Monday, 14 January 2019

January Blues, and Just Stuff & Nonsense

Trip At The Seaside.

The world is muffled, partially, patchily,
Sounds leap out and grab my attention,
Shapes are unreal and follow their own logic,
Nauseating irritants inhabit my senses,
The wallpaper dances above the twin corpses,
My own movements are blurred and jerky,
Image after image, delayed input of data,
As I reach my limit I gather my strength,
Just enough to be comfortable when I pass out.

To picture the stream that we swam down,
To fertile oceans, eventual, and clear, sincere,
Would not explain the smallness,
The simple, tiny crystals,
Spinning through this cottage love,
Nor the serene, ineffable,
Chainsaw, beneath my chair,
Nor the blue gold, and stars,
In your hair,
Streaming, simple, serene,
Pictures of this life's effort,
Simple and, ineffable, yellow.


I feel like a tree
With roots deep below this pub floor,
Drinking in essence of wholesome ages,
Wobbling slightly.
In reality fractured by frame of mind.

Fractured by abuse,
Of the Percept.

The girl who flirts with peculiar intensity,
Is sacrificially undressed,
Mentally embraced,
And completely included in this view.

Smiling she lets the tree undress her,
And wriggles her flirt with instinct,
Distinctive, mentally promising.

And the stoned tree wavers and
Folds stiffly against the years,
And chairs with a girlfriend.

I feel like the felled lumber,
Timber for the mental fire,
The rush that comes is
At least in essence is wholesome,
Wobbling slightly,
In unreal fractured view of laughing girls.

2013 (It was already shut obviously.)



Village Kharma.

Bring all your infectious kharma, fruit & poison,
To new century chapters and village affairs,

- This is life, just as we know it.

Bring your "501"s, red wine, and hang-ups,
CDs, smoke, a beady bangly thing,
And the sweetest dark brooding viscious lust,
And pour it down my throat, get it stuck in my teeth,

And I'll sing my century back to you,
To your navel, to your hands, to all of you,

- Is this your life, chapters, and red affairs ?

And at the space for after thoughts, and glow,
Deliver your truth in sleepy kisses.

And as your thought falls into the coals,
And your CD sticks to "your song",
We tumble into unconscious chapters, and village kharma.

Wandering left handed
by the grateful fire-sided banquet laden
loaded maiden hand-holding and a
spring in your silent step step step
to the door with stairs that lead
to the promise beyond

the pale shelter offered in this
cottage love that shines and glisters
in the night you remember that
you're in a wood where billy brock resides

with a tongue that burns and you walk to warm
the memory of that night beneath
the marriage quilt of deep seated emotional feeding
when boys find what it's really all about
and shout and cry to the rhyme

of a reasonable one
who needs a prop as much as you
but cannot seem to divide the two
and you think she loves you and you know
you can't say what real life is all about

and gives you just enough room to start
to doubt that life you've learned is
what it seemed and then you hear
that poets dreamed

and the cottage night is then begun
before the dawning of the sun
and silent step step step

you lead me to your bed
and the fire settles for the night
and now I know that all's alright

and kiss you madly.

About 70% of these houses didn't exist when I was a kid in the 1970s. The entire upper right hand quarter of the picture was fields, as the majority of the upper third, and a load of the rest. Tragic.

You might be able to guess, just from the framing, and aspect, which house I grew up in, (in the "above" picture) which was there way before the over-whelming majority of the others, no clues other than that, but I was extremely lucky, and know it.

Watching You

I was watching you
Watching you watching
You were
You were listening
What ?
Could You hear ?
Can you Remember ?
Remember way back
You were listening
What ?
Could you hear ?
Do you still think ?
"Oh those Eastern days." ?
I was
I was listening
What ?
Could I hear ?
I was listening, you
Watching, me watching
What ?
Could you see ?
Now time runs out
Time is running out
You were
Romancing you were
Do you love ?
And now I am scared
Scared if the phone rings
I am
I am confused
What ?
Does it mean ?
Where ?
Where are you now ?
When I need a hand ?
You are
Distanced you are
So far away now...

I know, I know. I'm posting seemingly random old stuff, there are some links, and some of those reveal my own inadequacies, and insecurities. I strive though, at least a bit, to hold up a mirror to myself in the process, and it's not a pretty sight sometimes. I am not misanthropic, though maybe I was extremely insecure in my teens and twenties, oh, and thirties.... I over-think everything, and end up in the worst in-between place mostly.

