Wednesday, 16 May 2018

In Between What and What?


 
M. F.

I so much want to tell you,                                                    And I, to hear you,
I so much need to say,                                                           I must believe its true,
We must protect this that we are,                                          Hello, am I getting through?
The love that I have to give..                                                Well, its up to you.

The journey starts then,                                                        Can we find out where to go ?
We sit in cars of love and pain.                                           The road is a long one.

We live.                                                                               We love, live.




Midnight.

Beneath your midnight,
Walking ancient pathways,
Sidestep the infinite deeps.

The pools of essence
Essence of midnight blue.

Walk with me
And without words,
Beneath your midnight.



 
Friday Night.

All fixed up
For Friday night
The heat is on
You're feeling right
You've got a thirst
For some dark fine ales
Maybe one or ten
Coffin nails.
Self destroyer
On a bender
"Loves' lost child"
"The great pretender"
Down the road
With cash in pocket
To the ale-house like
Plug in socket.
All fired up to
Drink your fill
Release some pressure
Time to kill.
Send head a-tupping
And blur your words
When you're supping
Forget the birds.
Lads night out
A mini-riot
Look about
It's never quiet
Some new faces
In this hall of fame
Reserve your places
Join the game
Fill the glass
And knock it back
Pints of Bass
Or Guinness, black.
What'll happen tonight ?
Who can say ?
The light's too bright.
Spend your pay
When you've done
We'll have a curry
Far too strong
But never worry.
We're all fired up
Foe Friday night
The heat is on
We're feeling right.



 
Moorland Street.



Performance as an art in itself
Capturing nuance in tone and stance
And pleasure in understanding


The players’ art
Not so aloof,
On this long moorland street
The lay preacher and the common man.

And her vocal expressions
For the only critic
To have ears, and her
Tongue
Eyes and nipples and
Hands
Ideas.

As a performance that captures
Nuances of an imperfect
Moorland vocal understanding
For the only critic
Aloof pleasure, and tongue art.



 
Oily Mirrors



Running into the mirror
Away and before, in front and bleeding brow,
Cheeks, shards, glassy emotions...

No authority, just anonymous threats,
instinct drives you into survival, bloody,
Cornered, no papers or legitimacy,
Run rabbit, come with me....

Face to face with fear,
The tattoo. The world's pain now,
Hundreds of thousands of reasons, instincts,
Threats, silent phone calling, locked boxes.

Hand in hand we flee,
In front, but only just, emotions,
Survivalists, bleeding and illegitimate,
Rabbits in the spotlight.

Analogy, dark dreams coming true,
Mirrored in rainbow oiled muddy puddled thinking.

Nowhere left to run except into the oily mirrors,
And cold sweaty wakefulness, instinction.




 
Particle Accelerator


Over the years, girls,
Like neutrinos, or was it electrons?

Shot through my destiny, my cellular,
Molecular, particular, kind of, accelerator.

But virtually never hit the nucleus,
To rebound at mad
Unpredictable angles,
If only they
Existed.

Shot through particular beams
Into an uncertainty,
As to just
Exactly,
Where my central components
My years,
Could deflect them into paths of normality.

Not Heisenberg,
Not Einstein.

Just purely
Simply. In rivers of chaotry.

And over the years
The uncertainty principle
Kind of,

Took over,
Girls, like neutrinos, hon.


Taking Stock In The Caravan.


Its kind of true that this is real,
Sort of understand now, how she feels,
The sleight of hand, disguises rotten deals,
Unmasks the shit stuck on these wheels.

Follow the roving eye,
Fool the eye,
Train the eye,
Strain, and try.

Having some kind of self-imposed break,
May seem there's no rest yet to take,
Or that certain lacks, are certain fakes,
Or even that lochs are always lakes.

Lines to throw out,
Dispose of these at will,
Drink your fill,
Move in, to kill.

Minor power trips, full of benevolent intent,
Ooze and caress these tin walls, as meant,
Borrow, return, then steal back what I leant,
Leaving faint wafting hints of presence scent.

To know I've been,
Know more or less,
Know you princess,
Subtle hit of stress.

