Wednesday, 12 September 2018

Challenging Times in Many Ways.

Daemon Drink. Drunk Daemon.

The lost daemon walked through the street,
Quite unaware of who he'd meet,
Who he'd influence and who he'd greet,
Couldn't say whether to rob or treat.

The bar sold him a potent shot,
A few more, and he felt hot,
He spoke to us really quite a lot,
But mostly it just seemed total rot.

The things he sang of, in weirdish sound,
About the crazy colours in this world he'd found,
of how he felt safer underground,
Where reality sometimes dances round.

He killed me slowly, but I felt no pain,
Something to do with me being sane,
I can't say just what he gained,
But it cured my streak of being vain.

I bought a man's drink for this man,
Well you have to do what you can,
just a part of some master plan,
Some walk-on part for Desperate Dan.

Could you tell me if the daemon's real,
Could you tell me how to steal,
What to think and what to feel,
Why not to eat old orange peel.

He raced it down and looked at me,
"Do you dream of what it is to be,
So utterly and completely free ?"
His eyes lost any hint of glee.

"I'd tell you my friend, if I could,
But maybe just knowledge isn't good,
I thought you might have understood,
Pure freedom may cause bad blood."

He ranted on and I lost my mind,
I tried to forgive myself for being kind,
My shattered head was not lead-lined,
Now I eat naught else but bacon-rind.

The day drew on and we left him there,
To figure out things like "How," and "Where ?"
I laughed and said I didn't care,
How it was he could walk on air.

The lost daemon drunk in the inn,
Contemplating what we mean by sin,
Feeling fat, but looking thin,
From drunk ear to ear, a cheesey grin.


Delighted with new friend games-master
Delighted to speak her new names.
We lumbered through, the night drunken stars.
We strayed through forbidden ground,
And collapsed in laughter at none-sense of it all.

Insane mimes to undress the hour,
Touch and mental blasting, a silent message,

(Will you touch me mute one ?)

Hold me in impressive alien clutches,
And will you briefly, wantonly, love me ?
Temporary, want me.

Sinking beers in memory trance states,
Comparing tall-stories for the sake of unborn loves,
Unborn fire-raisers,

Do you remember the bizarre night,
With touristic motiveless behaviours ?
Preconditioned intent,
Not to relent,
Time, well spent ?

Did I drown in language-less love ?
Did we kill ourselves laughing ?

User, abuser, child bird and thief,
Still finds it hard to get some relief,
And remembers well the wordless word games,
Miming to the stranded victim,
Of a stuckfast tongue,
"Here, this is my bower,
My bed, my tower."

"Come stay with me, and
We will see, what may happen."

Have You ?

You have my address,
Have you got my child ?

A word, on a spite-grape-vine,
Tells me nothing that I can rely on,
That tomorrow the sun won't shine,
And that I'm well out of the carry-on.

You have turned from your ma,
And followed a crazed welsh star.

I wrote, well once, I thought enough,
I almost picked on the telephone,
But you know I was not so tough,
And left, to make it alone.

Baby girl, with a heart so fay,
Did you take our child away ?

I cannot think straight and so stop,
I couldn't cope with bizarro love,
The nanny with removed, detached scream,
Holds my imagined kid, in imagined glove.

You have my address,
Have you got my child ?

Headlong In The Maze.

The wild bird is a bagatelle ball,
The joker played against a royal flush,
Some new way of seeing things,
As your jest brings a serene blush.

Your playful jibe, at rock and roll stars,
Was lost in dead ears of baby girls,
Who laughed and refused the photographer,
Who only sometimes goes to dive for pearls.

Strait-jacketed judge, who bought the booze,
Flew foamless at the sofa without a song,
And we played poker 'til the sun rose,
We couldn't leave him you see, not for long.

I broke fast with the motorcycle disciple,
The guy you know who eats grey foals,
Read photographic albums of his new wife,
And fell headlong drunk into the coals.

