Thursday, 17 August 2017

When the Adventure Stops





Albine-Gamesman.

His longest surviving friend
Is a mad albino, well, intense.

Precocious ? Presumptuous, perhaps
Imperfect, and only human.

He's only human after all.

He had no parents that we knew of.
No pets, no books, no T.V.
No need to feed a craving,

Well, perhaps ignoring that,
Eyes, lightly pink-lidded,
And deeper than forever.

His longest surviving period of insanity,
Shows no sign of ending.
No time for new befriending.

Like a sad pair of war veterans,
Waiving the medals for sad pride.
Watching the parade, drunk and intense.

Wavering down dark alleys, bomb alleys.

Albino boy and pitch-tanned friend,
Speaking no audible, or credible words,
Singing whalesong-chants in liquor haze.

And we could see they are only human,
Probably, perhaps its just possible that,
When the sun dissolves, they turn into cats,
And prowl, concentrating on hunting hobby,

Eating the liquid souls of girls,
Predatorial selection, no game, no rules.



Blue Rope


Four times the length of your love,
The ropes that bound us in greener times

Four times the drop, to be human,
To eat from platters proffered,
To struggle back towards the home fires.
Smouldering.

Four times you sent me
No times did I ever doubt
My loved return.

The post-apocalypse nightmare, recurring.

We always wake before we connect,
We approach and dance with death, and happy times.

The rope is blue, a trucker’s throw-away,
But you’ll kill me for love no matter
If it was red.

Four times I crossed the line, told you five,
Too drunk to count.

Situation normal honey, broken plates.

Full of doubt and this human struggle
To my own apocalypse.

Four bloody times.



The Cygnet And The Fox.


Anew the cygnet attempts to rise,
The strength gone, but spirit there,
And the foxes determination is
Matched only,
By the pen's anger and
Fatal rebuttal and
Defence of family freedom.

Your shopping wire basket love carries
So much static,
Many shocks.

And serves to focus no vision of
What we could have been.
Cygnet, you escaped this time,
But beware the shadows of
The lonely fox's sons.



Selected Views.

No time
No doubt

Dense mist descends
Befriends

Lends
Cosy sense of security
Purity

Erasing world views
To pews
Of oaken-seated
Gothic splendour

And vendor
Of christian dreams of Eden
And faint
Musty
Old stone
Church smell
Mingles with
Damp moss

No time
No doubt

No time to try
To see

Without vision
Derision of sense
By
Withholding views.



Monday, 14 August 2017

Extremely Dark Time

Usual caveat applies.


My brain stopped, a week ago, though it was noticeably skiddy before that, to be honest.

This is me on auto, while trying not to offend, and wondering why.

Here are some pictures....


 
Air Fingerprints

Out of the magnificent warm dark windy
Strange sounds of infinitely industrial prayer
Non-nature ghost of process past in distant mills
And unidentity, queer aromas, airs of making
Destroying these eyes with spectral memory
Of chemical moment and gravity, and rabbits
Downwind from this odd airy fingerprint
A walking lecture of past revolution progress
Removed guilty magnificence in our own eyes
Cast useless as far into the dark as yesterday
Turning back to windier chemical conversations
Lost translations, just sounds, love and poison
Upwind, upstream with waterfall magnificence



 
Drying Out.


Dry, skull full of crisp leaf memory,
Wrung out and left to air,
Four, five days now.


How fierce comes unimagined sphere,
Where once we flew though dream prairies,
And thought we were the only ones.


All wrung out, mangled and hung,
On lines of respectable responses,
To this tapestry, to this life.




It appears that there are several options for aspect ratios on the camera, so I have tried to play/learn about them a bit. First by reading, then by ignoring most of what I read....(situation normal there then...) then by just trying. 1:1 as in square, and 16:9, as in what you might think of as "widescreen"....

My line of thinking though is that the camera sensor remains the same, so that the only thing that actually changes is the way the (already-cropped) sensor creates these options can only be by cropping again before saving each image...so when I first read about it, and dabbled, I gave it up as a bad job, and stuck with the common, all-garden 4:3...after playing a bit this weekend I am now not so sure, as for a start, a square picture takes a bit of thinking about when composing the frame...

Remember those old polaroids you used to see? All square.

I might change my mind and go back to 4:3, but for now have to say that these few have really made me rethink my attitude to the whole subject.......


Random YouTube insert, as it's what I'm listening to while I write this....



