Posted on in Updates

Inimitable, incorrigible! or, Greetings from Bangkok

Hi everybody. There are two more pieces to read in my Substack publication, My Special Interest.

‘Ceremony of Innocence’ (readable here) takes its name from W B Yeats’ poem ‘The Second Coming’. It’s a chonky essay about the origins of astrology and astronomy, and archaeological evidence that suggests (often very strongly) that human beings have been tracking the movements of the stars, and reading into those movements, for longer than we’ve been doing just about anything else. In other words, astrology may be one of the things that makes us human, and one of very few practices that unite cultures throughout history, and all over the world.

The most recent upload leads with a slightly provocative question: Was Jesus of Nazareth Autistic? (click here to read it) This question isn’t definitively answerable, but that’s not the point. Thinking about the idea that one of the most significant literary-historical figures in all of human history was in fact neurodiverse, in some way, can actually be very interesting. This piece was informed by my reading three texts – a novel, a nonfiction book, and an academic article about the role of “collaborative morality” in the “emergence of personality variation and autistic traits”.

In other news, I’m back in Bangkok, staying in a wonderful flat with three Frenchmen, in the room of a friend I met first in Ukraine, in the village of Polyanytsya, in the gorgeous Carpathian Mountains. It’s good to be here, among friends old and new. Today, I baked bread and chocolate chip cookies, and drank wheat beer in the afternoon. I also went to the gym in the morning, but only managed about 30 minutes before I was too sweaty to touch anything. It’s hot season in Thailand. Next week I’ll start my massage therapy course, and the week after that is the biggest holiday in the Thai calendar: Songkran, aka Thai New Year.

I’ll leave you, just for the stinking hell of it, with a video of the inimitable Tom Waits reading a poem by the incorrigible Charles Bukowski. See you when I see you! X

Posted on in Articles, Fiction

Substack

Hello, team. I have launched a publication on Substack. The name of the publication My Special Interest. The idea is to get sh*t on the page, or get whatever’s already on the page out into the open. Otherwise it will sit and gather dust, and My Special Interest is not about gathering dust. It is about the joy of learning, leaning in, and turning towards.

I will keep putting stuff on ONURBICYCLE. It will continue to be a personal blog for ditties, poems, short stories, articles, and updates about the trip. Some of what goes on Substack will also go here, possibly in abridged form. The Substack publication is specifically for longer form nonfiction pieces on a range subjects including early religion, myth, UFOs, messianism/environmentalism, and meditation/consciousness – and short pieces of fiction relating to the life of Jesus and other much-mythologised figures.

It is/will be an ongoing project, and I invite any and all contributions, ideas and feedback.

I just posted an introduction to the publication, which you can find here. The publication link for My Special Interest is here. The first instalment follows!

Mary tells Joseph

Mary blinked lightly in the silence. Wood dust hung in the air – he hadn’t cleaned. Joseph, her husband-to-be, a carpenter with hands heavy and thick with scars, heaved his body up from the table and, rising, caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that hung on the wall, darkwood-framed. His eyes were wet and confused. The familiar fire grew inside him, the thirst. He longed for a tonic, a brew, something to dull the senses.

‘We made a vow,’ he said, his voice breaking, ‘both of us. You betrothed yourself to me.’

‘And you to me,’ she said. Mary wept. She understood. She couldn’t explain it any better than she already had. It sounded absurd, and yet there it was.

His mind raced through possibilities she had already considered. They would have to divorce; their betrothal was legally binding. A baby would bring scandal and ruin. Worse still, without his protection, she would be regarded as an adultress. Justice would stone her to death. Joseph continued to watch himself in the mirror, felt the temperature rise inside his chest. He saw what would become of him.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ His eyes searched for hers.

‘I’m four months along, only,’ she said. ‘He told me to go.’ He, Him. And before Joseph could say anything, ‘Elizabeth is pregnant too.’

‘Elizabeth?’ He turned to face her. Mary looked up from the table. She had been carving it nervously with her fingernails and now, meeting her partner’s gaze, she picked clumps of wood out from underneath them. In the orange glow of a modest fire he shone like a demigod, trembling with rage.

