Saturday, 20 October 2018

More Catchup. Sorry!

 The Apes.

Not a true anarchist, maybe,

But I will not be ordered by apes,
Look about you !

Shout !

Look about you !

I will not be ruled by monkeys,
Civil service flunkies,
Money, cash, drug, life,
Nothing for me here babe,
Not too late
To get saved.

No sirree,
No monkey for me,
No diamond studded chamber,
No reminder
Of reverse evolution.

Devolve yourself from the apes,
No grapes for me,
I'm free.

No sirree,
 No apes rule me.

The Exile.

Exiled from physical love,
But sanctuary is in the family arms,
Embraced and trapped in time.

Because this is so, and you have gone,
I wallow in self pity, and whoredom,
Sleazy animal instinct runs my mind,
And here I lie in another bed.

Thinking of you.

I am exiled by choice, I guess,
May even change my mind,
But I think, I still wanted you.

When I saw your bitch photo,
In the local paper, I saw it,
I hated you and mentally then had you,

But missed your loving smile,
Missed you like crazy, I guess.

I sit in this platonic setting,
Pleasantly pissed off with you,
And at myself,

For caring.

The Middle String.

Novelty approaches ridicule,
To die beneath a mint comet,
To sleep between flesh valley, and sun hill,
Romanesque garden order and logical sex.

Gas fired, unholy candles proclaim intent,
The sleeping hunter stalks through reverie,
Brusque interview on level six,
Says nothing to perspective of sheer glass cliffs.

"Wait here" she says as reason leaves,
And your random spider leg caress begins,
Paralell falling leaves tumble into head space,
And the waking dream drinks in your presence.

To ridicule the mime, or to mimic the comic,
Pagan ritual commands that I sacrifice this,
To household gods of commerce and free fall,
And provides the clarity of the dawn vision.

To wake in cauldrons of dry sex, track eight,
Rollover spending on a micro level, how economic,
When friends turn traitor, and mice eat rat's pizza,
And then novelty dies, in your dead grey eye.

The tar talisman between the
Lady's fingers.
a drifting trail of mystery
Sharp scented.

Symbol of what high regard,
One can hold one's life in.

Illicit pleasures and anxiety
Minimal. (Mind-back nagging.)


Sultry pose, cool martini,
Atmospheric no-go zone.

Image destroyed as butt
Hits ash-tray.

It's mid-October, it's summer out there, though cold in the shade to be fair.

I'm in a random "challenge" on photography, in a private group of two, and it's helping me so much to re-see things. Things I see all the time, in a purely compositional, and different way.

I'm reading more of Ted Hughes, and thinking, apart from his eclectic and bizarrely random use of his dictionary, and probably Encyclopedia, yes, he was a word-smith, but his ability to carry his thoughts across was something that many might find "too much". If you know what I mean.

Story of my life really.....

Here's a duck:                (With some others to be fair)

Goodness me, we made it into double figures again.....!

Kiss all of you. Tell your creative friends. Don't tell anyone else, they're all dead already.


Monday, 1 October 2018

White Sodding Rabbits

Just A Suggestion.

Think in tuneless, picture-song,
Smile in time, with thought,
Meaning, that not to, is wrong,
And, find all that's sought.

Wait, with patience, for the time,
Think again, of where you've been,
Perhaps I hoped you'd see my mime,
Cannot be sure, just what you'd seen.

Forget all that, and haunty prayer,
Simply live, as you feel,
Meaning, do all, that you think you dare,
Live intense, from meal to meal.

From reel to reel, to screen, and back,
Pictures projected into your mind,
Meaningless tunes, on an old sound track,
Deep within, where love is blind.


“It’s so nice to use your mind”

She said, and I know it’s true….

Double hook, switch and back,
Triple twist and image painting

Recreational use of my head.

As I climb into the stupor, external,
My head-ballet begins again,

And moving lubricational through life,
To life and lives and loves and back….

Outside and somewhat away

From the beaten track.


Cocktail stick, bus ticket flag,
Inverse bucket castellations,
Small spade-depth moat,
Old shell battlements,
Pebbles too, maybe,

Protecting the inner-true
You from
My incoming love-tide.

Dissolving your sand-walls,
In hot holiday memory,
Sun baked English beach,
With ice-cream and,
Knotted hankies, old men.

Us small ones paddle,
And running hard,

We bomb sandcastles,
With barefeet.

Your love washes against my walls,
As mine yours,
With pebbles too, maybe.

I can't take full credit for this one, though I'm sure I re-wrote it my way. I won't go into the back-ground, but a friend called Sarah wrote the original which I changed a bit. She was having a particularly shit time, and I listened. If ever I do make "print" then I will ask her about it...

 Sarah's Poem

I’m not a poet or scribe,
Nor an author or diarist,
I’m a mathematician
Living through numbers,
Not words.

But numbers don’t express emotion,
They’re set.
Rigid and conforming,
They can’t flow,
Can’t describe,
Just own bare, factual meaning.

Like me.

I’m a number,
Not a sentence or phrase.
Emotion isn’t conveyed
As numbers fail to free it
From the prison of my logical mind.

Though life isn’t logical,
So why the patterns of numeracy?
Why the need to fit boxes?
The strive for uniformity?