 
Thought Fog


Heavy woollen water pressure
Slow plastic oil weight
Behind scalp between ears
Inside temples boiling slowly
Coolly waxy muffled moment
Plastic thought too, heavy times
Ooze around this hollow skull
Numb fluid crude pressure
Invading will to live
To disempower slow warmth
Paraffin residue seeps in dreams
Brain death plastic suffocation
Clearer on frosty mornings
Thought fog, no drugs.



Factory Shithouse.


KLE-DUNK, KLE-DUNK, KLE-DUNK,
Clink, clink, clink, clink,

Dickensian workhouse setting.

Machines of Dali, and now mine.


A smoke-filled shithouse,
Next to the heaviest machine of all,
Driven by the token negro,
Employed, not just as statistic.

Within the smoky chambers,
Newly decorated with asylum green,
(First time since nineteen-sixteen.)
The chains swing from filthy cisterns.

KLE-DUNK, KLE-DUNK, KLE-DUNK, KLE-DUNK,

You light your fag and wish
For the peace of mind that eludes,
Rudely cast-forth noised interludes.


Heavy processes shake this shaky poe,
Above, clean offices, here below to find
Girly magazines secreted on top of tanks,
Grimy secreted within, and without care.

Shifty eyes, too loud to converse,
To reverse the process and cancel all,
To dream of lucid moments, of booze,
Lost once more, in industrial loos.
 

And when keeping your eyes open for inspiration as to how you fit in the world, and looking for a "sign" to help in that...don't go to our local woods and see  what the council think you should do.....

 
 No bloody help at all......
 

 


This one might do, for now......

Right now, life is shit, but there are always the woods, and the moors,
 and the remote places to go get lost in.... 

Sunday, 30 July 2017

Horn of the Hunter

Thursday, 27 July 2017

Whitesnake Had That One Song.

Well, many, many actually.




Cloudy satellite


Fifty million million million years ago, give or take
You shot your love out into my cosmos…

Comet-like, but faster, harder

Encompassing.

Enthralling & scary too.



My sub-cold/beyond icy, satellite picks up vague sub-space whispers a million billion

Years


Lives later.



Barefoot, with dressing-gown & tobacco

I watch the pulses of your love





Permanent & irrevocable


Through a slightly cloudy & hazy winter’s late evening,

With whisky.

With deep longing & a strange numb left arm feeling, non-feeling, that

It all should be evolutionary, and in a lovely starlit, cloudy way



It’s faster and harder than the chromium shell of my vague but sincere satellite.



Out of whisky, out of tobacco, but never ever out of my love for you.



It's late July, this is still not going to become a personal blog, as such, though everything in it is I suppose technically "personal" seeing as how I snapped, wrote, or created the overwhelming majority of it.

I closed it down, more than once, as my musings and imagination from decades ago rang true contemporarily, as it were, or perhaps better to say contemporaneously, I don't know if that makes more sense..... I made the decision, which I now am going to doubt, that I would politely explain, and be open about everything, and that poetry, and creative writing, as such, came from a mixture of pure imagination, some reality, and dreams, and whiffs of fantasy, nightmares, and not necessarily based on real people, just amalgums of both real and dreams....

If someone can look at a painting, or sculpture, or listen to an orchestral piece, (or to be honest, a punk, heavy metal, acid-jazz, industrial, techno, acid, or even light-pop...etc for that matter)  and imagine the world the artist creates, and of course, see some truth in it, they manage not to get confused over the aim of that stand-alone piece......surely?

Those infamous Sunflowers needed wires to stand up to be painted......really, nothing is real.




Rose Petals Mean Sincerity.


Manic moment passing fancy,
Fanciful idyll and bee-swarm stress,
Momentous duress
Caress,
Undress.

Press your love in my heart,
Wring out doubt and halo light,
Take new delight,
Flight,
Kite.

Maniacal debacle throws scorn down,
Littered in this hollow rugged box-cube,
Where love exhudes,
Hollow moods,
Broods.

Deep down dawn of loving eye,
Flutters about this dreamed return,
Where lights burn,
We learn,
Yearn.

To have and to hold and embrace within,
Two as one meld and weld this boon,
Betroth the moon,
None too soon,
Strewn.



