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.


Giveaway, bargain. The shops all ascream,
Style is free. Free-style.
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.


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.


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.


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.

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

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 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.


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

Handling Fee

I am brewing some new ideas, but they haven't made it to the finished form as yet. I have to stop beating myself up about everything, and just push the ideas into some new, non-self-deprecating, and self-hating territory. No self-pity, just acceptance of where I'm at, and why.

So much of it is still my own fault.....

Back on track, I'm still working through my old crap, so that will have to do for now, though the vast majority of the photos are contemporary....


On the edge of the circle, lie the signs,
The Sword of Valour, the Crown of Justice,
The others sparkle, in the dew.

Pain and remembrance, never in vain,
Hallowed groves of ancient loving,
The spinning globe underfoot, the arcing skies...

Dancing to a tune from the minstrel's pipe,
The dead-wood shaped, in me, forever.

Black eyes, black heart, black sheep and now...?

The wise man turns and knows,
The children ignore the green,
Seven score warriors from the isle of the free,
Dancing like fireflies around a candle flame.
Mossy stones receive skin,
Forever to be held within.

Coldness and discomfort, Hell and Fire,
Beelzebub touches me, taunting and how,
The old man watches and thinks.

A diamond breaks the water's surface,
A ringlet of white grown from heaven,
Behold me, don't reject me,
I am here.

Tuesday, 28 November 2017

Just Get Over Yourself Man

A Familiar Man.

In England's green desert,
Where everything grows,
There's a man on the loose,
Who nobody knows.

He'll sit by your side,
One day on the train,
But you'll never see him,
Or share in his pain.

In England's green desert,
Where everything grows,
There's a man on the loose,
Who nobody knows.

If somebody asked him,
Just what had gone wrong,
I doubt he would answer,
The tale is too long.

In England's green desert,
Where everything grows,
There's a man on the loose,
Who nobody knows.

How could he lose it,
When it never belonged ?
Careless to a fault,
How could he be wrong ?

In England's green desert,
Where everything grows,
There's a man on the loose,
Who nobody knows.

After Bishopston.

Abundance of green glory
A shortage of
The material.

Spiritual, fantastical.
Innocence, flirting.

Dry stream bed, washes our feet.
In the stinking heat,
In the green-glory.
In the hidden valley.

But free floating in this haze,
To ignore the inquiring witness gaze,
A freedom bid, unknown inquirer,
And it matters little now, besides.

Cool roots drink dry the stream bed,
Dark cool place,
A faint tinge of a past
Dark cool place.

Green-glory in abundance,
A shortage of
Unasked questions.

In the hidden


Bullet point
Splits hairs
And tears
Your wound politic

Lead rhetoric
And carmine reason
Carbine power
Tipped juggernaut force

Shattered argument
To bloody cause
Spilled out
As the idea ricochets
Into hollow death.

Holme Moss in the snow....

Bureaucratic Slaughter.

Bloody daft headless ferret
Backing down the tube to the conservatory
Rabbits shooting hypodermic laughter
Inward crunching of anaesthetic/lunacy
Side-salad of cunning cyanide/undressing
Playboy pinnies, dust-puff-ball tail pulling
With rapidly gyrating official orgasm

Incessant hysteria in this euthanistic orgy
Control/capping/regulation/order, manages -
To defy the newly carnate after-birth
Complete diet mutated (defendant) gene prodigy
To re-wax his infant hairless ears
Prophylactic accessory by nature/provider
Denying corruption by innocent passenger fleas

What a brilliant play as the Min-man watches
Slow motion occasion returns to haunt
Not him, fool! - But the halls of coneys
Black ringing, no change but void
To spiders, slugs, cymag dusting, and fate
The curtain falls, audience now silent
Except for those abandoned/generated.

I have so much to write.

One day I will.

These are all "historical" ones, but seemed to call out to me when I was looking for something credible......

Cat Woman.

Behind this peach cute wall,
Lives the mad cat-woman,
And Digby.

In sorry grey gown and safety-pins,
Bare legs and dead slippers.

"I feel alright in my body,
No its not my body,
I'm just worried about my cat."

"Have you seen him ?"

