Tuesday, 14 May 2019

Changing How You See Trees, Again.....

The sky is full
Overbrims and rainbow-free
Begins the month long rain-fall.

It rains.

It rained today. (Again)

Another blank page in
The diary.


While the dark hour hours
enshroud this dark minute
The hour stretches into
deep wells, cocoons of dearth,
Dour silence descends to wrap
the once bright thoughts,
Leaving nothing.

Second Thoughts.

Some kind of generation gap,
Or is it ?

Some kind of belief I had,
And, won't compromise.

Is it simply a question of 
Premature middle age ?

Or deeper ?

Something I believe in.

The question remains as your mind broadens,
Can I see this far ?
Through eyes glazed with prejudice,
Or eyes barred by cowardice ?
Or days spent off-planet,
Or is life so surreal ?

And, when you know yourself,
Why compromise anything ?

For fun ?
For the hell of it ?

Some kind of aspiration gap,
Or is it ?

Shallow Eyes.

Shallow eyes
Look at me hollow mask
A sense of deja-vu
A "sense-macabre"

As the grey head cools
In the fool's fruit basket
Of aristocrat-like heads

No question
To reply to

Tisket tasket
Smiling basket

See those eyes

Slow Solution Of Thought.

Dark putrid islands,
Perpetually drowning in white seas,
Moments repeat and again.

From my incorporeal viewpoint concentration wanes,
Landing, if such, to focus or not,
To centre at least,
Or to pick out in the rippling scenes,
A smell of an idea of a hint of a thread,

That your bleeding eyes are symptomatic,
Of the hopeless, faithless, loveless,
Downtrodden, unclass, unconscious, your view,
Permanently unchangeable, through tight eyes.

Dark rings around dull islands,
Occasions a glint, hints of reflection,
Though of light, not thought,
Not thought of it before,
To never think to drink to drown and dream,
To seem, perhaps charming,
Perhaps pathetic.

Dark unhealthy thoughts,
Mobile in syrupy rhythms,
Motile in only one poor way,
Condemning each action,
To inact, rest, station, to die slowly,
In cars, bars and in bowling alleys,
And at last, in filth and shit,
To die this way, to turn the tide.

Putrifying breaths, of fungal microscopic will,
Testament to the dead spirit,
Preserved in spirits, drowned in beer,
Killed by inertia, dearth of sky,
Wondered why ?

Grey skinned tideless seas lap shores,
Grease rings panda eyed near corpse,
Infinitely indefinitely prolonged lacks the humane,
Prolonging conflict in slow final solutions.

Stringent Love.

I had a peace-filled week,
Warmth and light were my sea.

Then came the

Stringent advice from a loaded gun,
Rules to abuse and have some fun,
And a clear sight that here's nothing
Worth a shit anymore.

Divided opinions as we cling to these rafts,
Of our device, and imagined by us.

Imagine the drowning man,
Panic so intense it becomes ecstasy,
And imagine life without God.

Burn baby burn, and turn,
The cartwheeled somersault,
Of St Catherine.
Standing joke, standing joker,
Nothing's real anyway.

Know that you limit me,
Know that you limit me.
With tunneled vision,
Small dream,
Murky vision from a murky

Fuck your stringent love.

Noone needs me or you anyhow,
Dance on molten fear glass embers.

The Last Walker.

With bizarre ordinarity she stalks,
The space being slightly small,
I gain nothing in these head talks,
Wall to wall to wall.

Pace, pace, relentless,
Back and to, fro and back,
Conversation now is pointless,
And what's not white is black.

At least we smoke together,
She paces the floor,
I'm in for nasty weather,
But I still need more.

Step, step, step, now back,
I sit and watch this show,
She follows the mindless track,
I sit in emotion snow.

Speak, I speak, I attempt to talk,
The barricade in her head is rock,
She's locked in her lonely walk,
And I'm her mental block.

Everything is so ordinary tonight,
We're a million miles apart,
Her smoky lips kept shut tight,
And I, beat my heart.

My pulse is the beat of her pace,
The irony is lost on me,
My vision reduced to this place,
Hers is memory, being free.