"Our Yahoo Us"


Our Yahoo us “where Twelve tracks monkeys monkeys monkeys
Arts Thermo monkeys mangy mangy man jinked jinked count
Charlie Binn journal angel wings
Bike Minoru McGuinness NIC his unique hairs fabulous arts
But takes but took us
Vendors liggin neck in new York. Making it.
Fairview less Fairview yes by the U.S.
Politics
Straight
Us
Carefully
Carefully
Us
Known
Map
Arts
Gary Jerrys Jim Binn from King twilight you 9,100 open air base (into training

Then backing Bettys
Becky
Kind
Of
Nikki Mack a new
Again
Magic
Mouse Minus minus might be more wary where wall The eight Category N. bloomin
There is a N.
Will
28 Iran
to downright
Down
And if you are not making any then
p


{How mad is that? one of my early attempts with speech recognition, on a computer I don't even own anymore.....If it's late enough, and you read it aloud, in an Irish accent, perhaps, then it kind of leaves some sort of poetic impression in the air.....

....so I kept it....! }



An old gate-post, the walls long gone, but I thought it might have been something even older, and a sign that Yorkshire folk took their version of a really old religion onto the high seas a thousand years before Cook.........and well, fill the gaps in yourself.....


Selected Views.

No time
No doubt

Dense mist descends
Befriends

Lends
Cosy sense of security
Purity

Erasing world views
To pews
Of oaken-seated
Gothic splendour

And vendor
Of christian dreams of Eden
And faint
Musty
Old stone
Church smell
Mingles with
Damp moss

No time
No doubt

No time to try
To see

Without vision
Derision of sense
By
Withholding views.



Always a few early ones.......best leave them to flourish..... This reality isn't anything I want to cling onto right now either way.

I haven't quite closed my FB thing, though only scan it briefly now, and have deleted it from my phone, as it was getting addictive, and upsetting, and depressing. For a couple of weeks now though, I have been this close to just deactivating my account for some proper breathing space. My internal conversations would have made a radio play.........

I am border-line with this blog too, but it's still sort of going, for now......




 

Sunday, 16 July 2017

Hello July, Don't Go, We Missed You....

Dawn in February.


Heavy burned rose skies,
Selflessly carry us into another day,
Sailors warned as darkness lifts,
Light falls to freshly revived still life,
Immaculate but ancient,

And electric trees carry blood for the millions.

Casual investigation upturns the frost,
To heavy dews of this new spring,
To mists on grazing plains,

Wind bushes still and sinister,
To carry unknown life within,
And without words, for none are here,
To hear the first foot falls,
Of nervous commuters and their dreams,

Revealed like startled deer on speed,
And never to fulfill their need,
To hide and then yet to reveal,
Wide eyes at this pleasant dawn.



"Eyes itch"

When your eyes itch a little,
When you feel your brain is mush,
"The whole sky is so brittle."
"Oh Jesus, man, hush."

And the world keeps on turning,
And the night burns away,
And I can't stop you learning,
But I don't know what to say.

I'm about as open as I get,
I've told you all about Mum & Dad,
You've seen as much as I let,
I hope I didn't seem bad.

Oh Lord, I'm so wasted,
I've got to get straightened out,
But its so hard once you've tasted,
Sometimes there's no room to doubt.

And the sun just keeps burning,
And there goes another day,
And you can't stop me yearning,
But I still don't know what to say.

My eyes are itching now again,
And my brain dissolves to mush,
So this is what its like to be sane,
"Oh for God's sake man, hush."

Ideas

Ideas travel, rising up from within,
Viral, sometimes media borne,
No, always media borne,
Rising up from the brain stem,
Passing in and out,
Through hands and pens,
Eyes and mouths,
Books and TV,
Tabloid hysteria.

Ideas travel inwards, and out,
Nesting and nestling, reproducing,
Feeding on your hopes, fears,
Changing you, your aims,
Thoughts and ideas, symbiotic,
But not inseparable,
Not always original,
Probably rarely,
Conscious and not.

I knew, really, you didnt take prisoners,
But was swept away, by promises
of parole,

By incredible attraction, unbelievable,

Incroyable that you should fall for this,

Hollow shade of summers and now winter,
And a deep longing that dreamers can see light,
Bright light, drawing me in, but you?
Mayhaps built a pedestal in my head,

And in your eyes, it cannot be incredible,
Or hollow, shining,


Unbelievable that the curtains, deep veils now drop,
Remembering severity of disappointing blood,

Hollow belief that attraction is swept away, deep,
Now imprisoned in this deep track,

This thing that hurts and lights my prison,
Dreaming of this, is now enough, to draw winter,

Seeing early buds of the summer beyond,
And a parochial stream of truth and love,
Running believable, at last.




I know, I know, it's the biggest local landmark, so, of course it's going to feature, time and again....SORRY!

 

No Guilt In Him.

