Thursday's Child

 

Metal

Everything's made of metal,

Except wood, and that's metal too,

And me, my heart, my mind,

And you.

Chocolate metal sculptures in the love letters,

Sent abroad,

And metal scented perfume, in a room long ignored.

Metal food for metal patients,

Metal plates, and tables,

Metal trees and grass and birds,

Sharp edged meanings to your double words,

In metal conversations, clean, precisely oiled,

And metal emotion feeling thoughts.

Kept neat, in rows long spoiled.

Spring joints, steel backed, and wrought,

In iron skilled delivery.

From metal mouth to my metal ears.

As the flecks of friendly corrosion creep,

To eat at all our edges,

And me, my heart, my mind,

And nothing really rusts in here.

Yet, this sculpture ages, blind,

And rusts, crunching through to meaning.

Mild Winter.

It's been another strange mild winter

No real hints of global anything,

No spirit of predictable snowfalling mulled wines,

But a dalliance with the Eroticon,

A deviance from the usual stuff,

Street dance at the one midnight that counts,

And a painful life pattern inflicted on your ma,

Why not, when you're young and free ?

Why not winter with a warm idea,

A body of someone else's dreams ?

A pictorial expression that laughs still,

And bleeds, and cries, and dreams,

And hurts, and worries, and sings, and...

Another strange winter has come and is here,

A period of your journey, for change.

Not fundamental map-reading behaviour,

But a dalliance with the sensual,

Continued street dance indoors.

No real hints of global anything.

No, you're all quite right, as usual,

It's been another strange, mild winter.

 

Million-Eyes.


Those million crystal-eyes
Aflame, aflame.

I wallow in your deepness,
A whale-calf to your warmth,
Unbelievable completeness,
I am swimming in your love.

Now the evening slumbers with a grey cool,
Slipping away as the night trundles in.
Just for your delight, I play the kings-fool,
Maybe tell a joke, dance and sing.

But those deep million eyes,
Burn on and on.

I am blinded again, and stumble into your arms,
Into arms that enfold my trembling.
Steadying my hopeless questing,
A mirrored glimpse of loves now gone.

You all have those eyes,
Part of the whole,
a piece of the one,
Why do you all have those eyes ?

This drowning is so believable,
I close my eyes, now useless,
And cling to the lifeline thus thrown,
Forget myself, just be us.

If I tried hard I could concentrate,
But those mesmer eyes,
Those eyes, those eyes, aflame,
Those million crystals in space,

I am swimming in this love,
Why do you all have to have,
Those same eyes ?

Blackthorn Blossom

 

Moments

Have to admit,

To a lot of things,

Hate to, some of them.

But, adding tap-water,

To your cognac,

Was one of those moments where hindsight,

Would get the upper hand,

Cloudy, fizzy, with head.

Hate to admit,

Have to "get" a lot of things,

Have to, well, some of them...

Moral.

Down the streets runs a man,

He's very hot and tired,

In his hand there is a gun,

A gun he nearly fired,

In the bank there was a man,

With guts enough to press the bell,

Instead of shooting the thief just ran.

Ran ? He ran like hell.

"I'll not do that again" he thinks,

As he dodges down an alley,

"That man was brave, and I.."

"I just feel a wally."

"That's far enough my son"

A voice came from behind,

He span round to the silhouette,

The sun it made him blind,

He began to raise his hands,

When a copper he recognised,

Pulled the trigger of his gun,

Bullet between the eyes.

"But sarge, he was giving up..."

"Son, that may well be true"

"But if he took a shot at us,

Who would it hit ? Me, not you."

And so let's leave them to clear up,

For another day.

And the moral of this little tale ?

"Crime, it doesn't pay...!"

 

More.

You drew my attention

Like an artist.

Then, shook my hand

Better than booze.

I tried to read your thoughts,

Surely a misprint.

The passing comment,

Got passed on.

Like there's no tomorrow,

There was no tomorrow.

