More Catchup. Sorry!

 The Apes.

Not a true anarchist, maybe,

Baby,

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,

Junkies.

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.

Devolution,

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.

x