have woken up
We sit obediently in rows
Occupied with our own musings
Watching the map of a flight path
That moves too slowly
Eagerly anticipating every small change

plane

Frankfurt, Mainz, Bonn Cologne
Staring ahead at the curtains that separate
The poor from the privileged occupants
Of the business class cabin
The duty free trolley makes it’s way
Pushed by stereotypes
Aachen, Eindhoven, Utrecht, Brussels,
One hour to go and the drinks trolley
Interrupts the monotony
It is a disappointment.
I wonder if the man and woman
Sat next to me are a couple
They both have the same ebook reader
But have not said a word to each other
He orders a Ginger ale and sits there in contemplation
Watching the bubbles
Something to do, reads the list of ingredients
And squeezes the last drops out of the can
Looks a bit like Lenin.
The English channel finally appears on the map
And I can see good old Norwich

Norwich
Looks a beautiful cloudless day out there,
I miss the Internet connection
We are cocooned, insulated from the world
Revolutions and tsunamis go unnoticed
Their ripples do not reach thirty thousand feet
Dinners burn and children scrape their knees but we are oblivious
And completely unfocussed,
Lives revolve around new major decisions
Shall I get up to go to the toilet?
Is there a queue?
Man reads his book
Having memorized the inflight magazine on the outward journey
Bruges, Dunkerque, NORTH SEA,
Upper case copied faithfully from the monitor
147 miles to go, thats downhill
My ears pop and the couple have a nuzzle
He whispers something and she laughs
Two little girls watch a movie on what looks like an iPad
Open mouthed, blue and pink headsets
That keep the rest of us thankfully ignorant.
The captain pushes the joystick forward
Assuming they still have joysticks in commercial airlines
I imagine he is reliving the old days in the RAF,
Take her down Caruthers, enemy fighters at one o clock
My ears pop again and I wonder what book she is reading.
I will never find out. Also I don’t want to be disappointed
I don’t want to find out it is some trash novel, or highbrow history
Which would reveal something about her.
After three hours of non communication I want her to remain mysterious
Rush hour at Heathrow and we are in a holding pattern
30 minutes to landing
Aaah I looked, the book is called Bone Magic
Will have to look it up later
We bank again as the plane flies in circles
Eeeeoooww dakadakadaka got him that time Biggles
The fields down below are green squares
I see no plane plummet, plume streaming from punishing
Machine gun bullets fired by ace pilot
Perhaps they can see it out of the other windows
No matter
The nose lifts up slightly as the captain tries to hold her
The muscles on his face tense as he fights the G forces
Beads of sweat appear and the stewardess arrives with a flannel to mop his brow.
Ooh you are brave captain!
He regains control and the aircraft gets back on an even keel
The passengers all cheer and a woman names her baby after him
Someone on the row in front adjusts the air jet above their head
And the kids movie appears to have ended because
Juvenile American accents are now to be heard
Down below rows of ordered red bricks appear
Suburbia disappears in scattered cloud
I don’t suppose they are both reading the same book.
Newspaper read by man in front “Septic Sepp, FIFA in scandal”
I don’t want to know, I am in a cocoon dammit
Their model of ebook is called a nook.
Will have to look that one up
Probably a BOGOF or maybe 50% off the second if purchased at the same time, I don’t know
Woman on the other side of the aisle cuddles bloke
The daylight indicator on the map shows we are approaching the middle of the day.
Casablanca, Alexandria, food for thought, fuel for the imagination
Close those eyes and picture the palm trees. No breeze so no swaying although occasionally a coconut is heard dropping to the desert sand
God its hot
Ahah, cabin crew ten minutes to landing!
The plane perks up and the toilet facilities are no longer available
Remaining drinks containers (ok plastic ups) are collected
And I have to switch off…

The eagle has landed

BA675 non stop Istanbul to London Heathrow, 3rd July 2011

Platform 3

June 3rd, 2011

“Staff Only” ,
Door opens,
Team strides out,
Bag in hand,
Insulated travel mugs
Primed and ready to go,
That look of purpose,
Professionals with a job to do,
A train to drive,
Tickets to check,
The driver guard combo,
Immaculate turnout.

Passengers look on,
Couple with pink expanding suitcase,
Unshaven old man in grey suit,
Black Labrador dog at his side,
Make no comment,
Nothing registers.

I check my phone for messages.

The June sun brightens up the morning and
The train pulls in to platform 3

fishy thoughts

June 1st, 2011

My thoughts are like fish with every scale filled.

My bright ideas twinkling on and off,

Sometimes remembered sometimes forgot,

New thoughts old thoughts fill my brain.

Some shimmering fishes fall asleep and don’t wake up,

Others dance and prance to not be forgotten

The fisherman

May 29th, 2011

Alright yezzer, not much luck this morning though them Polish fellers caught a few bucketloads from the top of the breakwater. I don’t know what they do with them. Must sell em somewhere I guess. I don’t really mind whether I catch anything or not really. I just like being here.

In the debris of tomorrow

May 24th, 2011

In the debris of tomorrow
i will find you
and lift you from the dust

In the debris of tomorrow
i will gather gems you lost
and take them with us

In the debris of tomorrow
we will learn our value
and barter ‘gainst our worthless toys

In the debris of tomorrow
we will taste again
amongst the the dispossessed

In the debris of tomorrow
we will kiss scorched earth
and plant a new life there

In the debris of tomorrow
things that made us cry
will appear small amidst the tumult

In the debris of tomorrow
we will leave fear behind
and press onward through the dark

In the debris of tomorrow
fierce realities
will not part my hand from yours

In the debris of tomorrow
we will take a different path

In the debris of tomorrow
one good shoe
will fetch a thousand shillings

In the debris of tomorrow
iron and sweat
become politic

In the debris of tomorrow
magic and science
will be allies again

In the debris of tomorrow
forgotten tools
will regain their edge

In the debris of tomorrow
i will be your shield
and you will be my heart

In the debris of tomorrow
we will build a home for future kings

In the debris of tomorrow
honest friends
will be all we can afford

In the debris of tomorrow
there will be much to do;
we will have no time for sorrow

In the debris of tomorrow
faint-hearted sun will start;
the faded moon will close

In the debris of tomorrow
will we find god?
will god find us?