Then Jim came, to rescue the kids,
And we all shook hands solemn, with the dead,
He spoke soft poison, fat old words,
And then left us to go to bed.

But the bird has eluded us all,
And this card game has done my brain,
Slow realisation that I p'raps missed my chance,
Now left imprisoned in the open, the sane.


How Droll.

Herein hereabouts one may hope to find,
A corner unwashed in the shadows of your mind,
And the secret desire for more,
Just for the very knowledge that there is more.

Barking at rugskinned hippy soap heretics,
The silent woman stole your soul,
I stole your billfold,
And the girls stole your ability to care.

How we laughed.
I wonder what could have happened to the girls.

Touching the china fragile shell of your love,
Your inner heat and longings, your self,
I shatter this of mine and sink into you,
And we live alive in love and in each other.

How ridiculous,
The clown has no soul,
No feelings.
No tears.

The next day the day after this,
I find myself remembering,
How we loved to kiss,
Without all this pretending.

The morning came bursting into my dreams,
And for some crazy damned reason,
She still lay there like a helpless waif,
Oh good god the weakness he feels.

As the caller hears no good news,
It is decided not to call today,
Somehow it would be rude to refuse,
To simply walk away.

We laughed til it hurt,
Until the tears rolled down our cheeks,
And we split our sides,
How droll.

In School.

Walking around the old place,
I half expected to meet me coming out,
The same eyes in the same face,
Same furrowed look, so full of doubt.

What to say to the poor dumb kid ?
No advice could be enough to hear,
I only did the dumb things he did,
He'll only do them anyway I fear.

A couple of photos, to clarify the memori,
To put dimension, to a shakey place,
Walking like an invisible ghost, of my sensori,
Then leaving slowly, as he lowers his face.

I Don't Do Comedy.

I don't do comedy,

I was asked to come here...
But funnily enough,
Not by anyone who's actually here now.

I was going to write something for tonight,
And I waited all last night
For "inspiration"

And I waited
And I waited,

And it came to half past ten,

No big flashes,
No bodice-ripping head blowing moments,


And then it got to twenty to...

So I rolled a little combination,

And everso poetically,

Slipped headlong mud slidingly, anarchically, frenzied sinew tearingly, obliquely and wantonly, eerily moodily, through emotion mirrors and blank faced bar black sheepedly, through towering fuck vistas and across chasms of self effacing humility, soaring like titanic wheeling arched god sirens with wings of platinum and silk,

to the pub.

 The Anarchy Clown.

Come here my friend, and I'll introduce
The anarchy-clown, who's name I forget.
Sit down with us, and just cut loose,
Shelve all idea of false regret.

The anarchist in our midst,
Is very rarely seen,
Seldom seen, and never missed,
But you know when he's been.

False impressions of a crazy scheme,
To spread the world on a canvas.
Its not the thought, its just the dream,
Its just a whiff of laughing gas.

The anarchist is in our midst,
He's very rarely seen,
Seldom seen and never missed,
I'll tell you when he's been.

Jeez, I wish that all this was okay,
I guess I've wished too much you know.
Some how I just need to get away,
To a place where life is slow.

But anarchy-gorilla in our midst,
is a scary dream,
Seldom dreamed and never missed,
But you know that I've been.

Oh my friend, hang on here awhile,
And play a curious game with us two.
What do you mean "Anarchy's out of style." ?
Well, you're not entitled to a view.

Anarchy in the mist,
Can hardly ever be seen,
But please, you get the gist,
I knew you weren't so green.

Sunday Afternoon

Passionate strains of 'Jerusalem'...
Then 'Rule Britannia'
En chorus,
Come over the oak tops, into the garden.

Strangely incongruous,
With brass, and power,
With love, with pride...

A step too fast?

No matter,

The pigeons, tits, woodpeckers and owls,
Take up the silent pause,
And chatter, with swishing woodland accompaniment

And the honk, honk, honk of the old crow.