‘Joseph, I told you where I was going. Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten.’ But they were getting off topic. ‘I know it’s hard to believe.’

‘Not only for me,’ he reminded her.

‘I know.’ She did know. It had taken her long enough – of course she’d denied it, but that was before it had become a physical thing, tangible, with legs. She dreaded to think of the neighbours. ‘But they will,’ she said, ‘believe, I mean,’ as much to try to convince herself as to win him over. ‘If I tell them and you tell them, soon enough they will. The one who told me said he is to be great.’

‘And you believed it?’

‘I gave my consent, didn’t I?’

‘Did you? Didn’t you? What do I know?’ Joseph was incredulous. ‘What if you hadn’t?’ he wanted to know. ‘What if you had said “no”?’

‘To God?’

But that wasn’t the point. So when each went to bed that night in separate beds, under different roofs, it was he who faced a choice. She had already made hers.

Five months later, surrounded by shepherds, farm animals and magi, Mary gave birth to a boy. She wrapped him in swaddling bands and named him Jesus.

Posted on in Cambodia, Poems

The train to Kampot

People going through things, I salute you. Here’s a short poem.

The train to Kampot has teal cushions
but you might call them green, or blue.
On its way out of town it passes
all the colours and flavours of Phnom Penh:
a critical mass of scooters and remorques,
old men poking around in heaps of plastic,
women in patterned skirts dutifully sweeping
their patios, young men in livery
eating breakfast from tin bowls,
wrecks of cars buried under layers of dust,
occasional smooth stretches of road,
overgrown waterways, plumes of smoke
carrying the scent of grilling pork and bananas,
billboards advertising “premium German beer”,
white-plastered low-rises,
slum communities clustered around the tracks,
dogs hollering their responses
to the locomotive’s incessant blasting horn,
and everyone watching the windows of the train,
making half-closed-eye contact
with the passengers as we rattle and scrape on by.
Until, at last, the buildings give way to Cambodia’s
sun-baked flatlands, ridged by endless
water management systems and scrubbed clean
by the tongues of thirsty cows.

Posted on in Poems

The end

Quick intro: This is a poem I wrote a long time ago. Like, 10 years ago. I was 19, a spring chicken, and on my very first bicycle tour (London – Paris – Luxembourg City – Aachen – Maastricht – Brussels – Calais – London), which I was not psychologically prepared for but which I do not regret one jot, as it planted me on the path I’m on today. When I was performing at/organising spoken word events in London as a student, this is the poem I read the most. It has a dear place in my heart. The reason I’m uploading it now is because I reached into the psychic archives last night and performed it at a lovely open mic night (with a poetic focus) in Bangkok, organised by Lyrical Lunacy, and multiple audience members requested I send them a copy!!!!! Which is a very nice thing. I had also brought along a small handful of zines of my reality TV poems and cycling poems and they all went to new homes. So anyway, here it is. And I’ll be writing in more detail about the event for The Friday Poem (link to website). Eyes peeled.

The end

Let’s think about the end, right,
because the end is in sight
and try as you might, you can’t turn back…
from the old school unlimited or sunset riveting 
patchwork of life as it rushes past your eyes,
so don’t forget the images, the undulating symmetry, 
the catastrophic syzygy that comes from being there till the end.

And maybe the end is not so bad,
not full of all that stuff that made you sad:
maybe it’s all the opportunities that you never had,
to be lived through by tapestry—
so what, it’s a two-dimensional artistry,
it’s full of life and movement and energy
and whether it be the life of me 
or the death of you it is infinite, like me and you.

Maybe the end is light bulbs,
or a thousand Roman candles and eureka in the dead night of the south pole.
Maybe the end is dim blue skies,
or shortened school-ties,
or black grass forever spiking and leaning into soft lines,
doctrines comprising the eternally wise
and packing it all down into three little lies.
Or ten big lies, set down in stony hypocrisy.
Maybe the end is mediocrity,
swings and roundabouts, and everything it ought to be.