Just what made me turn around through tin curtains ?
At that exact moment ? Cannot still be certain,
To witness the subtle dark void field of portent,
Continuing absence of quarreling lovers, intense intent.

Breeze becoming rocky,
Rattling this shed,
Attitude depressed, less cocky,
Evenings with the dead.




 
Hate This Place.

From this monk's monkey cell
I see hear and then I smell
the burning heaps that decry this hell
the irritated skins that will

never wash clean the incomplete twins
that will never be seen

around the corner
where I tried to warn her that

I cry at what goes in
and love being out
and danced with a girl
whose eyes never opened

once in a while
I saw her smile
and then reviled
I tried to run
she had a gun

and shot the whole place
down

god I hate
this town.




 
Sunday Morning In Bed.

Flecks of poison land unseen,
Upon the world bedecked with green,
Falling like the even star,
Blotchy minims of spotty tar.

As the darkness attempts to stay,
Prevent the coming of the day,
You see I knew the road,
And remember all you told.

The love fatigue of joyless calm,
When a "thousand miles" will keep us warm,
You sigh the breath that says it all,
Simply pride that holds the fall.

We fall, dead blossoms on grey breeze,
Me lying, you watching on your knees,
You smoke our love and dock the tab,
Sunny amoureuse at dawn makes drab.

The hysterical heights from which we slip,
Like sleeping giants lose their grip,
Melanchol toast and the day ahead,
One cannot but help to blame the bed.
Outside the dust covets the world, Dancing breezes stir the dance and whorls, Round the paving of poisonous black, Above the sun lays on its track.






Over a month. Sorry, slack, slack, slack.

Another year really too, let alone month....another Folk Festival, which was fun, though not just quite as anarchic as some previous years, thankfully!

New friends, old friends, a small healing in my internal rift, and some randomly snowy weather, then heatwave, then what? Who knows, but it's still only May, so there will no no "clouts cast" around these parts just yet, unless you count the week of wearing shorts and tee-shirt to work, followed immediately by wondering whether I should break out the bloody thermals again....Mad.




 
  
 
 
 
 
It is spring, so roll on SUMMER!

Stop messing with my fonts!



Stay strong and safe people.  

Monday, 19 March 2018

S'been a While.

 Overdone HDR. "That Tree"


Yessir it has, and then we find a particularly dire period, fallow is an understatement, especially on the heels of the whirlwind that blew herself out at about the time of the previous post......

Let's crank up the nostalgia engine and tick a few more off the list then, and keep ruminating on the new ones that keep failing to reach pen & paper, but they will, boy oh boy, the themes are the only thing holding me back really as they became a bit too predictable, even if the love-sentiment is as predictable as ever. Love and loss, love and mis-match, hurricane-love, and so on.....Just not rock solid, dependable, reliable, understanding, compromise, trust and openness. Issues, on both sides, this isn't a blame-fest.






Hey ho, not going to slip further into the personal, that was never the point of this blog, in any of its incarnations.


Don't Call.


Don't call, crying out incredible wastes,
Don't offer a hand, tightrope walker,

I can blow this all on my own.


Don't say "I'm here any time for you."
Patent leather, patent lies,
Patience tested, tomorrow's sighs,

Urgent needs to feed the greed.

Don't bother, assistance as yours is plenty,
Plentiful, bountiful, but hollow and rare,
Is the genuine glint, eye corner stare.

I can fuck this up all on my own.


Write me a letter, "James, it will get better."
Just hold on that bit, to let fate work it out,
No thanks, ex-directory, moved address,

Don't call me anymore.
 
 
 
 
 This has become the age of my hermitage, and I don't really like it.



Dancer


Not a dance floor dodger
No way
Uncontrollable catharsis of all that
Nervous energy

So what then, crowd avoider ?

Not evader, not isolate,
Desolate soul portions, but much is sunlight,
Much is overfull
Crammed with dreams, memories, awareness of now,
Possibly chemicals,
Probably chaotic proactive reactions.

No matter,
Dancefloors and crowds,
Seething mass of sweaty designer skin tight,
Ebbing, flowing, swelling then shouting and
Human media for observant swimmers,
Eyes.