The busy wren curses the sleepy cat,
As the washing dries and the grass grows.

The occasional rattle of the gate against it's keeper.

As the band hit the Land of (the) Hope and (the) Glory,
A dog barks, and the trees swish on.

How English,
Misplaced passion, or true,
Incongruous chorus

On a lazy Sunday afternoon,
With tea.

Mostly Jazz Apathy.

Faces in the window light,
Smoky room and thoughts of mourning,
Drifting minds and eyes, no whites,
Speech with no real reasoning.

The silent jazz man, forlorn sax,
Ponders depressing thoughts of gloom,
The blues ideas seized up in wax,
Pervade the floor space of this room.

Mouths are moving, shifting words,
To stopped up ears, all talk, no hearing,
Senseless chattering, flightless birds,
Gathered round a smoky clearing.

Apathetic energetic non starters,
Drink black coffee, bemoan their fate,
Apathy devil, for their souls he barters,
Closed minds and eyes, a touch too late.

I say let the devil take you,
As you've lost the will to fight,
You cant be bothered, the lord forsake you,
No-feature faces, boring light.

No jolly little quip this time, sorry, it's a challenging time.
There is little rhyme, and less reason as to why I chose these particular pieces, and I can offer no explanation, or hints of hidden messages, as there are none.

Happy September one and all.

PLEASE DO SHARE if you can be arsed.....

My audience is up to 12 now, so I must be doing something right.........................................!

Friday, 31 August 2018

Ending and Beginning. Omega and Alpha.

Kettle’s On….

And then the tiny ‘te ching’ of the heater, the ‘sss’ of the kettle on the stove, the crunch of the heart on warm shale.


Missions to other dimensions of stupid wisdoms = ˚45

But my love is far from obtuse.

I hope closer to tuse.

And to wisdom, though far from my judgement and closer than yours it seems,

Through this kaleidoscope/telescope, camera

Crappy old recycled papered sketchpad

It seems.

It sometimes seems, beyond Danny, beyond Carl, beyond Mama Mia, both and less,
Beyond me, and before.

Close inspections, microscopic interventions, and a nudge to the wise.

Too much wisdom blinds the self-obsessed Djin.

And his smoke/mirror entrapments for you, and all of your dreams,
Passported to just anywhere.



The Empty House Of Janus.

The chained door to the empty house,
That isn't, containing

A wolf, a jackal, a cow, a cat, and clown,

Janus should be the master,
For the number of faces is more than one,
Per body.

The silent dark, without,
The silence within,

Contained within is the prismic soul,
Of the clown,
The anarchy clown of this circus,
The circus of deaf fools.

There is but one within the unchained house,
But one, but one what ?
Many-faceted, many lives,

Not truly the nine of the cat,
Nor the sacred cow,
Nor the unfeeling wolf,
Nor the false-humoured clown,
But just one.

The chain keeps them all out,
And all of the one within,
Away from the world.

Janus looks down from the door,
Patron of travelers, and me.

Static on the carpet of this circus,
Static in my solitude.

The empty house holds the wolf within,
And in my ears echoes
His lonely howl.

More Birdsong.

And then the moon sung me a song,
Not a terribly good one its true,
But she told me I'd been all wrong,
Was never really meant for you.

But my sun-god argued my corner,
Saying that I shouldn't hang back,
But he can't see the doubts adorn her,
Or the moon concealed in black.

I could still hear her faint words,
Coming through the evening air,
If you decide to go hunting birds,
Do you think it should be fair ?

I laughed and caught the tune she'd thrown,
I knew that you were only an air,
I whistled it round, then up and down,
And knew then I didn't care.

(Fairly sure I've already posted this, but hey...)

Perceiving You.

How do you see me ?

I see me as

A lunatic sitting dribbling insanity
From your motorway bridge
Onto the fast executive.

There was a dead Ent in the river.......I was surprised, as I had no idea there were any around here.

Snippet of Conversation.