I’ve been placed on a track,
Never to leave it.
Stuck on this line, unable to detour
Via Reaction or Feeling.
So here I am,
A number.
A staid, statistical sign.
Bereft of expression.
Until I find words.

Sleepless Examination.

I'd like to stretch out my arms,
Embrace all, and nothing.
I'd like to sleep,
I'd like to sleep with all of you,
I'd like to live, long enough to try,
I'd like to sleep.

Please love me, I love you,
Confiscating your love,
Stealing your dreams for tonight,
Waking in love pools,
Sheets sticky with last night's heat,
And recognition that its not enough.

Playing fire catching, losing and winning,
Simple games have the deepest skill,
And complicate my need for you,
My rejection is the truest love,
Rejecting the pain I know will come,
To share my pain with everyone,
To share dim moments with the night.

To sleep, so deep, my dreams to keep,
Is enough ambition for the sheep,
Enough to hold me from the leap,
And another body lands on the heap.

Stretching out my arms to enfold,
And love, and stifle, and drown,
In lakes of, pools of damaged emotion,
Pure thought of the clear visioned,
Outcast, self exiled lover of dreams.

I did have a male friend in mind when I wrote this next one, but hey.....

Taking Liberties.

I'll take it all,
Everything you can throw.


I will not stop.

I will take your life,
Your house,
Cash, dog, car,
Horse, pictures and
Even your gun,

Even though I'll take it all,
However big, or however small,

Your woman will forever be
Forever, safe from me.


There was a time

Split the universe into two equal parts
Draw a line, find some dots if you have to

Right in the middle, that’s where

My life started and ended

Stupid line crossing mistake

I’d spell it out, but who’d give a second thought? Shit.

I’d say somebody would, but
She’s not the one I loved.

But, oh, you know.

There was a time.

Worm's Head.

This is the car park
the field that they use as a car park
next to the small hotel and National Trust Visitors centre
that has a nineteen sixties feel though timeless
is the place you now stand for the millionth time

the hang-gliders in the sky like great dragons
from an impressive distance dancing and gliding
as they do from time to time in the over heated air
above the not so mild looking surf that breaks

on the ten mile shore that curves to an infinitive caravan
park beyond which there is nothing but more
open sea and more south welsh coast
if it's clear you can see it all from here

so we walk to the cliff's edge and marvel at the drop
to the beach with the ribs of shipwrecked dreams
with white surf playing there for the open eyed
to see the patient sea playing as your eyes see

the last million times you were here you hear
the words and walk to the green to the very end of it all
with gorse and rock-roses in abundant splendour and history
and sheep grazing on impossible cliff ledges

where the bodies get washed out to the distant deeps
where you make your way slowly as we all do eventually
you come to the rock-pooled causeway that sweeps
right-handed to the structure that holds the real devils bridge

and you walk below it one time your friend above
the camera records the difference between the sun
and the rock not daring to check the tide
you make the island cringing on grazed knees and hands

grasp the climb to the very end you sit as close
to the one hundred plus foot drop into rather vicious
waves that mock the bravery you fake for the intrusive camera
that you leave behind in the car in the field that they use as a car-park

you live in this place at the edge you can sometimes make out
the distant form of Lundy and beating the incoming tide
you can see seals and cormorants at play with work not far
to go as you simply soak in the mystery and history

you see that white farm below the hangliders is
the one place I would want to live and die
at Worm's Head and shoulders
In the car-park at Rhosilli.

No real "news" just stuff. Work, drink, sleep, repeat. Occasionally have a nice time socialising, eating curry, chatting nonsense, laughing and getting older.

White sodding rabbits.

Hope you're all good? All six or seven of you?

Wednesday, 26 September 2018



Kind of dazzled,
Kind of blues man, no muse man,
No clues,
No reason, no time left, no sleep,
Kind of dumb.

The repetition, who loves you ?
The interpreter,
The starlit mental beach,
Heated dreams, beach fire.

Haunted, taunted,
Why do we confess ?
Don't want your forgiveness,
Kind of puzzle,
Enigma varies for your ears,
Teaching by rote,
Passive loving,
Insanely angry.

Kind of sunburned,
Kind of rock and roll at night man,

Jazz me baby,
Kind of passively needing your touch,
Holding my foetal stance,
Keeping close for comfort.

Wednesday, 12 September 2018

Challenging Times in Many Ways.

Daemon Drink. Drunk Daemon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

(Will you touch me mute one ?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have You ?

You have my address,
Have you got my child ?

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

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

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

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

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

You have my address,
Have you got my child ?

Headlong In The Maze.

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

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

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

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

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

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


How Droll.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In School.

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

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

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

I Don't Do Comedy.

I don't do comedy,

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

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

And I waited
And I waited,

And it came to half past ten,

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


And then it got to twenty to...

So I rolled a little combination,

And everso poetically,

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

to the pub.

 The Anarchy Clown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday Afternoon

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

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

A step too fast?

No matter,

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

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

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

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

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

How English,
Misplaced passion, or true,
Incongruous chorus

On a lazy Sunday afternoon,
With tea.

Mostly Jazz Apathy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy September one and all.

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

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