Scarecrow mad cat-woman and
The cat in her eyes,
The senseless connections,

A cat called Digby, poor sod.

I refrain from publicly saying too much, if anything, so I won't, and maintain that line of "This is who I am, take it or leave it".


Understandable though.

Sorry it's been more or less a month......


Monday, 30 October 2017

More Autumnal Catching Up......

The Third Stage.

The smoke curled about this return,
And clearing slightly, we fell in deep,
Of the darker mysteries we may have learned,
No arcane climb was quite so steep.

We invoke the watchers to bring relief,
And catch black pearls from their very eyes,
The sense of unity this time is brief,
The sweet of the sweetest softens your sighs.

The clear air in this scented glade,
In this vision where we last the night,
This shifting time where our plans are laid,
Where the dreams are as real as second sight.

You blur again as we strip this scene,
I sing the observation rite to win your eye,
You spin in uncontrolled ecstasies my queen,
My body dissolves with this catcher's rye.

The trees dance with your sweet sex,
We laugh like children all gone mad,
Sweet naked mania our bodies flex,
In the scryer's mind we are golden clad.

The return to smoke and the real world,
Dissipates the fire that we have shared,
Entwined in the wet sheets round each are furled,
All your aspects, of the girls who dared.


One green light on a distant hillside
Traffic light green

On, for ages
Then, dimmer
Then moving

Two, repeat
The routine

Then one again

Five dimmer red lights

Interruptions, belie intervening pedestrians, perhaps
Then a green
Then two
Then none

Just five

Too small for street lights

At the turkey farm.

Define “Weird”

Is “weird” driving into the past.
To see someone who's not there?

Strange dust filled sunset.
Way brighter than anyone accused me,
Or, maybe there was a line to cross,
And I was afraid.

You couldn't come with me, into anonymity.
Or time-travel, and I couldn't....

Is “weird” walking into space we passed through,
Half expecting to live forever,
In a moment of dust, and accusations.

Anonymous takes on a scent of it's own.
With guilt, and sweat, and old diesel boots,
Thoughts of sunsets we couldn't.
And lines we crossed

Just, at different times.

Decisions Decisions.

It was another month for decisive jokes,
A time for relaxing,
A time for smokes.
Time for flapping with direction lost,
Maybe should have seen the real cost,
Should have known what to do,
May get around to ringing you,
May say that all's okay,
May remember your birthday,
Could call to say that I love you,
Could wish you well,
In all you do.
Say "I know.." and "I already knew...",
But the point is that nothing's new,
And take time off,
Or 'time in lieu',
Sit around and watch the clock,
Impatient type of latent shock,
Some time maybe to take stock,
Find keys for this mental lock.
But, and there has to be a but,
I forget where one should put,
Oneself when in a rut,
Not, I know, in this hermit's hut.
Still though, it was a month of strange days,
When you know the loser pays,
Count fewer magpies than loud jays,
Use fever to fight the haze.


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

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

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

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

I am so chuffed with this one I can't explain it......^^^


I think I need to go and lock myself back in here again.....

It's been a funny old week, again, some fantastic "ups" ups, and some huge downs. I do sometimes feel like this is just an enormously protracted suicide note, well, sometimes, but at least someone will have something to look back on and think, nope we don't understand.

Until my next post....stay safe out there people.

Tuesday, 17 October 2017

Between Storms


Just put sky hooks and restraint,
Right out of this arena.

All is bolts.
Bolts is all.

Nuts, screws, nails, hooks, hinges,
Bolts to perspex.

But perspex is best,
To shield and save,
Protect and survive.

Deflect gamma, alpha, theta, beta,

Lead lined particles particular,
To this region of your thought,
Arenas of doubt.

On the subject of which,

Who, what, how, why,
Simply bolted to this screen,
Of larger term perspex disbelief.

With worshipful lords and
Forgetful protection.

Where the shiny perspex
Thrives, and survives.

Before The End.

Boxing Day 95. Edale.

Staring over thirty snowed moors,
Take the mind,
Lost the paths that age brought,
Fill anew with wonders long now sought,
Now lost, now found in vistas,
Wind blown skyline,
So rare and fine,
Thirty miles or more.