This entire blog is part of my trying to explain it all, and I thank both of you for actually bothering to read it.

This last five, or six, or seven years have been extremely challenging, and I'm in no way through that challenge as yet, and refuse to lose it. There has been a hell of a lot of loss along the way though, and it all seems senseless, and desperately sad.

Don't judge me though, please, I do enough of that on my own already.


Occasionally life throws up sights like this, and while they may not translate terribly well, they mean a hell of a lot to me.

Stay strong out there, and just love.

Sunday, 13 January 2019

More Catch-Up; Sorry and all.....


A new seedling twists about,
Under a cover of dark,
Searching upwards for freedom,
Pressing firmly to light.


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.

Ask the killer if he knows

(Strange how we assume its 'he')

Just how far it is to go.

The Gypsy King.

Female cat on the yard wall,
Surveys the suitors,
The gypsy toms with vagabond smiles,
And deigns to sing a love song,
The chorus, banal,
Offends her delicate sense.

Gypsy King alights and croons,
The lady is charmed,
And moonlight starts the dance.

Oh, the games to play with
The emotions of kings,
Of ladies, and even
Of gypsies.


Gypsy Marsh.

Standing in a dawn mist,
Down by Gypsy Marsh,
Half-dreams of your last kiss,
In times I'd call harsh.

Hollow glow through the trees,
A chill on a fevered brow.
The child takes in all he sees,
Bows down to the holy cow.

Witness to the virgin light,
Detract from mental pain,
Resists well the urge for flight,
In the valley of the slain.

As the faery beams then take hold,
And the new age is begun,
Twenty-four hours in the cold,
Relieved by the morning sun.

But observation on the edge of life,
As the swans survey the land,
May send inward chaos rife,
Destroy the urge to understand.

Half-dreaming of unreal days,
Abroad this land so harsh,
I found I believe in what she says,
Standing in Gypsy Marsh.

Hands. 1.

Hands are those of another,
Older, perhaps more mature,
Retain, illusory suggestions girl,
(The rear of a young boy)
As feminine as forgotten wiles,
Angular skeleton.

Hands and nails torn, worn to harsher,
Less lovely perhaps, those of industry,
Those of academie, later of hashish,
Later still, to still my shoulders,
Neck to knead, and then to feed,
To weave new spell fabric.

Transparent skin to reveal what within ?
No hard glass surface, nor vacant stares,
No blood perhaps, blue lines direct,
Old attentions mature, suggestive of age,
And hawk-like precisions of touch,
To touch through these layers.

Hands. 2.

Nails and hands torn, worn to harsher
Harsher progress, slow-time in metal,
Where once graced vellum, and cartridge,
Reveals cartilage, and hashish histories.

Hands. 3.

Around the glass, her hands,
Strangling occasional whisky drops to lips.
Idly settle, blue-bottle distraction,
Nerves caress cheap-bar-crystal.
Flicker in visible veins,
While toying with these mental games.
Flit to wing, upstarted, to hawk a fag,
To lighter, dead, to match, then drag.
Hands older than they should be,
Holding the tar talisman.
One returns to drape more energies on,
More whisky, or was it rum ?


Haunted by your picture,
Nothing new, just an aged thought,
Kind of "What if..?"
Kind of moment of weakness.

 Kind of you to share with me
 Bits of your life, and loves.

When you finished with her,
Why pick on me ?
Why breed insanity ?
Why make love to me ?

Man against woman,
Fool against her,
Not much left in common,
Which sex do you prefer ?

Dance sex, and drink love,
Come with me, down above,
And we will explode,
Not too far to overload.

 Kind of shared dream that died,
 Kind of bedsit, where we lied.

Haunt me still,
Nostalgic overkill,
But memories fade to this,
The sweetness of your kiss.

"Hello, is ____ there ? What...? Oh, it's me,
I'm in _____ and thought I'd try to get in touch
While I was here. Oh, right....I see,
I'm sorry to trouble you, perhaps you could say
Just say, I called."

The tight pulse in your heavily drugged arteries
Belies the cold school room floors,
The library
The hall
The stage, God, the stage.

Hey ! That was something, wasn't it ?

Hello Scotland, Hello James,
Hello smoke, Hello James,
We make some team, huh ?

Your jealous eyes,
Reflected in this half whisky glass.

My letters are all gone
Your replies litter my room
Like confetti gone mad.
With sure promises of uncompromising.

When you go to the church
Will you tell yourself I called ?