Break out, she breaks away,
My stone mouth stays silent,
When she's gone what is there to say ?
Her worry groundless, emotion violent.

Now the time's arrived, we die,
My word-weapons useless to me here,
Funny how I didn't really try,
At the candle death, I disappear.

The Scorpio Beach.

Bacchan denial, with familiar eyes,
Watered with blood-vessel fatigue.
Awash and awake on the shore-line of lies,
Irrational betrayal may proceed.

High above, on a rotary flight,
Witnesses bound by honour-restraint,
Curved thick glass perversion of sight,
Tests the patienceless saint.

Testimony bland that nothing was seen,
Nothing to apportion the blame,
The court is dissolved, your record still clean,
But the court-clerk has noted your name.

At breakfast that evening, a hint of a smile,
Slow reconciled position enhances,
I almost believed kissing had gone out of style,
Now the scorpionic embrace advances.

Awake and awash, on the beach of lost souls,
A murmuring dream from your mouth.
Bacchus has left me, its time to switch roles,
Out of my glass window, the south.

As I drop from this world, and out of the dream,
Hypnotised at last by your heart,
My last view of the shoreline is not what it seems,
Too late for a change at the start.


I could walk all night,
The rain, the rats, the rain,
I could pass your house, maybe call in,
But we'd all be dead by then.

Somewhere someplace, in darkened time,
We could dance and chant and crawl,
Flexing sinewed moments forever,
But we'll all be dead by then.

Half light orange pools on street,
And the vermin roaming round,
Head half full of long regrets to come,
But I'll be dead by then.

As the city sparrows herald damp circles,
And empty hearts fly past your door,
This dark bodied approach cannot come,
Because we'll all be dead by then.

I could walk home alone,
See rats and smoke, and rain,
I could call in to say hello,
But I'm at least half dead again.

The Old Green Bird.

Shame, such a sham, such a mockery,
The winning hand in the game.
Rare green bird in your rookery,
In tongues yells out your name.

You fed me into the hot circuit,
And I blew a fuse or three,
The turning card belies your gambit,
And the green bird in your tree.

"I perch here and witness your crime,
You shameful children of night,
I pass no judgement on this waste of time,
But whisper thanks that you have no flight."

He could have added that it's all a shame,
As we both should by now have guessed,
I watched as he flew off, the way he came,
And turned to see you getting dressed.

Eyes of lustful unlovely mockery turn,
To burn their message hard in my brain,
I realise what I have is what you spurn,
And whisper thanks that at least I'm sane.


The trefoil cowers
In the shadow of the monolith.

A cross marks the exact position.

But to scream out
"I am here !" (This place called x)
Is not the done thing

Not the thing to do.

A careless laugh trickles
Between the stones
And tickles
The trefoil.

A winged shadow passes
And calls out in tongues.

The trefoil cowers
In the shadow of the monolith.


Testing her strength...
I need to know the limits,
Hers, mine, yours,

But, should the moon drop and die on you,
Messing up all we do,
I will swing above and

I will preach back to you.

Don't push me to test your caves.

I don't think I'm trying to prove anything, or demonstrate, just play with visuals.

Once you've seen things, you can choose, but sometimes your brain pre-interprets for you.
Hey ho, happy Tuesday, and no, it didn't rain, it was a beautiful sunny day.....  

67 Vintage

Not my image, just a random search for a certain number, and the clues are obvious. Can't claim credit for it though nevertheless, as I've been telling people I was a certain age for months already, it was a weird feeling to think that I wasn't, when it came down to it......

But, hey, I am now......

Another month, another post.

You are more than welcome.


The School Play.