Burnt Earth

The burnt earth that slips from the foot,
The drizzled hour in this grave of trees,
And innocent tyre tracks shout your name.

The discarded stone circle with hints of modernism,
Scorched black and flaky edged altar stone,
Desecrated by the Roman Catholic sandalled steps,
And abandoned by newly educated free-men.

Here the ancient is at your finger tips,
Just beyond instant response touch taste,
And the strength of the is/it flows from the ground.

The steps you felt yourself guided to take,
Or maybe the hidden scene shifting guardians,
Or something still less paranoid calls you now.

Here we stand, in this dream scarred once-grove,
With sacred moments of sheer swimming love,
And hand in hand we silently soak and our clothes
Catch the smell of recent wood fires.

The burnt stone under-hand blacks your skin,
And sadly we move through and deeper into
Our new found reborn living loving and the sun.

Soft drinks carton pirouettes a mockery play for us,
And I have you lightly on my silver thread.

Here & Now

When the wind blew its strong words
Through my own life sentence
Carrying off dust whorls and girls,
And innocent, bystanding animals,

I wavered, and weathered, and long stood firm,
And drifted, and sifted through the wreck,
Searching and filtering, smashed up timbers,
And debris, and desk top exercises.

Recreating a stronger, deconstructed man,
From upturned cars, and tumble weed,
And ancient lies and mindless theories,
Thrown through the air, to crash, here and now.

Malkin House Wood.

Rock mass drunken landslide sentries,
Strewn in quilt leaf blanketed backdrops,
Fail to prevent this arboreal penetration.

The functional steel blade carves a vicious scar,
And spells out a fancy's name, yours,
But nobody notices.

Stone heaped dead quarry in green shadows,
Summons the time spirit to refresh race memory,
And chants the woven spell of love dreaming,
Interspersed with tiny pangs of blue guilt,

And a buried sword by storms revealed,
Leaps to hand to cut you down,
To half my memory size and gives me
A moment to think.

You won't leave me, shadowed green girl ghost,
Entwined with ground ivy and dead bracken hair,
I encountered your white magic and loving prose,
In distant delled copse laden deep glens,

And can't forget no matter how hard I try,
I can't walk away.

Mad Moment 1

You can drink what the hell you want,
Wont bother to list it all,
But, so far as this continuously drunk fellow,
Tries to extend his experience,
Raison d'etre, perhaps,

Is concerned,

Red wine equals truth, and poetry,

And, subsonic pedantry,
And a conscious madness that only

Water can take away.


Mad Moment 2

Forever, I'm trying to find a touchstone,
Every time we meet, trying
But there's an empty, burnt heather moor,

And a suicidal keeper,

And a dead candle,

And yet I so want you to understand,

And this touchstone is too damn hot.

Love, Don't Love.

I loved you since time began,
I don't love you now.

I loved you since time began,
But I don't love you now.

Eat my dignity,
My masculinity,
Make toxic remarks,
And screw me up.

Maybe its because I loved you,
That I don't hate you now.

Maybe I should have just loved you,
And maybe I should love you still.

But eons after our birth,
Our death engulfs,
Entwines, and ingests,
Incinerates, and drowns,
And now, its late.

I love the memory of you,
But reality is bitter green death.

I love the memory of you,
But the reality can hike.

I loved you since time began,
But I don't love you any more.

Late in Tonight.

Like mental wedding gowns,
The sheets beneath the duvet do dance
And at this ungodly silent hour
With ringing ears and pints of water
I lie and contemplate

All the lies before.

All the lies I've fed myself,
While true to most of you
No guide rails at strange junctures

Or day by day by day.

No real hints of global anything.

Journey Child.

Journey child,
They call you,
Names of slur.

Innocence in a strangely place,
A world of 100 years ago.

Child of horses,
Of running-dogs,
And fighting cocks,
And mystery.

Tarot cards,
And old scrap yards.
They'll never put you down.

Inside your head,
Where the old one said :
"It's all here for you".

She told you then
Of the evil men,
And how to get you through.

Journey child,
Slightly wild,
Seeks the temple altar.