Really, looking through hind eyes,
With full twenty, and everything,
Its like kind of, more than apparent,
Kind of obvious,
I should have

Smelled coffee, and backed out quick,
Instead, another kiss,
And hard earned, now passionate,

This realisation arrives hindways,
Full detail, and obvious passion,
Its like, kind of, more than twenty,
Obvious regret,
Hard earned everything,
Full kiss.

Weak High

At a weak, but strangely high moment :

It all came vaguely apparent,

All kind of nearly clear,

Some kind of self-perspective,

I needed you here.

But Swansea, Devon, the Lakes, and Wales,

All passes into my focus, unfocussed sight,

All the "not-to-try"s, and the "tried-but-failed"s,

On this rainy, dreary, stoning night.

The hour, the dope, or beer,

Couldn't quite expel the fear,

Couldn't make you come to me,

Didn't feel like, completely free.

The "weak" is the fatigue,

Caused by, whatever, or not,

Brings me in a different league,

Where to touch is hot.

The "high" is successful return,

To seek, and to try to learn,

To experience life, for what its worth,

More than a wet night, in Holmfirth.

Time thereabouts, or nearly so,

Now its time for me to go.

At a strangely high, but weak moment :

Monday, 7 January 2019


In Memorium Of My Pal Ginger.

So farewell then, old Ginger tomcat,
No more warm hours, on the lawn sat,
No more lady cats to woo, or to strut for,
Purring for human's pleasure, no more.
On top of the kitchen fire I'll think of you,
Sleeping away your days, just as cats do.
Patiently waiting for food, down there in the corner,
I remember you, and feel like a mourner.
There was no malice in your heart,
As you simply played a part,
As resident "Lord of the Manor".
Would you want us to stake out a banner
In your name, to remember your grace,
I think not Ginger, with your ginger face.

How Old Were You Ginger ?

How old were you mate ?
We never knew as you didn't say,
I saw you once by the old field gate,
Slipping timidly out of the hay.

You appeared one winter some years ago,
Eating bread put out for the birds,
Starving and thin, out cold in the snow,
Not responding to our human words.

You gave us your trust that year,
In exchange for a home to live in,
With your ragged and flea bitten ear,
And a past, p'raps steeped in sin.

When you purred, you meant it,
You were quiet and warm,
In our home you simply fit,
Safe and free from harm.

Fare thee well, old Ginger mate,
I think of you, by the old field gate,
In the sun, not in the snow,
But you said, you had to go.

Well, another hiatus, and yet here we are again....2019 to boot.

Happy New Year, onwards and up.

Another few catch-ups to do yet, well, I say that, still 229 "old ones" excluding these....I so thought I was closer, and wish I'd made more effort now, but this last couple of years have been "interesting" as far as my recent life goes, and the muse has been, gone, come back for a party, then left, then texted a few know how it can be. I know she'll revisit, with a fire of creativity to spur me on, while I still, after all the last attempts crashed, want to try to make my photos accessible, and sellable....but I am chaos incarnate most of the time, so don't hold your breath.

Currently I have 33,700 photos in 731 folders on my back-up drive's not bragging, as I lost over 10,000 when one of my old pcs died a few years ago. I try my best to manage and organise them, but sometimes think that it might be a good idea to start a whole new structural method off to make them more accessible. I mean, for example, it took me nearly 20 minutes to find the cat in the top picture, even though I knew it was this year.....couldn't find it in "Home" or "Cats" or any of the last two years "Holme Valley" or "Arty for the sake of it" etc...... and yet, after refreshing the last folder, 936 pictures, there it suddenly was.....


I will just toddle on and try to get some good pictures in the future, and hope I know how to find them if ever I need to....


Nothing, void, chasm of soundless, stillness,
The space between the top of the glass, and the wine,
Or beer,
Or scotch.
The sound that's left when the echo dies,
The light that remains when the switch is off,
When the candles out.
When the thinker dies,
The hole in my head,
My heart,
My life.
The usefulness of the womb, newly delivered,
The empty matchbox when the fires to light,
The fag packet,
Used sellotape,
Old batteries,
Less use than the really vacant space in a thermos lining,
Dry stream bed,
Dead trees next to a dead river,
A broken walking stick,
Flat tyre.
Sometime unrequited, like a mindless slave,
To a freedom that has no meaning,
To a meaning that has no freedom.
A melted ice-cream sentiment.
Where we used to sit and laugh,
And love, and laugh, and love.
A chasm that no one can illuminate.

Green Man.

Turning to the hollow mood,
The shaded home of old green men,
Finding solace in a mound of food,
Or in the dancing foxes' den.