I thought I saw what you were getting at,

And got at it first.

The hollow words

Echoed.

I presented the facts as they are,

You said "Thank you for the present."

I tried to build on our love,

But the mortar was poor.

You caught my mood,

And threw it back.

"It was all so run of the mill,"

You said, at a sprint.

I suppose I got a clearer picture,

Than the messy impressionist.

"Its all in the future tense,

So just relax."

I looked your way,

But it hurt my eyes.

 

Rose Dawn.

As this rose dawn picks out misty dreams,

Where times are trapped, and dipped in streams,

Again we stride through new verdant lanes,

Remembering things to come, like old steam trains.

Enfolding and enshrouding me with your withered loves,

Choking off mistaken ventures in forgotten groves,

Brings new birth to old ideas of fish and loaves,

And paddling clear seas in these ancient coves.

Bestir the intentions we had when looking deep,

Before grips and ties were severed in hazy sleep,

Brings clarity of memory, you begin to make the leap,

To step towards the edge, not recoil like sheep.

Sun streams swords cut swathes through skies,

Revealing where your lost pig now flies,

Dives, stops, whips back and serenely tries,

To see the golden truth in these leaden years.

Spring.....

Some right dodgy folk in the local woods..... David Mayne
               more David......

Faceache page........

Unassuming and genuinely nice bloke. Love what I've seen of his work, and as a person.....

Holme Moss mast, must be so over-photographed by visitors and locals alike.........!

The "Monkey Nick" or Ramsden Clough as it's officially known.....

Something to do with an Oran-Utan that escaped from a visiting circus many many moons ago, and surviving in the wild for a good spell before being found and, well, who knows whether it was recaptured or whatever....? Can't find a definitive version of the story, so it could just be apocryphal.....but I like to think it has some ring of truth......
 

Not enough to make a murder....

The Funniest....

The funniest, huh, thing is that my love for you

has only increased

While my hatred of me matches, pace for pace,

Crazy, isn't it ?

When all I tried to do, was the Right Thing.

You thanked me for amongst

Other things that some might be true

But flattery and love and things

For being what you see as (tender)/cruel

I am, but when you feel the cold wet

Dry stone wall and grass upon your back

And can't hear for the choral wind

Not feel the hail upon your breast

Nor feel rain nor snow nor aught but

The boiling of blood within lilied acres

Narrow and taut, sculpted divine

And fine and electrical, with need

And the bending of joints, the slapping of skin

The aching of exposed senses and hard ground

And stones and earth and the pounding

The pounding of pelvic bones, making music, making history.

 

Utterly Free Again.

Woman with clear vision,

Glass window to a honeyed tongue,

And scent of curtain smoky moments,

With bloodied sheets and bruised lips,

And a tug of lust is gone,

To the bed in the sky.

Oh you passionate bitch

How I hated you,

Loved us, but not you.

Now we are both utterly free again,

Neither tied to each other by string,

Or rope or hope or belonging,

As we race while drifting,

Away and towards it,

Sailing to a forgotten kiss

On a leaf of thyme or sex,

With poor turning to moderate later.

Then the new adventure brings old memory,

As telephone numbers are treated like gold,

And I still think of your wine,

Your parasite, or was it symbiote nature ?

And how relaxed it all seemed so tense,

And how we buzzed round to nothing,

With jaspers of desperate need,

And locks of your hair,

But I still try harder to forget.

 

The Hounds.


The hounds of hell,
Know me by name,
A soul to sell ?
A rule-less game ?

A backward clock-face,
Tells me you're here,
Dressed in lace,
A groundless fear.

Come be my little devil,
Mischief in your mind,
We're on the level,
New means to unwind.

The hounds of hell,
Are running free,
A vicious smell,
Bitchy tree.

I know this pack,
Like I know you,
Tearful comeback,
With eyes-blue.

 

Storm.

A traveling band of thinkers,

Rest outside the inn.

