Go For It. Go to Bed.

Eyes.

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.

Fool.

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.......

Apologies!

Gas.

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.

All.

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 it...so 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.

And
 Bleeds.

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.

Hypersanity.

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..........

Night