Breathing through the hollow reed,
The shaded call of the old green man,
Emotions truly from the air bleed,
Part of the Architect's plan.

But the old green man sleeps,
Cool, shady pools of sad foundation,
Deep in roots below where the willow weeps,
The Lady's nymphs attend his station.

How To Think.

Refresher course in "How to Think"

Not sublime, or restrict by drink,
Or draughts of drugs, and thoughts unstable.

Simply grab it all while you are able,

Before your number is called up,
And the vision of the golden cup,
Or black holes in flying dreams,
Streams of doubt and willing queens.

Never to feel what your position is,
Is not to drown in streams of piss.

Or slap my back 'cause I'm doing fine,
When unstable on old corked red wine,
With dregs of vodka and snorts of speed,
Never just agree that's what I need.

Still, parts of my brain remain inactive,
Not like once before, the church of "Saint Tiff"

(Where are you now ? You tired plaintiff.)

No longer will we carry on,
Simply stop, and jump,

No crock of gold
No saints or angels
Just a small doorway
From the rainbows end
To the playground
Of the peripheral man.

Sunday Morning

Rebelling, you rend me

And wind me

Like a top.

Admiration turns to admonition

No remedial revolution.

Just a warm space in bed

From your recline

And fall.

While I know there's always been "graffiti", I was once young enough to be able to actually read and understand what it said and meant.....

Sheesh, the kids today.....


One more maybe:

The Idea Man.

Open your doors
Throw open your minds
Hark to the call,
Roll up the blinds.

For the idea man is here in town
Children gaily dance around
Old men walk straight and hum an air
Young girls only stand and stare.

He's not a daemon, nor a charm
Ideas he spawns may do you harm
Dreams he gives you may make you king
Or maybe they won't change a thing.

Sombre dressed with hazel eyes
Has he told you truth or lies ?
Did he accept the offered drink ?
Has he made you stop and think ?

Share a moment with this man
He'll wind your brain up if he can
Until the coil spring nearly breaks
Or at least until your head it aches.

All a bit random? Hmm, what did you expect? Sense??

Soon kids, soon.

Saturday, 1 December 2018

Go For It. Go to Bed.


Nine billion names have I,
None of which is Birdman,
Nor Fishboy,
Nor anything connected with you.

Nor will I share the one surname I know,
Not with you, my dear, my deer only temporarily.

Make love to a god,
"Screw You !" He said.

Here I sit in this Tibetan retreat,
Writing out my names,
On the line that says
"Pay the bearer"

My cheque to God.

My fruitless, but not uneventful cheque,
The billion moments of my life,
Started with the unknown woman,
And ended with an unknown.

And sit with me for a moment on this wheel,
And recall your own.
Recall our own.
As I die in your arms again,
How many fucking times ?

How many more ?

It's a dead giveaway you know,
With those eyes.

Nine billion eyes,
Nine billion lies,
Nine doesn't divide equally by two,
But nine billion does.

Four and a half billion times I loved you,
I suppose one more can't hurt.

Those eyes, those dreamy eyes.

Fish and Chips.

A vinegary smile,
Waiting at the bus stop,
Kissing in the rain,
A police car flies past,
I kiss you, again,
The bus arrives, and I
Am left with
Fish and chip love
And rain.

Several Beers Later & Comfortable.

I don't feel actually alone,
I'm not actually alone,
Rob's here, so there.
What's missing remains so,
Not just a partner,
Not a sexual thing,
More a clone, or sister.

Another part, waiting.

Talking is a bit of it,
I guess I talk to Rob.

I'm not simply horny, or turned on,
That's not quite it.

I'm short, fifty percent.
My wife doesn't even know me,
I'm only twenty-one, and hell,
If I'm this cut up about it all,
I may as well be a clone or sister.

Talking is a sexual thing,
What's missing is quite it,
Still, I have myself, and fifty percent.

My wife is a bit of it,
I guess I talk to Rob,
He's here, she's not.

I'm not simply a partner, or a sexual thing,
More twenty-one, and alone,
Not just waiting, another part.

I'm not feeling alone, so there,
I don't actually feel missing,

I may as well remain so.


Feeling reflective and feeling a fool,
The two things go nicely together,
Feeling slightly lonely and used,
I guess.
With her, is a foolish reflection too.

I know I posted a random video thing based on this, so this should go there, or that should go here.....
(Did I YT it? Or just FB it......? Either way I just found the original, as I trawl through the "old stuff"......