Among them are two tinkers

Who list you as their kin.

Long lost cousins, or some such,

I don't know, they didn't say.

I wouldn't dare to ask so much,

But please cast your glance their way.

A story of forgotten lands,

Bold words of deeds they've done,

Of fiercesome journeys on burning sands,

And of mysteries lost and won.

Be witness to battles they've seen,

Or to soothsayers who told them all,

Great divinations in clouds of steam,

In some haunted, shady hall.

The first one tells of wisdom deep,

Discovered in a southern place,

Of how dream journeys in your sleep,

Leave their tracks across your face.

The second is a quiet man,

With eyes that can cut steel,

He said they'll help us if they can,

To re-invent the wheel.

Bewilderment opens in your words,

You're not sure of what to say,

Glancing skywards, at the birds,

"We don't have to leave today."

But we leave the travellers for a while,

To digest the things they've said.

I think I can remember how you smile,

But now you careful-tread.

Within the rest-house we sit and talk,

The travelers wait without,

Should we join them in their walk ?

Your mind is full of doubt.

I now know I must leave you,

To follow your own fate,

I think the tinkers will go too,

We've made them over-wait.

But as I reach the hill-top,

I turn round and look back,

Above the idyllic village top,

A heavy storm is hanging black.

A portent of a darkly time,

When great tasks are performed,

This heavy pressured heated clime,

Is it more than just a storm ?

Below the tumult cloud, the little inn,

Where some travelers are banded round,

Perhaps the start of an erratum thing,

Their eyes are on the ground.

I try not to watch as you step out,

But can't help to see you go.

Above the wind I cannot shout,

"At least your feelings show !"

The travelers exit, to stage right,

You step left and walk alone.

My bitter knowledge at the sight,

(A thing to which I'm prone.)

This day was long and strange,

Meeting new chances, face-to-face,

Now northwards with haste I range,

Back up to my old home base.

We may come across those traveling-men,

Unexpectedly, as if by fate,

And I'd bet they'd remember when,

You advised them not to wait.

The tinkers knew you'd not be swayed,

And waited just the same,

But experience and the plans they laid

Still drew you in their game.

Roughly 10 years ago someone who traded on eBay as Alia-something-something "stole" loads of my Dad's publicly available photos, and farmed them out to her team of "artists" who re-painted them as "originals"....... yes, that really is me, circa 93/4 at Christmas time walking hounds to the meet.....

Sadly, or not, I actually quite like it.......






The actual picture......



Anyway, got a few more off-loaded, so there's that........

Feel free to share, engage and comment, I do get to moderate the comments, so don't waste your time with spam, or abuse. So far, after over ten year of this nonsense, the spam has been limited, and the abuse negligible......but so have the shares and comments......!

But, I've gone up from 4, 5, 6 visitors to a minimum of 50.....so somebody gets it!

Happy April!

Sheesh, it's Only Tuesday

Why Poem?

So many dream sets,

Descriptions of self,

Dissections of self,

Self obsession, introspection,

To compare with A N Other, or merely to reflect,

Self, against the mass.

Why not start with the mass, and compare,

With the infinite ?

Or the infinite to reflect the mass, impossible,

Even then the terms return to analogy,

Metaphysical mirrors of, self projection of

Is it possible to be someone other than fantasy ?

Untitled, as yet.

I pick up my glass,

I take a mouthful of welsh beer,

I sit back and breath smoke,

I listen to Rob quoting verse,

I hear the folk band sing,

I write nonsense, black on white,

I feel warmth from a heater,

Walt Whitman leaves Rob's mouth,

Likewise James Joyce, and a Hero.

The night is short and work nudges,

The beer is cold, the verse is not,

The tunes are pleasant and comfortable,

the pub was too.

My glass is half full,

I write black and white nonsense,

Rob listens to my writing, and hears,

A folk group likewise,

I take another mouthful of beer,

Welsh tunes are pleasant,

I feel warmer from heat,

Walt Whitman leaves the folk band,

The work nudges my glass,

I pick up my smoke and breath,

The song finishes.