So careless, so utterly wonderful to see
So many friends, she lends the idea that all is real
Israel looks on and back to land to catch the hand that feeds her.

He coughs, so wonderful to breath the air to taste the wasted smoke and choke Of manufactories to catch the breeze to study bees to free the thought of her Rebellion.

And yet

No time passes.

No close ups. Landscapes none. Sparse plains, drains, sewers, trees, fleas, None at all, no call.

Careless to lose so much coincidental wave, not so quick now to save the cut Red locks of her lovers hair, still no sign that the vixen cares.

Choking on a half broken lung, time has now finally become something to Recall, not just that that palls, but lends minutes to friends, sends dreams To sons, and the dead to the end that comes.

He recovers long enough to see...

No clever shots. No pictures at all.
No call.
No time really.

For these sparse thoughts on still more spartan hills are slim and undemanding, Still no less real than purely careless minutes than turn soon to months.

With casually forgiving eyes she revives the lies sends and then befriends
The accepting hand up into her land and sees perfect opportunity to then
Just go.

Still hacking out his chest he spills crimson all down his vest simply fails The Cynics test and becomes once more the butt of life's jest.

Time stirs.

Time floods through sense,
His last pretence,
Of nonchalence.

Left dry eyed upon the moor
No fondness for the night before
Lingers scent of a broody whore
And that old lie that less is more.

Weaving old cut threads untangle thoughts and confuse new heads for all these Minutes.


Maybe a bit cliched, but hey....it's my Blog and I'll do cliche if I feel like it.....XXX


 
How could there ever have been any justice for it revenge retribution the powers of divine intervention but no great relief from these visceral agonies denial scales to tip to weld to tilt to weigh the odds and stack great light from beyond your sense relieves regret and shit faced view in sharp contrast the sky is then covered in cast iron plates rivetted and upheld by prayer below the arc of rust and grime spinning with the wheel of time the rock gives semblance of trust and then is gone no recognition no recollection from the once loved and lies with self preservation in mind I find the tarmac hard in winter grip melds memories of burning trolleys and school diversion my version to authority not me denial as new electrical thought thunders and rebounds from the iron now corrugated in places this life and digital recollection with no visible means of rapport tense and edgy the animal fight or flight the holiday the love that asked all and caught the lightning blast slippy and royal denial steel railed and the roosting carrion look on pylonned junction to rickety life and bleary self ritual you small shit I have no pity left not yours to receive this time or hatted loss minus freezing and laughing superior dreams now seem to fly and never reach this roof below the birds and clouds and storms train waiting with ancient love and pulling the plug the floor fell away the walls quick follow and exposed timbers breeding worms and beetles grow new roots into the earth below deny all follow the jack follow the swift decisive prey and reveal nothing loose this cold clammy grip on the floor as a whole congregation of roaches and fleas and mites and choristers tumble out of sight and blend coloured glass with gold and and and lift the glass to your brain and insert with taste and tasteful backdrop to new arrivals multi ...
disciplined in the art of reason and antilogic and and and naturally it will then be time to remember not yet she was weird though in an off beat frame normality flickered behind eyes decanted from these shotgunned barrels and cut out the straw relieve the taut tight sinuses of this crazy straight fiction and with a crumbling seizure face the wall you cant its gone to create a world imagine one too much too soon too misguided and walk away over these crumbled blood soaked stones and bricks with large dreaming so fly then swim skywards and fantasise the lot so addicted to adrenaline not a thrill seeking hedon just a night owl escaper trapped in these glass flowings amber ice wispy smoke flickering joist ends telephone reality grippers so addicted to waste to oblivion to running to beer perhaps arguably to love to lovers new and old past and passed to addiction itself burn this beautiful life this beautiful optimism when you have nothing it says in piss stinking grafitti on the underside of this iron clad sky with slow flowing larva streams you have everything to gain laughable aphorism and obnoxious bilious aftertaste what do you know as God lands and reminds you of your own chemical imbalances easy to back away He doesn't follow but is there when you turn your wings hurt your legs have gone and your arms wrap around my waist too big a doubt arises in poisoned guttle where three heads boil and fizz and blow steam into these dark fissures the light return to adolescent pastures green and once again forgot intended force repressors chase new prey the outsider why cannot ever be the answer wheels within prisms and reflected spectral memories on screens of disaster as the human leaves the glass refills and melts into ancient tables no needles no pins no blood no terror just a sad whimsy a notion a creed of...
self self self where now the dawn of roses where lies the land of light so ruddy in the baking evening so barren and denied come with the dawn interpret at leisure and make lists to rule thought freestyle frames bend frames break but are not so organic cut wood and twine create your own not quite the chameleon more the diamond multi-whiskyed and many faced the Mr Ben of this revolution your red blonde brown hair in great huge windows and silver chariots only grips the childish side where browns blondes and reds should fear to tread no love lost no love found just a higher aim on this loving ground and metros at midnight and dogs at dawn not quite following the many born nor realising true germination in this sea of plough and waking within more confidence shrinking ego wilted with no serious repercussion propped suspended held up tied down and bagged and drowned lets get the hell out of town burn it down head for the hills and natures skills with no sense of timing no concluding gesture realising perhaps that to survive is a strength in itself while wobbly the normal headed escape while escaping you're nearly normal with still justice it could be said no thought of wickedness was in your head simply the observations built up in years that the people are trivial and you are people values float meaningless under torrents of blistering tears of ration control and lack are much the same soul conditions in this hall of fame but there stands the weirding mirror reflection shows the mind aquiver but as straight as a loser and half as simple as a prime contender for knockout bouts on this stage of ground illusion don't miss the station X-file elation and empty bottled romantic friction cast skywards in prime addiction duty obligation warped by self preservation yes I could learn from you look around see what it is you do to wind this clock and create your life I might be your man but you're not my wife.


