Simon Huggins - Poetry

My brain rots, a steady rot. Phenylalanine helps a lot. My heart works harder to expire, Each day it chokes a little fire. Pursuant to my life mandate I overexert my jolly hate. Tire, I will of undue hate Unwittingly adjusting my mandate. Transfer my hope... Boss please fire My ass, go saggy, smells expire. Accept my geriatric lot - Cremation please, forego the rot. - Simon Huggins, 12th April 2002

Piercingly bright, and shatter down The bottle drops, unholy whole To make your senses drown. 'Til Octogenarians frown As fountained splinters split and roll Piercingly bright, and shatter down. Particularly glittery ground Cascades an ill-formed bowl To make your senses drown. Today, this historic town Totters drunks whose hollers toll Piercingly bright, and shatter down. The festive bubbling brown; A slippery brew that dulls your soul To make your senses drown. Spin three drunks around: You Kings of Bottle, raise your crowns . . . Piercingly bright, and shatter down To make your senses drown. Simon Huggins, 6th April 2002

"Excuse me" the wind is with my voice today. Four young girls scatter, confusion clears a path. Surprised at the power of my voice and wind combined, I pass the jumble, transferring a little worth, and find As I pass the blur of railing revealing people blurred aside, I turn the rail-blurred corner, the slope down beckoning speed. But brakes applied give restraint to navigate my way Around the fat-arsed couple, strained with paltry Tesco bags. Then released, my machine and I scoop wind and path along, Evade the brakes for as long as the vermin walkers stride To distance themselves from my still screechless wheels Until applied to the cusp of collision and flying myself high - Without my machine, I am vulnerable and pedestrian too, A foot soldier to the Gods who would have me think. Stay this side of the handlebars, I will retain control And evade those that slowly struggle, shuffle and think. Across the bridge, the young lad oblivious until I pass That but for my steering skills, he would be skimmed of life; Respectful of my respect for those that slowly ponder, I climb the hill that is the battle that tests my fitness level. The rucksack on my back full of Tesco promises of life - Giving sustenance, the other two-thirds unbidden extras. Plans on lists are like good intentions, or fables of old, Where expectations, though turbulent, are so inaccurately sold. Still, I make my way with a higher gear than expectations intended, And longer though it seems, it slowly seems less effort is expended Than last I made this ride, still laden down with unnecessary bites, This must be payment for the silver seven's dizzying, struggling heights. The final strait is level, straight, an easy performance to finish on. The relative ease makes me ponder the merits of my weight loss. Perhaps being the sole male member of my Weight Watchers Thursday Is a bearable burden when my next seven may make my Tesco shopping Fun, even. Simon Huggins, 30th March 2002

Pop the question, do you want a small part of me forever until we're bored? Up from your knees, lips off the ring i've generously passed out and on, you whore. Out to arrange relations, epectations high like abuse of drugs, of the memory of love. Fuck them all, fuck you too. As much as I can until we run out of useful fuck. Off we go, we go off, tell them, you "Fuck Off". Pop up, out, fuck off. Simon Huggins, 14th March 2002

The shadow drifts to giant status, Stops against the dry-stone wall. Floodlit, anonymity crumbles until the amber cuts the red. Muscles strain to feel the moving, Turning fight, let friction fall. Whilst garish lights project the silence; Perceived impatience spurs me on. Green! The ambling wheel reveals The turning way is gathered in As stone on stone blurs from a stumble; Grasps momentum, joins the stream. May gear and oil and bike and rider Melt to traffic's ebb and flow. Relinquish effort to the moving Force that pulls us forth. Go. - Simon Huggins, 14th March 2002

The rock comes coursing, liquid form, Volcanically charging every vein, Entering, inviolate up my arse - Payback for years of heckled farts? Stray thoughts are sucked in magma flow, Slowly, screamingly extricated. Crap-encrusted, flowing towards This resonant atrium, chambered heart. May orange glow beam body life; Radiate the fusing solar burn. Scald remaining crud aside; Make calm my screeching mind. The soothless brakes on train, applied To stimulate the Alpha brain. Renewed, the lava dissipates - I stickily open my eyes. - Simon Huggins, 13th March 2002

Take words, elucidate, make thoughts grow stronger. Make out that thoughts may stretch to substance. Take real thoughts, apply them to experience. Make real people think thoughts through to form Existence. Storm through walls of bricks and blood and Shove in rows of dogma, concepts, hate. Throw out reality, messy in its straggling, meandering thoughtless inability to conform. Take heed, see now the results of free thinking: More Bastards and Whores; More Dykes and Queers. How more news and data make life more unsettling - Why not subdue your fear, ensuing from such change? One should pursue the concepts of poetry and legend, Heroic deeds that transcend mere life. Who knows, in time, life could echo those scholarly abstracts, That theology of strife, anchored in physical Resistance. - * - Children learn their concepts young, rote actions from Those that take their concepts from, their parents and Who chose to belong. Are they wrong? Am I strong If I choose my own concepts as fodder for my young, will Persistence force through the folds of woolly-thinking merchants, and drag them along? Piercing history with axioms sub-atomically formed, is it wrong? Should we make it easier for our children to belong? Perhaps, or Perhaps their children might be better carried along By the doctrine whispered today that may become their future song. We may be weakened, enfeebled by our jumbled thoughts, stride forth And maybe even allow our grandchildren, and on be finally strong. Perhaps we should believe some of what we say, and too be swept along. Simon Huggins, 10th March 2002

The room is turned upon itself: Squares of slanted light in a sea of ceiling tiles. Make room for day-dulled carpet, have corporate care, as upside-down photons bounce a dangerous dance. More care, the flickering glow of filtered light earned no chance, no right to cast a competitive glow. Nature eschews the corporate face, and with sartorial grace – Traces the source of rays to the faces of the windowed cars. The wild light beams this parody from the clouded skies: A reminder that beauty can even be on February clouded days. Collude with cars, slanting through glossed curved wings – From sky to wings, through glazed things, to clear, bore through This Brownian Corporate air. Simon Huggins, 7th March 2002

War is the greatest paradox: You fight without knowledge - You have to take a stand on something you cannot decide. You fight for the people when people you kill. You fight for peace through pieces of human death; through the noise of the cannons - and fight for the silence of the enemy's breath. Peace at last. How can you die when glory lives on? - A glorious victory until the enemies one. Where is the meaning in death for the integrity of beliefs if you don't even know why those beliefs were brought into being? Human Being. Being Dead. Right. - Simon Huggins, 22nd February 2002

Buses allow you to float amongst the soothing babble of streams of consciousness shared, float and share their dreams, release; woes pared down with the calming chatter. Cold rain batters the embracing cage but breath condenses the chatter and soothes the rage, group incandescent in our shared release, the driver takes responsibility away, we sit but mindful only of our stop, Driver says Goodbye, we're fit to face life, but prop-dropped. - Simon Huggins, 19th February 2002