Found it.......



When the last droplet of gas 
Squeezed to boil from canister red
To moist heat this old tin shed
The last damp flame zipped, then died.

When dejected in a rare spring frost
Sitting on life deep dead sponges
May count now the choice of cost
Count stolen milk and soap and dope.

Hard Bargaining.

It is not a foregone conclusion,
Not a predetermined thing,
Not planned out by the hand of fate,
Too late, too soon,
Too much, to expect.

Not a frank admission of God

Cumulus sits on weathered frown,
Brow to heathered thought stream,
Not the soft imagined solstice,
Simple and delightful in time.

Stretched out your belief once,
Twice and sits comfortably,
But not in this ridiculous song.

Never should you shoot at fish,
Nor clouds nor stars nor suns,
Test leads reactions to new surrounds
Test mine to heavy guns.

Seeking late Elysial entry, to deny.

(Is this denied ?)

Forever to exclude
To sink ethereal, forget my cloud

Never to predict
Not to forget
Never to submit
Predetermine my demise, admitting mistakes.


That picture is DEFINITELY not mine, so I don't claim anything about it, but nor can I attribute it to the author, sorry, this is not a cash generating site, and I claim "fair use".......

Still I get the sentiment carried in much more over the last few years.......

Telephoning She.

I rang you up to boil my head,
I might as well have rung the dead,
A bricked up mind, and communication,
Impossible in our situation.

Hot plastic telephone hides your face,
Two hundred odd miles from this place,
Down the road-worked motorway would I chase,
If emotions would take up this race.

But to talk is to dodge the thoughts,
Of things we've done and what we ought,
To do now to keep things going,
Perhaps your silence is a way of showing.

I should never have pretended not to love you,
You needed more than you knew I could give you,
The double bluff was called and we discover,
What it means to lose your lover.

I replace the melting telephone receiver,
I, the false one, the great deceiver,
Two hundred miles, I can see your face,
You might as well be in outer space.

I might as well be Peter Pan,
I'd not make a good Desperate Dan,
But in cloud cuckoo land, the never never,
The dreamer's heart strings are now severed.


Sod Off Old Girl Friend.

We sat in time for minutes,
Echoing events of ten years back,
Pre-guessing those ten hence too.

Why ? Neither really gives a toss,
Well maybe a bit, but really,
I wasn't bleeding then,
Now ? Its just a graze.

And the
Stretched skin splits.


Car genius, box world,
Logic, where's your romance ?

Express shit in dull wine bar silence,
Though irreverent, my truth stinks.

I cling to a notion that I should hurt,
Either way of reading that, I don't,
Not deliberate.

You didn't hurt me.

I finished it six/ten years ago,
So what ? Why ?

Growing over aeons of mental ungrowth,
Unrest riot and decay, entropy love.
A notion of negative drift.

Now please just 
Sod off.

Wettest afternoon, in mudbath sex games,
Melt to rainbow swimming in dream streams,
Set to statue-like beauty, but warm, wet, alive,
Time to draw fleshed curtains over, just to survive.

Then pissed and skull-less, one Thursday,
I fucked you off, for once and all,
And your blind ears tasted nothing,
Deaf cow so sacred, how I wished to run.

To the back page of this sorry story,
Before adverts of sad old book clubs,
Opium for the few who can still read,
Belies the paperback spineless diarist.

Voyeurist saving video-hire money for all,
Tomorrows beers, and laddered gloves,
To drive, and chip, and crash into bunkers,
Before the rain starts, and brings another wet afternoon.

On Friday the whole thing was at last forgot,
At best damp and sordid, like the sex book,
And the borrowed lines from pissed voyeurs,
Recalling dancing, and rainbow fleshy wet afternoons.

Leading into the inevitable talk about love,
Where deaf eyes turned hollow to the back page,
Where the nights all run, into a stoned streaming,
Of melting mudbaths and sacred sex-wishing.

And inevitable closing sequence, to not be continued,
Statuesque sobriety and serene, but wet, hypersanity,
When one finds to admit the basics is to deny her love,
Reading between the opium, the Friday bunker voyeur drew blank.

I had so much to say, but hey, it's nearly 4 AM, and I need sleep.

These few pieces are mostly over 20 years old, and no way comment on anything that has happened over the last few years.

Bits are telling me how shit I am at relationships though, so there's that......

Most of the pics above are from phone(s) but I just thought they seemed appropriate. well some were, on reflection, and after reviewing, I think it's obvious..........