Half a second away from this universe,
Always "not just"
Following the lost scent trails of
Those before.

Through swollen uncomfortable seas of
Drunk dancers,
Speeding towards the edge, always.

 
 
 
Stood in the right/wrong place, as usual.... 



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.

Teaching.

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.

Stamped.



Pumelled.





Worlds Meet


In the in-between slice of the autumn night dark,
As in the tin-box caravan, so long left in time,
Standing at the meeting place of worlds,
Cold, freshly grated evening air running over my face,
Forearms, leg-fronts, neck, and becomes deep breath,
As behind, leg-backs, hair is warmed,
Where the worlds meet.





Wolves


Years unveiled old dreams, and scents,
Clear sight, hindsight, clarity,
Think you worked out what they meant,
Your dragon's slayed, naivety....

Assure yourself with goods, and bads,
With things that you possess,
Some make wise, some bounders cads,
All make more of less....

Wise man, woman, now see the truth,
Where will you be when come the calls?
Couldn't avoid it, now await the proof,
There always were wolves, behind the walls......




Washed Up
 
Washed up, on this tiny stone shore,
Thrown up,

from the troubled surf.

Strangely inclined sea of leaves;

Oak and ash, silver birch and beech.

Damp driftwood and stone islands.
Cool wooded beauty with ranging dogs…


Turning inward, tried hard to turn off.

Reflections and conundrums, unknowns and ‘what if?’s
The threats of adventure, impending dark loss.
Decanting thought to void the vessel…

Gaunt tired undernourished ship-wreck. Pigeon Gulls.

This body almost empty, this head quiet too,
Letting the leaves, and trees and squirrels in…
Living poems each, to deconstruct this world…

Brings no meaning, nor reasons or clarity.

Just a deep and pleasant feeling that, all is well.


The dogs return, eyes full of their own questions,
Aglow and lit with joy of life.

Check your wreckage, then again for rabbits
Flying over brambling tides and stump toadstools...
On their endless drive for the instinctive quest.



Instead of questions answered by internal voices
The flotsam moss dulls around the mind,
Calming doubt waters and a whirlpool quandary.

Darker storms brew in the woodland litter.
Distant yet, but a threat, no less.

An hour or so for the turning tide,
To stand, salt-crusted head less troubled

Summon the rabbiters and splice the sails.
Catching sight of a skimming owl,
Albatross-like to this un-drowned mariner.

Cool wooded meditative shore-leave,
…..Helped. Not much, as ideas drain out,

The empty mind blown clear of leaves,

And moss, and stones, and dogs, and rabbits,

And stumbles towards the waiting kettle.



View From Lose Hill.


Objecting to your inter-personal politics,
Allegations of, rumours of,
Chinese whispering in late Yorkshire bars,
I find solace in peak striving.

You would never believe how far I can throw 
My shadow.

Lose Hill to the valley below.

Frozen silver sunlight,
Striding, walking, stick man.

Thoughts of other filmic dreaming,
Battle with panic anxious death flows,
as once more your lungs strive to climb
Out and up, pulse to match.

No, you'd not believe how far I can throw
My shade, your politics,
My voice to echo this sentiment,
My ambition to descend.

Crossing paths with your insulting bright kagoules,
Anachronistic, we level, but briefly,
To the river,
The railway,
And the warm farm,
With whisky and cake,
Without you. 
 
 
 
(For what it's worth, "Lose" is pronounced "loose" in this context,
 it's near Edale, Derbyshire...)
 
 


 
Unknown Pleasure.


Crazed-fingers, on glass, on steel,
On rubber-matted floors, to feel,
To studs, and belts and jaws so taut,
Never stop just when you ought,
To taste the leather Eden apple fresh,
And whip the frenzy, up on flesh,
To kick, and scream, in agstacy,
While choosing how not to be,
So charged with yearning, and yet,
So unwound-up, on a losing bet,
That life so quick, so sure and able,
Won't leave you, dead, beneath my table.



 
 
Visitor.

My dreams are as real as the night,
I believe in a second sight,
I know how to set things alight,
And I know what's not black is white.