 

Turn Again

The dawning of the frostiest morning

in hell

Will auger the eager survey

Of your immaculate frame

With the instrument of my

Naked eyes.

Hastily sipping at the daylight stream

Throwing dust slides through the air

Golden bedroom penetration

Sopping up the disappointed

Feelings conjured, bare,

By summery air.

Becomes a daily habit,

To taste at the outside hell,

Before regretting more

red-headed

Might-have-been moments,

With my patrons pathos & fear, we need no more names

Or sex

Or words

Or bodies.

Riding this chariot, headlong,

Through all self-worth.

Time Spending.

Listening to happy happy

Radio force in your musty room.

Mind's eye/camera pans about,

Shifting scenery in shadowy, dry-iced,

Smouldering glances, pouting dancers.

And that faint smell, of doubt.

Cars in the filmic background,

Lights on the sickly stained ceiling,

And floating past that moment....

We arise to catch fallen glimpses

The music box chocolate box

The stinky fag-end pizza box,

And sticky smoky hair.

"Put a tape on." Someone shouts,

But what ? Who ?

Forced me to turn to really see you.

Forced me to force myself to turn to really face you.

And the beautiful memory is awake,

Never lost, discard discordant dream,

Never ever just what it seems.

And at 3.30 on a sunny Sunday afternoon

The whole game is abandoned again.

 

The Answer.

Because it was there.

The challenge is countered,

Turned awry and dismissed.

The defender is unmarked,

Clean and virginal.

Storm cloud rises, and close,

Humid backroom decision time.

Sound of nearby machinery,

Clattering and production line repetition.

The challenger circles and waits,

The black storm won't choose sides.

So why did you do it ?

Why did you have to ?

Because it was there.

 

The Eye Trek.

The delicate, living, perfect throat,

Lends direction to my vague, rogue stare,

And my eyes slide on that pure surface,

In slow-time, real-time, they drag down.

Passing choker, and pendant,

Through flawless acres of fragrant, white velvet.

My covetous glance catches the woman.

Whole, complete, in totality.

Eyes flutter, and cross from floor to wall,

To pictures, to photos of youth,

Photos of fountains, and things,

And to my legs, settling momentarily,

And to my face, and my name.

I hold the accidental gaze,

And the moment strides past,

Past her choker and pendant,

To where we should both react.

My lips move, to round the words,

Round words of wrestling meaning,

My eyes sink into that perfect skin,

Into the depth of longing and owning,

In real-time, in four-time, they drag down,

To bird-hands, loose in the lap of luxury.

Essential instruments of comforting, erotic,

Precision mandate for this night,

And I reach out with luminous desire.

My hands slide down her vague arms,

Then to pendant, and young-girl breasts,

Of wisdom, and ancient amber traps,

Resinous moments as we contact in electric-syrup,

Guilty second vaporises, as I photograph her sex,

In my minds camera, I witness my failure,

To back away, retreat from inevitable escape,

And capture, wrapped in her perfume,

Sent to trap my humble eyes.

Tradition.

Living the lie

Laying the lady

and servant

Besides ideas of

Tradition.

Then the moving picture

Of what you were before

You became my conscience.

Then the moments of last doubts

And unconvincing kisses

The chaste loves.

Living my lie

I laid the lady

And her servant

My servant by

Tradition.

It really is, only Tuesday.

The wheel goes round, you catch up with some stuff, some stuff leaves you, some other stuff builds up....


Occasionally you might pat yourself on the back, metaphorically, as you've achieved things you were aiming for, and then there's that all encompassing sense of idiocy when you realise there were so many other options, but you are then left wondering about scale, and perspective.


It's really only Tuesday, the rest of the week still has potential........ The weekend was pretty three-dimensional, as it were, but never quite enough time to sleep.....


More catching up in this post, new stuff soon, promise!