Maybe the end is coiled like a spring
and biding its time until bade ‘come, sing’;
maybe seven deaths in all and nails bitten to the clear,
wicks lined for the squad-
cars boxed for slaughter or
punctured lambs bleating ‘hurrah’ for the eternal,
bleeding hurrah for the end
with beady eyes beating, too far from home;
maybe silhouetted husks, or stuck in a rut, 
bathed in the brine of a sun so fine
and holding onto tears of light
that once made you cry but now make you strong like the trees.
You can live in peace if you choose to seek and kind and mindful way to be.

Maybe turbulence,
maybe extravagance,
maybe champagne on silver and no need for the ambulance
because you’re almost there with bubbles galore
and there’s ecstasy all over the floor.
All your morbid memories are replaced with exotic delicacies—
you’re Superman or Peter Pan
and whatever people say you are, that’s what you’re not.
You’re bursting through these eyeball phases
and racing through countless powdery places
and what’s at the end but your own sins and graces?
What’s at the end but the smell of fifty million dead cigars,
a trip round New York and volcanic jazz?

Maybe the end is three weeks on the road
with nowhere to go but among strangers and strange lights.
(or on a bicycle in Bangkok, performing your poems despite stage fright)

Maybe the end is ego death, going back for a chat with Socrates,
a lapse in the continuity and serving a crystal Mephistopheles,
the repetition of stars and lights and not being able to get it right,
you look for God but he’s not in sight and suddenly you’re on your knees.

And maybe, absolutely, indefinitely, it’s not so bad –
not full of all that stuff that made you sad.
Maybe it’s all the opportunities that you never had.
So don’t forget the images,
the undulating symmetry,
the catastrophic syzygy that comes from being there till the end.

*

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Posted on in Poems

Odysseus’ final battle

With chainmail leggings and an Iron Shirt
or a faux leather catsuit. Clean wet dirt

to coat his skin. No need for a gun:
an elephant wetted against the sun. 

Cardboard armour in concertinas
and kevlar, fat with carabiners. 

Two-litre bottles sliced into tubes
(but so they didn’t catch he used water-based lube),

holes plugged with Extra. He filled all the gaps
with expanding foam and booby traps.

He was indefatigable until he saw the
size of the swarm, so rang out his order:

Coat me with acid. Leave no stone unturned
Deliver me peace, for all that I’ve earned.

Cut off my arms and sever my feet.
Suck out my blood and replace it with Deet.

Posted on in Poems

Blood and oil

Vladimir Putin but not riding a bear
Volodymyr Zelenskyy, two Ys, getting spellings right, 
that Yale lecturer who talks about Ukrainian history, Timothy Snyder – or Snider?
The Syrian leader with the forehead, Assad, no, his father Assad, very top-heavy
Conservative MPs Damian Green and Bob Stewart, of Ashford and Beckenham respectively
My old MP was a doctor, she was popular until her colour changed, when she defected
Same goes for Christian Wakeford, although he’s not a doctor
Is he?
Not a doctor, not a doctor
Dad’s a doctor. Wakeford––
Same surname as him I sat next to in A Level maths. Shane. Rugby lad
Kwasi Kwarteng is sure to go, an alliterative name
Nigel Lawson’s got nearly the same name as his daughter
mee-crow-wah-vay
Uh oh, not Nigella
Gary Neville’s dad’s called Neville Neville. What were they thinking?
Sr, Jr, II, III
Lorelai and Lorelai Gilmore, onwards ad infinitum
… Donald Trump’s tiny hands, Barack Obama’s propensity for bomb-dropping, 
the Supreme Court’s decision to overturn Roe v Wade
What has the world come to? Elon ‘African American’ Musk buying Twitter
Ron DeSantis being sanctimonious, or loving meatballs
This lady getting dangerously close, almost as if she wants me to think
Nigella Nigella Nigella
Fish finger bhorta causing consternation among the ranks
Smell of Maldive fish – a spice, therefore not considered to be actual meat 
among beachfront restaurateurs of southern Sri Lanka
Eating barbecued sheep meat off the floor, drunk, craving flesh
Chicken fajitas cooked by the Israeli boys
They used to speak to me in Hebrew while I surfed. Israelis in general, that is, 
not Ram and Amir
Asked me why we were going to Israel. Ram and Amir, that is, 
not Israelis in general
Same as what that Lebanese woman said in Beirut. ‘You wouldn’t go to a zoo’
Which sounds very different depending on what you know about who says it
… Milkshakes made with Milo
Coconuts scraped with love
That terrible bar
Snakes, lizards and spiders called scorpions
The sound of the sea
The sound of the fan
The sound of the fan in the room with the lady masseuse, wearing only a towel and thinking
Nigella, Bonjela, measles, rubella,
It’s over, I made it, time to go.