Why do I have to dream of death ?
When foul corpses try to steal my breath,
From whom did I get this curse ?
Losing you only made it worse.

While you once were a visitor to my dreams,
I think you left with the morning beams,
Now the dream-skin slips away in streams,
Leaving me to drown, or so it seems.

I know I should not fear to sleep,
Should long for where willows weep,
Should dip into unconscious pools so deep,
But the grim one lurks and yearns to reap.

My nights are longer now you're gone,
I should have guessed you were 'the one',
But I didn't really understand your song,
Couldn't see how I'd been so dumb.

But these dreams are more real than the night,
And give me a glimpse of second-sight,
Some strange way to set my head alight,
Or a way of falling, from great height.


 


Really??



 

Well, that's a few more off the list, but I'm afraid there are still some more to go.....

Bear with me, I'll get this chapter behind me eventually.....

I'll try not to leave it three months before the next not-especially-gripping installment....



Sunday, 17 December 2017

Love/Hate This Time of Year.




Ghost Towning.


Eleven years, the returning,
The rough city of child's dreams,
Nightmares, wonders, failures, learning,
Floating oddly through imagined streams.

Can't quite remember, something familiar,
So this is how things change,
Parked the car in Wentworth Terr, similar,
At the same time something strange.

St Austin's chapel - remember Judy ?
The coaches that lined up to collect,
Spotty, screwed up free spirits and broody,
The elite, not quite, but maybe the select.

And the school, can't quite bring myself to look,
Can't quite leave it either, here inside,
Keep feeling that I should recognise..where's duck ?
And there's the pub where we used to hide.

Further into town, 'Ziggys' is now 'The Patio',
Sacrilege ! To refurbish my perfect memory,
The streets the same, my head now says go,
When I'm walking through a ghostly reverie.

I keep thinking I might see myself here,
But haven't time to check the station bar,
Nor the attic in the hall, or everywhere,
My shade memory seems not so far.

Walking now through the bus station,
Miming the journey into school,
Catch stupid strange sensation,
They didn't cure this dumb fool.

The geriatric bingo players remain,
Eleven years of sandwiches and teas,
Have they, or I at last gone sane ?
Then at last, the school...please...

Eleven years, the returning,
The battle (school playing-) fields,
The labs, classes, computer rooms, still learning,
To tell the false from all these 'reals'.



 
Flightless Angel.




The librarian’s pride knows a dizzy perch,
Leaving reason on the plains below,
Fist clenched tightly on the leash,
That binds a flightless angel.





Fast racked indexed tones
The words of angels, on virgin silk.


You have been,
Are and
Always will be
The girl I love.


Freestyle.

Giveaway, bargain. The shops all ascream,
Style is free. Free-style.
Dream.
Seem to be in thought-land, magic tree.

Shop keeper nation,
Kiss your inflation,
Credit and charge cards,
Rats in the backyard.

Ascreaming, ascreaming mind how you go,
There's nothing just left now,
But the dirty old snow.

Old snow, grizzled and non-white,
Watch where you're treading,
When you're out for the night.

Have you lost your style lover ?
Soon now discover,
The flowered-up addiction
Pointless prediction :

"Tomorrow will be just as bad..."
"The President was really just mad."
And free.
Freedom fight,
Caterwauling spright,
Defenceless and deafened.

Kiss the sign, and soak up the snow,
Nobody will tell you what you should do.
Freestyle in a municipal bath-house.
Free to be the one,
Or none.

Anyone can join in, and singalong with me,
Today is the day when everything's free,
Nothing to pay 'til the end of the year,
Balance of trade on the end of a spear.

Freestyle baby, freer than nobody's heroes....
Come home now, and love me, your own little zero.


 
High.



The high, whether natural or no,
Varies, every time.

The high you feel at escape,
The moment you hear it all pass by,
Is cool and deep,
Yet is no less real or
Hurts not a feather more
Than that real true second.

The high, whether natural or no,
When you turn to face them,
Screaming out "here I am !"
Pierces your pounding thoughts,
As you collapse and submit,
Knowing this is no less real.

Whether high or not,
Whether real, or dreaming,
We vary, every time.