In the debris of tomorrow
there will be more questions than answers

In the debris of tomorrow
is kindness and hope
coated in soot and hunted for dinner

In the debris of tomorrow
is our untainted love
and a catch at a fleeting chance

In the debris of tomorrow
we will prevail

In the debris of tomorrow
is another day

lifesavers

May 23rd, 2011



The Piccadilly Alternative

May 18th, 2011

The next station is…
Kings X – 11 stops to go
Russell Square – don’t get off here unless your name is Russell
Holborn – hmm
Covent Garden – party-time ‘n flaars
Leicester Square – nowhere near Leicester guv’nor and not pronounced lie sester
Piccadilly Circus – alright Jim?
Green Park – for a picnic
Hyde Park Corner – watch out for the traffic
Knightsbridge – only if you’re posh
South Kensington – just as posh really
Up and down the – Gloucester Road?
Earls Court – will do fine
…for what it’s worth.

Mind and body crumble

May 15th, 2011

old age beckons

Dissipation of the mind
crumbling of the body
simplification of living
shaking of unshaken beliefs
fade to credits…

We toil

May 11th, 2011

Do not be fooled.
These streets, paved with gold,
glisten with bent back sweat,
dripped and sleeve dried of narrow eyes
that hurt in the salt soaked sunshine
and half moon light.
No riches.
Simple broken ends, hammered by the waves
and buried by the mocking seagull’s cry.

Slow train

May 10th, 2011

Slow train, taking it’s time to go nowhere
Empty mind, staring at fields
Don’t care, how long it takes to get going
Life will, still wait for me.

Four inches wide

May 8th, 2011

The fear is four inches wide and sits by my heart.

Just down, to the right, it perches with the presence of a clutch of angry vipers tied in a ball.

They sleep; but not for long. They wake

and my life is filled again with writhing hate. As

their bodies wind together they make dark cold liquid run through my insides.

Dripping onto my stomach, provoking eruption.

They stretch down each arm, lifting with a forked lick the hairs they find there.

They turn, and now they have created gravity. A superpresent

force that inverts me, makes the fear my centre, my down, my earth.

All is now in thrall to the fear.

It wins. I orbit it.

A helpless fleshy satellite flung round for an eternity by my own folly.

Off the wall

May 8th, 2011

High-wire
Cheesewire cuts the souls beneath my feet.
Frowning down at
Emotional account – is overdrawn.
Planning permission required
From grass-roots up;
The sky’s the limit.
Only 20 pounds and this
Is what I bought.
A drought,
A hunger –
Desperately seeking captivated audience
To catch my drift
Across a landscape,
Painted wordily in ink.

Personal Effects
And yet you still are unaffected?
I spilled not knowing –
Thick and slick –
Too slippery for me.
Humpty Dumpty.
Broken lines and fragments.
Shelling never stops.
Did I mention how high I was?
And now back home on earth,
My heights are but a fighter jet,
A mirage through the clouds.
All my thoughts are pregnant birds
That try to fly betwixt these words –
And though perhaps they’ll go unheard
They yearn to sing aloud.

Holding hands.
A piggy-bank
A childhood could not fill.

Timely intervention
Watching notes rain wet on teenage years
Discordant striking tears for fears –
Pneumonia or chill?
No gangrenous hopes,
Nor organic dreams;
All chrome and armour clad.
Wires corrode
And yet they hold
Ideas aloft, aloof and crazed
Like a preacher dressed in plaid.
To this moment complete,
Nothing may alter
A tattooed sermon never taught.
I’d like to leave this honest yoke,
Be back where I belong.
No bad egg yet the question I beg –
Would He rather a Father distraught?
Back to back
With mother moon,
All things considered
The end comes too soon.
But not yet.

This chicken run
Can’t catch my breath,
However clumsy I feel.
Wings spread to the heavens above –
Almost gracefully sometimes –
I pray but not to God;
To the gentle breeze
That carries my weight,
That I should not fall
‘Ere I reach the stars.
Air miles short,
Curtailing destined rise to fame.
Though in my heart
I feel uplifted,
Off the wall,
I feel no shame.

A night of deep reflection

May 8th, 2011

That night a lone trumpeter climbed to the top of the castle walls and, facing outwards, sounded the last post. The mood around town was sombre. This was a night to focus the mind. People sat in pubs in their accustomed seats but the usual Saturday night banter was absent.

The notes from the trumpet brought everywhere to a dead silence. Walkers stopped walking, passing cars pulled in and, inside, juke boxes were turned off. As the music faded away everywhere remained still as folk contemplated what lay ahead…

The Blue Square Bet Premier league.

The Violin

May 5th, 2011

Copy of image03

Copy of image05

Copy of image07

In Wray the pigeon is dead, long live the 30Meg symmetrical connection! #twicket

April 27th, 2011

In Wray the pigeon is dead,
Martyred on a loop of fibre,
His old and inefficient ways,
Killed off by Doyle of cyber.

The ways of farmfolk perceived:
Rustic whirr of disaffection,
Dawned now the age of Internet,
Enlightening connection!

Oh city boys this killer,
Was 30 Meg symmetrical,
An epitaph, in words of rhyme
This last post, poetical.

For @cyberdoyle