 Just some cotton grass.....



Well, what a bloody mental week.

Again.

Head is now officially goosed, again. 

Again.

Someone once said that if you keep repeating the same thing, and expect different results then that's a sign of something.....I do remember what, I just would rather not say.

In the meantime, here's a heron, on a roof.....
 



And a partridge, one of about ten that jumped up out of the heather & bilberry at the side of the track yesterday.....



Peeling the seams
From legs of heaven
And arms
With cotton dressing
With silver skin below
With haste and eyes
Quite focused to the task
And hurry
To teeth, to tongues
To flesh valleys and
Respond sincere
Hard decisions, made haste
And last layers are at last revealed
And lust exploration
Painful signal defloration
Symbolised, and peeled
And then thought must leave
Betrayal by the naked
Animal now thrust and gaunt
And frenzied sincerity
Rushes blood, adrenaline, sex
Into the mental hours
And mental bruises
Physical Venus
With detaching splendour
And barmaid wonder
And the connected
The found
With sweet white definition
And dark intent
And the damp peeled seams
And knickers on the floor
And the hideous bed
Denying such admission
And finding splendid hurry
In heavenly valleys
Symbol of gaunt animal response
And sincerely naked
With haste and eyes
Betrayal of signal tongues
Sincere truth must now leave.



 "Couplings"



 
Shadow Swan.

Spectrum of some deeply perverse waxy oils
On black many fringed flight feathers
On the seemingly perfectly formed wing.

Catches the gaze and the drop of sunlight,
Sits longer than the river's waters.

Serenely selfish in royal abundant confidence,
While cruising the shallows in dappled reflection
Of a lust driven moment of passionate serenity.

Coldly, coolly following a higher instinct,
Leads the observer to detect no regrets,
No moments of doubt in supreme black confidence,
And the thought that the crucial moment has gone.

Paralell your life with that of the swan,
Among discarded debris, detritus of the dereliction,
Remain aloof to preserve the damned integrity.

And so utterly perfectly casual and remote
So beautifully carved from living velvet,
And so much that you thought was lost.




That's it, for today at least.

None of the above pieces are "recent" but that doesn't mean they're not relevant. I must pick my pen up and do something contemporary though, and that's just a sodding fact......

No more Joy Division right now though nevertheless.........







Saturday, 15 July 2017

Numan

At the tender age of 12 my peers tempted me away from the safe environments I was used to, and into the insane world of train-spotting......

No, really.

Bear with me.


Insecure skinny white spotty geeks unite, before, or as well as going all Dungeons and Dragons, or other far worse forms of self abuse.....

I once had whole photo-albums of diesel engines, stations, etc...... But while I don't now, sort of wish I'd held onto them for posterity.

Anyway, stretching the apron strings is all part of growing up. Away from home, away from your home town, exposed to illicit things, beer, tobacco, hash, speed, mindless vandalism, influential stories from your senior influences, lies, violence, whisky, bitter stories from old men who chose to return to trains in their dotage...... It soon becomes less and less about categorising and collating, and ticking off which engines you've actually seen, and more and more about rebellion and self discovery.

Someone should make a film. Maybe Mr Welsh....