Lilies


The lilies are out,


Well, this week's at least,


Trumpeting my love




To any who'll listen




Unexpectedly audienceless




Unexpectedly misunderstood




With deep shiny glossed leaves




White bells,


Six point horns




Now silent.




Motorway Driving.

A gap appears in the traffic,
As the rain bounces high off the road.
Your passenger's complaining they're carsick,
In the nearside a lorry sheds its load.

When you think that nowt could get worse,
And the situation can only improve,
Your passenger complains that they'll burst,
And the traffic refuses to move.

The gap that you've seen has gone,
And the stereo has jiggered itself.
All you can do is go on, and
Try to preserve mental health.

Four hours later you've moved a whole mile,
And the atmosphere is wearing thin,
The insanity forces a peculiar smile,
Which then breaks out in a grin.

A gap appears in the traffic,
And the rain bounces high off the road,
Your passenger's been horribly sick,
And your brain has just shed its load.


A bit random, but that in itself seems to be the order of the day. My regular readership seems to have crept up from more of less single figures to over 30....which in itself is nice. Thank you, whoever you might be. The last picture, immediately above, was taken yesterday, and I have to say that it was blooming cold......Seeing as how it's rained more or less all day today, with fog/low cloud, I doubt the Moss will look quite like that tomorrow......




Wednesday, 13 December 2017

Between Lives, Seeing as.....

Seeing as how that is how it feels.


 
Dreamdancing.


The dream of the dance,
With white tiled toilets the size
Unbelievable, of the Albert Hall,
The deja-vu, your dress,

Your fathers signet ring,

Tuxedo ? How Americaine,

And your split skull smiling mother.

Maybe you'd smile as goddamn f*ing much,
If you rattled as you walked,
Or danced on designer drugged clouds,

With Archangel Valium and the Tremazipan Seraphim.

Dreaming did not dilute the senses,
Idiocy, fallacy, total hypocrisy,
The scent of garlic on your breath and clothes,
The stink of piss in the car park,

And the unmistakable stench of Janus.

In step we walk into St Pancras,
Or is it the dance floor,

Dinner of shellfish and langoustine,
With real champagne,
Real glasses,
Really embarrassing.

The memory of her blasted hypocritic's lecture,
On my lifestyle, your future,
My potential, my wasted three years,

My euphoric smoker bows to her depressants,

And duly the thread snaps.


You and I boarding different trains.


And Mrs Goody Flip-top head,
Waves me goodbye, from impossible,
Bar, cave, station toilets, and platform,

As she believes shes doing

The right thing.
Treaclebrain.


Sometimes the thoughts
Transmitted from uncertain sections of the brain,
Take a disproportionate time
To reach the nerves intended,

As if they're rebounding,
Or being held back,

Then being released, by another force,
Or traveling through either


A damaged track
Or
Treacle.

Sometimes truly lovely,

Sometimes truly, disorienting.

After the event,
Simply a cause for concern,

No drug residue
If no drug intent or present.

A many year hang over ?
Or a subject

For further study ?


 
Extract From A Lucid Dream.

Two lush living hedgerows stand,
Twelve feet apart, or thereabouts,
You and I move with hand in hand,
Though in a dream I have no doubts.

Our daughter, that we haven't had,
Walks between us along the grass,
Though I can't see her eyes aren't sad,
I know they smile like shiny brass.

I pick her up and on my shoulders,
We stroll between these neatest rows,
I loose your hand to help me hold her,
And fail to notice your pace now slows.

Carry on this sunny walking,
In a dreaming that I once had,
You've fallen behind as I'm stalking,
And I know I should feel so sad.

As the years roll by I know you're gone,
Leaving me to walk almost all alone,
But my daughter seems forever young,
What I see next near cuts my bone.

Up ahead you stand and smile,
We catch you up, as if you'd never gone,
We walk once more in double file,
I feel like, and raise my voice in song.

Two intensely living hedgerows green,
Twelve feet apart or thereabouts,
Still today, I don't know what it means,
But even in this dream I had no doubts.






Games With No Rules.

Friend or lover, who's to say ?
Who knows best but you and me ?
I'm pissed off with being free,
Need someone to fight with me.