Listen with curiosity roused by the questioning
words of the unenlightened drug children
who need no answer and could not believe
the turning of the hands on the dial of a pocket watch

and sit patiently while walking thousands of miles
back through time to a changing room of a dead school play
and games and the sweet voice of the South African blonde
who's the daughter of a minister of religion
and worships something not altogether unlike the words
that you could hear behind the conversation

that led to you burning your heart out of the body
of timeless memory that joined the spirit of the entire world
but only for the briefest of seconds on a cold stone
step to a school beneath stars that did nothing
out of the ordinary to detract from the teenage revelation

that took place a thousand years after the girls
had drunk all the sins of the year watered mildly
with applause and grease paint and costume that fits
in perfectly with the journey you feel you need to make
as the clock speaks of the still night and clean street
lit spaces for great evil and tremendous favour

for the tears that never come in the land of dry eyes
you sit and reminisce of old curious yearnings
to see beyond her blue blonde eyes that meant nothing
and carry your tired spirit to the place you smoke
your brain sleepy refuses to fight

and slipping from open-handed games of poker and love
the door catches the chair and the light her eyes
before the clock one more time you sink contented in
the old memory that you nearly saw the entire thing
and safe in your sane arm-chair you hear nothing but noise

and noise and voices with wordless spaces
in front of the flickering colour box
that simply refuses to shut up

the door is locked and the night remains
on the outside of the ill-defended present.

To The Journey.

Heading south from Crewe,
Following ancient leys from the north,
Retracing our forefathers steps,
To the place where the lesser kings lived.

The historical mist hangs about, intangible,
Fudging the industrial skyline.
Patches of hundred year oaks,
Disperse the fifty year old concrete.

A magpie, for sorrow, starts, alarmed,
Rough ground, and away to our right,
Nantwich, and houses, playing fields too,
A captive mare, and rust coloured canal.

Leaving the towns, and hard on the track,
Never once forgetting the damage of man,
herons and JCBs, corn fields and cows,
Abroad wanders the prodigal, in wonder.

Now we've hit Wrenbury, faster and more,
A cloud of black smoke, more cows,
Its harvest time, making hay, startled sheep,
Uther Rex never came this way.

The Pendragon on horseback, his men at his side,
Not rattling and hurrying like this,
Albion fair, aged, battered and used,
Rushing onwards, southwards and on.

Power-lines, old tyres, at least the green is, still,
The trackside refuse, near Whitchurch,
The tangled and unkempt wastelands,
A newborn calf and mother.

Swede fields and hayricks, hedges and trash,
Lady England here sleeps off her mortal wound,
The tractor tracks across her back,
And, poisoned by her children.

Oh to be in England in the Autumn time,
Where the hearts of men are nothing to fear.

One mighty pissed off spider spent how many hours building this masterpiece.....only to get it wrecked by airbourne seeds....... wonder what spider swear words sound like?

You know, those frequent times when you just wish you had that £2k lens......

The Dark Hour.

A mindless swirl of heady saxophone,
Drifts insidiously through, from next door's world,
Late at night the rumbled voices drone,
Through the naff wallpaper, like a serpent curled.

The mystery transcends, to a forgotten plane,
Deep smoke filled breathing, lets you mellow,
And mull over the events of late again,
In time to the dripping candid tallow.

The sax slows now from jazz to blues,
And settles in for this traffic night,
Somehow your control has become abused,
But wound up, won't give up the fight.

Da da da, de de da, the old sound croaks,
Feel like "mais je ne comprends pas"
Entangle your thoughts with sax and smokes,
How did it go ? Da, da, da ?

Sink happily, mellowly, deeper down,
To the very brink of mystic paths,
Where you discuss dreams with Anarchy clown,
Maybe join in darkly with his laid back laugh.

Swim now dreamer, to the mindless tune,
And breath hideous surf in the red gulls' game,
Wallow in safe gardens, behind the moon,
Try not to remember just why you came.

Then at last sleep docks in your wharf-mental,
Your conscious drifts off idly into lost hills,
On another night's journey on paths ungentle,
Through forgotten, lonely, silent mills.

The Northern Light.

Black light shadows the size of this night,
A blue light races across distant horizons,
Sitting on damp grass on a hill from seven,
Like a roman of times dissolved in smoke.

Smoke, we smoke silently and without thought,
Or no thoughts recordable given the night.

Give me the night.
Black light silhouettes your profile.

We watch the scene unfold,
Of orange lights and tales untold,
Untellable, unspeakable horrors and
"True life" crime.

The seat of my jeans transmits discomfort,
And the air is only just cold,
But smoky.

We are Northern, we are the watchers,
We see everything, and nowt.