Back on topic. On a red hot summer's day in 1979 at the end of platform 9 of York Station an older fellah had a radio on, while brandishing a camera, notepad, binoculars, and a pack of sandwiches and cigarettes.....on this radio played "You Can Ring My Bell" "Bright Eyes" "Pop Muzik" "Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick" and so on and so forth.... what a bloody good year to really start to listen to music! (I had already, but really this was pretty influential!)

"Are Friends Electric?" played, about four times, as we waited, and watched the trains come and go, drink coffee, Coke, and cough our way through the mildest cigs going...Silk Cut, Kim, More Menthol......and it stuck with me. I thought it was so utterly different from what I thought I liked.

In the immediate weeks after it inspired me to order a cassette from Woods Music Shop, on Wood Street, in Wakefield, my second chosen album..... My first being in 1976 when I bought "Mud's Greatest Hits" with a Christmas voucher for "Boots" (The Chemist...) (My first single was Monty Python's "I Like Chinese", also from Wood's, probably at the same time, but I was so bloody naive, I didn't even know there were such things as record shops that a 12 year old boy could go into and learn all this stuff.........

To cut a long story short, I bought everything in time that Tubeway Army and Gary Numan put out, until Strange Charm. I have no idea what happened after that, as I got side-tracked, and a bit bored. In hindsight I think I was actually on a tight budget and fell in love with a thousand and one other bands, from all the classic Doors/Joy Division/Bowie/Pink Floyd/Led Zep/Stones/Jam/etc etc onwards.....

Music shops became mecca, and my enthusiasm cost me, and benefitted me too no doubt. But I ended up ignoring my initial idol. I hardly listened to his stuff, except on very rarer occasions, and then the records got scratched, lost, left in someone else's house, or whatever when I moved.....

Thank Goodness for the internet!



The other tracks on YT are the obvious ones, until you start mining down to the nitty gritty.....when you can find all sorts of gubbins......

Got to go and listen to Savage, the new album ASAP...... not enough leaks as yet.....

Thursday, 29 June 2017

Intensisfication and Other Made Ups.



Billy.


For a split second it looked as if,
All the speed in your head might just,
Entertain the eager millions,
Bewitch my audience to your charm,
And kill the performer.


Kill the lights.

Advanced state of lost memories,
Mnemonic heroisms,
Donkeys years ago.


Not a chance,
Never to hope.

Dreamt the swimmers,
Entrapped in soap.


All that shit you do to my head,
Leaves us as irrelevant as,
As illogical as summer rains.

Fried mush again, and bread for now,
Newly toasted eyeballs,
Red lids and sockets.

Eye-bleeding over tired speed-head.


 
Bonfire.


On our backs
In muck, grass and ash.

Lying near celebratory fire,
Trying for the stars,
That little bit higher,

The flickering orange light years,
Between the ground,
The flames, your names,
And

Our disbelieving minds.




 
Dreamer.

Marsh lights, weird ways,
Welcome to these strange days,
Here the start of hallucination,
Quite lawful fascinations.

Moody lighting to set the scene,
Vines a-hanging, slime in green,
Deep resonating psychic sounds,
Penetrate these dreaming grounds.

Steaming ponds of dreams you've had,
A bubbling stench, from the bad,
Familiar images deep in a wood,
Reminding you of the good.

Sleep-walking, with passion,
On a singular mission,
Manipulate your reality,
Keep, to your sanity.






Idea Smuggling.


Coming up from behind
in life's struggle to die
We suddenly make very good ground.

We leap forward
Dolphins to your drug boat; divers and camera

But dolphins with careful purpose
And an abandoned carefree game of poise
No swim boasting
No boat.

Sleep and reinvent stupid dull gods
With trappings of someone else's
Perversion.

No money to tempt
No flesh to swim
Just a hidden look
And sacred knowledge
And think now, not of reason.

For who needs reason
just sit back
Be
Go with it.

No
Tie yourself with stupid reason
Stupid fuckwit ideas
That everybody else has already had

Simply punish yourself
Already.



All HELL looks like it's about to break out over my home village.....but then, that's nothing new.....


What a couple of head-wrecking weeks. Ups, downs, bigger ups, bigger downs. Then a knock on the door from someone unexpected, and mind-blowing......and fabulous with it........!

It's only when you start appreciating that life was already crazy, that you can really begin to enjoy the
fact......

Used to love a bit of drama.......


"I'm not the pheasant plucker....."

Old man 2e.

Stiff, slow, but he still has that glint in his eye........Buddy til the end, and then some.