The place that we came to then
Was hot and dusty and all the buildings were white,
The dogs lay in heated gutters,
The sprinklers sprinkled in the gardens.

My insecurity screwed up my haze,
I got lost in your arguments,
Got sucked in the spiral of laziness,
And made love with words of jealousy.

Held hands as we drove to a river beach,
And I felt like it was all so new,
It was all so old and alive,
We swam with the fools gold of short-time.

The day lasted longer than my brain,
I swam in the dark, insane,
I'm sure the fish must have felt the same,
And the fat French man woke up and went home.

Friends, we sat together,
We opened and closed a chapter in our life,
So short are our times together,
I dreamt about you as his wife.

I'm pissed off with living so far from you,
Want more than this game we're in,
And so I do sod all about it,
Except plant more crowded seeds of regret.

To flourish in the melanchol dusty gardens,
Behind my eyes where I sit back,
And laugh and cry and swim,
And make love to you in my mind's bed.



 
Happy Slippers.


Quickly cutting, the hazed, overhot,
Staggered horridly to the wood-covered door,
Flung open the horrid, wooden, hinged flap,
Into May, late balmy over-calm night,
Fell in brown slippers forward and drew breath.

Hideously contrasted by refreshment,
Drunken not, but inebriated on clear air,
Smooth, too warm perhaps, maybe, could be, humid.
Liquidly, ten-thirty, sweetly, lungs filled,
Compares ridiculously with smokey fire-heated comfort,
Reminds someone of something long ignored.

Happy slippers, heels trodden, into evening grass,
Transport the spirit to the ludicrous dream,
Heralded the storm, or rumoured the summer,
Nights of last, but thirsty, unsure perceptions,
Quickly forgot, to the host tin coffin.
Inexplicably perched, on exposed meadow-like hillside,
Now irrelevant, as desire seeks out tin-womb return.



 
Green. (2)


Not quite stagnated, quite,
Green, but the green of decay,
Scented by mould.
A broken hand-glass,
A shattered illusion,
Splinters of nothingness,
Bloody fur, on scum.


 
False hope.

Stop for your own sake,
Take a quick gap and take
A second to really soak in
All the depths of this scary thing.

Gap analysis.

Take that walk and turn around,
Roundabout love under stars of Wales.
And boarding the ship
We must part, for now.


You seized my eyes
Dragged my voice and dowsed my love,
To the ground of your floor.

Lying berserk and lost,
I felt your face in this darkness,
And tasted your mind.

Anger and repressed longing,
Dreams of free love, tense hang-ups,
And this squalid carry-on.

You held my hand and my tongue,
opening your barriers for insane moments,
Of crazy emotion induced love.

And this dark carpet beneath,
Holds its own counsel, and guards
Against the return of forgotten reservations.

Forget-me-not, astrewn abandoned and out of season,
Blows rag-tag across the 2am wet lane,
And my muscles remember that peculiar night.





Dead Bulb



There are lights coming up the hill,
Far too fast for some odd reason,
To this small town tight lane.

Your lights are too fast, and too bright,
No sense but bags of reason,
Makes me consider the dead bulb
In my emotional tail-light.




I am so trying with the whole night/timed-exposure/stars thing, but it's bloody hard to get it right. You can mess around with the aperture, fine, the shutter-speed, fine, the ISO level, yes, I get that, but actually manually focusing on a distant point, in the dark, when you're long-sighted...is tricky, believe me, it is. Add to that the minus 8 or whatever it was the other night......Sheesh, I'm glad these came out at all......

Life really sucks right now, but hey, my usual caveat applies, so I'll leave that one to you dear reader. What would you do? Keep sodding on...yes, that's all you can do at time, just keep sodding on.

Why does my brain kick off at midnight, and then refuse to stop until it's time to actually wake up and go get ready for the day ahead???? Bugger.

Zombie......

Here's a timed exposure of the snow the other night.......

 

I loved it so much I messed around with it, and some others, and a couple of video clips.......




Addiction fighting, and trying to understand where I'm at......Welcome to the end of 2017. I will raise a glass, and share, and shed a tear to the whole thing.

Happy December. x