The blackness is something else,
Swallowing roses and cherry blossomed paving,
Swallowing doubts but choking on desire.
Choke and cough.

Shades of ancient love come at us,
Mainly through the seats of our jeans,
And haunt this Northern starless night,
This fox's dream of seven hills,
And streets bathed in spewy orange,
Calming like the asylum painted walls.

The dream that neither of us ever had,
The place we sit.

The place we sit is in a park,
Forgotten in the urban death,

We are the Northern watchers,
Our judgement comes, as ever, to nothing.

 I saw this cat afterwards.....walking back towards home, when one of the usual pigeons got ambushed, but somehow got away...... I waited for another ten minutes to see if I could catch a shot of the crafty bugger actually getting his tea........but only one close call, as the other birds seemed to realise that one window wasn't open to them any more..... Looks like he's got patience in spades though, and will eventually try another window.........

 As usual, I could write an essay, and maybe one day I'll cut loose and vent, but when I do that on FB I so often have to delete it next day, or way more often, just as I'm about to click "post".....so wanting to keep the blog relatively "neutral" and "safe" I will hold off, but it's been a really funny couple of months for all sorts of reasons. Hope I/we are through the worst of it, but this patchwork life, with 3D dreams, and continual connections, and disconnections, and scare stories, and health issues, and way too much to compute, is a stream of experience(s). For which I am thankful, as the alternative is too hideous to contemplate, and I know people who think that that is "normal", so maybe it's best just to crack on.........
 1967........Hmm, can remember a lot from the couple of years after, believe it or not, pram-life, mashed up Weetabix, moving house at two years, and more than one carry-cot nights in Walton-on-the-Naze, at my grand-parents.....

69, the B&W TV showing the moon landing........I kid you not.

Why can't I remember what I'm supposed to be doing now?

Lost my way a bit.

Stay strong friends.

Thursday, 11 April 2019

Thursday's Child


Everything's made of metal,

Except wood, and that's metal too,

And me, my heart, my mind,

And you.

Chocolate metal sculptures in the love letters,

Sent abroad,

And metal scented perfume, in a room long ignored.

Metal food for metal patients,

Metal plates, and tables,

Metal trees and grass and birds,

Sharp edged meanings to your double words,

In metal conversations, clean, precisely oiled,

And metal emotion feeling thoughts.

Kept neat, in rows long spoiled.

Spring joints, steel backed, and wrought,

In iron skilled delivery.

From metal mouth to my metal ears.

As the flecks of friendly corrosion creep,

To eat at all our edges,

And me, my heart, my mind,

And nothing really rusts in here.

Yet, this sculpture ages, blind,

And rusts, crunching through to meaning.

Mild Winter.

It's been another strange mild winter

No real hints of global anything,

No spirit of predictable snowfalling mulled wines,

But a dalliance with the Eroticon,

A deviance from the usual stuff,

Street dance at the one midnight that counts,

And a painful life pattern inflicted on your ma,

Why not, when you're young and free ?

Why not winter with a warm idea,

A body of someone else's dreams ?

A pictorial expression that laughs still,

And bleeds, and cries, and dreams,

And hurts, and worries, and sings, and...

Another strange winter has come and is here,

A period of your journey, for change.

Not fundamental map-reading behaviour,

But a dalliance with the sensual,

Continued street dance indoors.

No real hints of global anything.

No, you're all quite right, as usual,

It's been another strange, mild winter.


Those million crystal-eyes
Aflame, aflame.

I wallow in your deepness,
A whale-calf to your warmth,
Unbelievable completeness,
I am swimming in your love.

Now the evening slumbers with a grey cool,
Slipping away as the night trundles in.
Just for your delight, I play the kings-fool,
Maybe tell a joke, dance and sing.

But those deep million eyes,
Burn on and on.

I am blinded again, and stumble into your arms,
Into arms that enfold my trembling.
Steadying my hopeless questing,
A mirrored glimpse of loves now gone.

You all have those eyes,
Part of the whole,
a piece of the one,
Why do you all have those eyes ?

This drowning is so believable,
I close my eyes, now useless,
And cling to the lifeline thus thrown,
Forget myself, just be us.