My eyes burned the skin beneath,
The hidden layer of living.

My eyes char, and you flame,
I guess this is my way of giving.

The cat purrs, the clock ticks,
I slumber in the after-glow,
Last night is so far behind,
I just thought you ought to know.

My eyes fall out as you tell me,
That there's something I should hear.

The promise somehow remains unworded,
Hidden by protests, driven by fear.

You hurt, I hurt, perhaps the cat does too,
Who knows about allaying love ?

My Confession......*

*  I've been Blackberrying...... Made a Blackberry & Apple Gin variant.....not sure if it's going to be any good, but as I'm not a Gin drinker, it can only be an improvement......

* I'm not a murderer.

Infectious Laughter.

Fill me with your bastard fire,
Where it hurts most,
Deepest burning pain of
Guilt senseless infection of
A false lovers' life.

False words filled with deep truth,
And a crucified sex-life,
I died in three whole weeks,
And your telephone,
Couldn't just do that to you.

Love you, hate you,
Its not the same as real life:

Real life, pain and highs,
I died once more between your thighs,
Fell drowning out of your eyes,
And never believed my own lies.

And the paradox that faces us,
Who has been astray ?

I drove a thousand miles,
To your house and back,
To see the fire and to die,
To watch satellite shite,
And to catch a bastard truth.

Neither of us really believes the other,
And I'm the one with an
Imaginary bastard fire
In my imaginary bastard loins.

It rains, so ? less often, never more than,

Who gives a toss ?

I sleep in pain, next to your
Clean and poisonous motherhood.

NEVER EVER USE "Not Waving, Drowning"


All because of a fabulous old Public Service Film in the 70s......

Every would-be poet since has used it, no really, even if they don't admit it, it was such a powerful image..... So, here's mine:

Image Of A Drowning Man.

Heavy storm, high sea,
Falling rain.
An open scream.
Salt water.

"Hey luv, that man's waving !"

In the queue for the check out,
Domestic tensions mount.
Scaling inclined fears,
Tiers to a theatre.

Pounding head and pulse,
Hand puts change and tickets
In the opposum's purse.
The climax brings more silence.

Image of a burned
A burned out car.
A dead baby,
Heavy storm,
High seas,
A brother's scream.

Salt water
Brine for the dying.
Infusion for the spiritual,
And death to the drowning.

"Hey luv, that man's waving !"

Poor White Girl On Loads.

What do you think they'll call you
Twenty years from now ?

Wild child, you're such a child,
Your eyes made black
As is your style,
Your nose is full of bitterness,
Taken through a straw,
Wander in you wilderness,
Who could ask for more ?

The car stops and out you get,
You don't know who nor where,
But some promise your appetite has whet,
And so, abandon care.

No cash, no sleep, no lifestyle,
Or one I can cope without,
Empty stomach, churns up bile,
I think you won that bout.

Wild child, a flawed model girl,
Did he promise you the world ?

Or just more dope to stop your mind ?
Do you think I'm so unkind
To tease you back to reality ?

Sense and sensibility,
Bright and capability,
But senseless death will knock,
Knock, let him in.

What the hell do you think you'll be
Twenty minutes from now ?

My Rose cuttings......not terribly promising, but they're not dead.........5 reds & one white/pink.......

My last post got 11 views.....and I bet at least one of those was me. I won't give up though, some were way over 50........sheer bloody mindedness is keeping me going..........

Feel free to share though, if you're in any poetry groups or anything......

Happy Friday all 8/9/10 of you.......

Tuesday, 14 August 2018

Last of the Old Scans

Brace yourselves.....

Roughly 20 old scans, though it scares me that we're still way into 3 figures before the decks are totally "cleared"......

Here we go.....

No theme, no logic, just me


 I am sort of pretty embarrassed by this one to be fair, though I swear on my life that my limited exposure to Mr Shakespeare didn't include it......but I must have heard something similar never dared to pretend it actually was "mine" even though I can't explain it.....