Posted on in Poems

More than Saudi Arabia but fewer than Mexico

Dense with deep brown air,
coldness emanating from within.
Beast belly brooding, brewing.

One for every two 
hundred and seventy-four thousand, two 
hundred and twenty-two people,

give or take. Call them oases 
or corporate quagmires,
spaces you can be dressed

in more than a T-shirt.
Feel your breath be conditioned as it leaves;
rub shoulders with the twin-tailed mermaid.

Lower yourself into darkness, eat
with your fingers, your wallet, your planet.
Drink identically and nearly caffeine-free in 70 countries.

Dip yourself in syrup, insulated from real life.
And when they call your name – Bernard – do not correct them. 
Forget yourself, one cup at a time.

Posted on in Poems

Pie

Written some time ago with my brother, Inigo

I want a large macchiato, 
2 lattes,
sweet and salty popcorns,
979 big or fat apricots with stacks of corned beef pie, 
hot tortilla cut in circles,
omelettes 50 by 8 furlongs deep,
a blackberry crumble,
a garlic ciabatta
and dumplings.

FYI: there’s something to ‘get’ here, but I don’t want to spell it out, because that spoils the fun. The clues are all there.

Posted on in Poems, Uncategorized

Knock-kneed and coughing

We went for a walk through the trees up the hill by the beach.
The sun was in the sky, I didn’t want to underestimate the heat.
We drank all of the water that we’d brought up to the top, we could feel
our temperatures were on the rise and we were still an hour from the lee.
And when I called your name I couldn’t hear it – you were caught inside a dream.

Dying of thirst on a mountain in Abra de Ilog
is hardly a 51st date idea to make me nod.
We hadn’t told anyone where we were going – gleeful
and gung-ho, we’d swapped all our caution for portions of bihon.
What made matters worse were the warnings of poisonous tree frogs.

On the track running flat from the waterfall, close to the zenith,
we paused by a series of bushes all laden with berries.
Then out from behind came a noise that filled us with terror –
we didn’t agree on exactly what thing it resembled
but that didn’t matter. We ran with our tails tucked between us.

Down through the brown and the green of the jungle we clattered,
thrashing and pelting, devil may care as we batted
our eyelids, twisted our hands into shapes, concertinaed
like Mexican waves as we crashed in a heap to be seated
at last on the carabao grass, sore-bummed and weakened.

Our water out and armpits more than fusty,
the sundry jungle smells mixing with must, we
saw, in winter boots, its nappy chunky,
leg up but hardly proud, a collared husky,
its owner, clad in sliders, making duck face.

FYI: Abra de Ilog is in the Philippines, on the northern edge of Mindoro, which is the island south of Luzon (where the capital is). Frequently, in Manila and other parts of the country, you’ll see dogs that may once, in lives long past, have been ferocious, or at least able to look after themselves, but which, as they’re being trundled about the mall in a baby’s pram, or as they wait patiently outside Auntie Annie’s in their lickle fluffy boots, seem completely removed from the evolutionary process. And yes, you’ll see them even on hikes where dehydration has made your life flash languidly before your eyes, and you will feel, in that moment, even more pathetic than them. Oh, and the title is from ‘Dulce et Decorum est’, a Wilfred Owen poem about the First World War. Thanks for reading!