If I tried hard I could concentrate,
But those mesmer eyes,
Those eyes, those eyes, aflame,
Those million crystals in space,

I am swimming in this love,
Why do you all have to have,
Those same eyes ?

Blackthorn Blossom


Have to admit,

To a lot of things,

Hate to, some of them.

But, adding tap-water,

To your cognac,

Was one of those moments where hindsight,

Would get the upper hand,

Cloudy, fizzy, with head.

Hate to admit,

Have to "get" a lot of things,

Have to, well, some of them...


Down the streets runs a man,
He's very hot and tired,
In his hand there is a gun,
A gun he nearly fired,
In the bank there was a man,
With guts enough to press the bell,
Instead of shooting the thief just ran.
Ran ? He ran like hell.

"I'll not do that again" he thinks,
As he dodges down an alley,
"That man was brave, and I.."
"I just feel a wally."

"That's far enough my son"
A voice came from behind,
He span round to the silhouette,
The sun it made him blind,
He began to raise his hands,
When a copper he recognised,
Pulled the trigger of his gun,
Bullet between the eyes.

"But sarge, he was giving up..."
"Son, that may well be true"
"But if he took a shot at us,
Who would it hit ? Me, not you."
And so let's leave them to clear up,
For another day.
And the moral of this little tale ?
"Crime, it doesn't pay...!"


You drew my attention

Like an artist.

Then, shook my hand

Better than booze.

I tried to read your thoughts,

Surely a misprint.

The passing comment,

Got passed on.

Like there's no tomorrow,

There was no tomorrow.

I thought I saw what you were getting at,

And got at it first.

The hollow words


I presented the facts as they are,

You said "Thank you for the present."

I tried to build on our love,

But the mortar was poor.

You caught my mood,

And threw it back.

"It was all so run of the mill,"

You said, at a sprint.

I suppose I got a clearer picture,

Than the messy impressionist.

"Its all in the future tense,

So just relax."

I looked your way,

But it hurt my eyes.

Rose Dawn.

As this rose dawn picks out misty dreams,

Where times are trapped, and dipped in streams,

Again we stride through new verdant lanes,

Remembering things to come, like old steam trains.

Enfolding and enshrouding me with your withered loves,

Choking off mistaken ventures in forgotten groves,

Brings new birth to old ideas of fish and loaves,

And paddling clear seas in these ancient coves.

Bestir the intentions we had when looking deep,

Before grips and ties were severed in hazy sleep,

Brings clarity of memory, you begin to make the leap,

To step towards the edge, not recoil like sheep.

Sun streams swords cut swathes through skies,

Revealing where your lost pig now flies,

Dives, stops, whips back and serenely tries,

To see the golden truth in these leaden years.


Some right dodgy folk in the local woods..... David Mayne
               more David......

Faceache page........

Unassuming and genuinely nice bloke. Love what I've seen of his work, and as a person.....

Holme Moss mast, must be so over-photographed by visitors and locals alike.........!

The "Monkey Nick" or Ramsden Clough as it's officially known.....

Something to do with an Oran-Utan that escaped from a visiting circus many many moons ago, and surviving in the wild for a good spell before being found and, well, who knows whether it was recaptured or whatever....? Can't find a definitive version of the story, so it could just be apocryphal.....but I like to think it has some ring of truth......

Not enough to make a murder....

The Funniest....

The funniest, huh, thing is that my love for you
has only increased
While my hatred of me matches, pace for pace,

Crazy, isn't it ?

When all I tried to do, was the Right Thing.
You thanked me for amongst
Other things that some might be true
But flattery and love and things
For being what you see as (tender)/cruel

I am, but when you feel the cold wet
Dry stone wall and grass upon your back
And can't hear for the choral wind
Not feel the hail upon your breast

Nor feel rain nor snow nor aught but
The boiling of blood within lilied acres
Narrow and taut, sculpted divine
And fine and electrical, with need

And the bending of joints, the slapping of skin
The aching of exposed senses and hard ground
And stones and earth and the pounding
The pounding of pelvic bones, making music, making history.

Utterly Free Again.

Woman with clear vision,

Glass window to a honeyed tongue,

And scent of curtain smoky moments,

With bloodied sheets and bruised lips,

And a tug of lust is gone,

To the bed in the sky.

Oh you passionate bitch

How I hated you,

Loved us, but not you.

Now we are both utterly free again,

Neither tied to each other by string,

Or rope or hope or belonging,

As we race while drifting,

Away and towards it,

Sailing to a forgotten kiss

On a leaf of thyme or sex,

With poor turning to moderate later.

Then the new adventure brings old memory,

As telephone numbers are treated like gold,

And I still think of your wine,

Your parasite, or was it symbiote nature ?

And how relaxed it all seemed so tense,

And how we buzzed round to nothing,

With jaspers of desperate need,

And locks of your hair,

But I still try harder to forget.

The Hounds.

The hounds of hell,
Know me by name,
A soul to sell ?
A rule-less game ?

A backward clock-face,
Tells me you're here,
Dressed in lace,
A groundless fear.

Come be my little devil,
Mischief in your mind,
We're on the level,
New means to unwind.

The hounds of hell,
Are running free,
A vicious smell,
Bitchy tree.

I know this pack,
Like I know you,
Tearful comeback,
With eyes-blue.


A traveling band of thinkers,

Rest outside the inn.

Among them are two tinkers

Who list you as their kin.

Long lost cousins, or some such,

I don't know, they didn't say.

I wouldn't dare to ask so much,

But please cast your glance their way.

A story of forgotten lands,

Bold words of deeds they've done,

Of fiercesome journeys on burning sands,

And of mysteries lost and won.

Be witness to battles they've seen,

Or to soothsayers who told them all,

Great divinations in clouds of steam,

In some haunted, shady hall.

The first one tells of wisdom deep,

Discovered in a southern place,

Of how dream journeys in your sleep,

Leave their tracks across your face.

The second is a quiet man,

With eyes that can cut steel,

He said they'll help us if they can,

To re-invent the wheel.

Bewilderment opens in your words,

You're not sure of what to say,

Glancing skywards, at the birds,

"We don't have to leave today."

But we leave the travellers for a while,

To digest the things they've said.

I think I can remember how you smile,

But now you careful-tread.

Within the rest-house we sit and talk,

The travelers wait without,

Should we join them in their walk ?

Your mind is full of doubt.

I now know I must leave you,

To follow your own fate,

I think the tinkers will go too,

We've made them over-wait.

But as I reach the hill-top,

I turn round and look back,

Above the idyllic village top,

A heavy storm is hanging black.

A portent of a darkly time,

When great tasks are performed,

This heavy pressured heated clime,

Is it more than just a storm ?

Below the tumult cloud, the little inn,

Where some travelers are banded round,

Perhaps the start of an erratum thing,

Their eyes are on the ground.

I try not to watch as you step out,

But can't help to see you go.

Above the wind I cannot shout,

"At least your feelings show !"

The travelers exit, to stage right,

You step left and walk alone.

My bitter knowledge at the sight,

(A thing to which I'm prone.)

This day was long and strange,

Meeting new chances, face-to-face,

Now northwards with haste I range,

Back up to my old home base.

We may come across those traveling-men,

Unexpectedly, as if by fate,

And I'd bet they'd remember when,

You advised them not to wait.

The tinkers knew you'd not be swayed,

And waited just the same,

But experience and the plans they laid

Still drew you in their game.

Roughly 10 years ago someone who traded on eBay as Alia-something-something "stole" loads of my Dad's publicly available photos, and farmed them out to her team of "artists" who re-painted them as "originals"....... yes, that really is me, circa 93/4 at Christmas time walking hounds to the meet.....

Sadly, or not, I actually quite like it.......

The actual picture......

Anyway, got a few more off-loaded, so there's that........

Feel free to share, engage and comment, I do get to moderate the comments, so don't waste your time with spam, or abuse. So far, after over ten year of this nonsense, the spam has been limited, and the abuse negligible......but so have the shares and comments......!

But, I've gone up from 4, 5, 6 visitors to a minimum of 50.....so somebody gets it!

Happy April!