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....

Circles.

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.

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

Valley.

Bullet

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".

Pity.

Understandable though.

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

xx

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.

Lights.

One green light on a distant hillside

Traffic light green

Off

On, for ages

Then, dimmer

Then moving

Off

Two, repeat

The routine

Then one again

Five dimmer red lights

Alone

Interruptions, belie intervening pedestrians, perhaps

Then a green

Moving

Then two

Then none

Just five

Reds

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.

 

Dreamer.

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......^^^

 Selfies....

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.

x

Between Storms

Bolts.

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

Trying,

Trying,

Trying,

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,

Wayfarer

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.

nOT rEALLY tHINKING

A Little Strength.

With a little strength

I lift my eyes to yours.

Superman could not hold their glance.

Bitch

Bitch ! Slitch !

Cosy kitsch,

Your towers of darkness

Roofed caverns of belonging.

Whispers beget lies

And I drive out this anger, in solitude.

Turrets and slits of moorland castle,

Reduce me to dust in all your hassle.

Embedded in sea leaf beds of forest oceans,

We dance in disbelief and

In microscopic detail

I knelt to pray for salvation.

Ears open and eyes wide,

Seek to know what lies inside,

Try to learn what we can find

Buried precious love in our minds.

And lengthening shadows perform angular plays

On littered pavement cracks and papers,

And we descend into the tube-station to sleep,

To sleep the conversation of long train journeys.

To kill our love in smoky, dusty, upholstery,

Rattling Eastwards in comfort.

And the towers of you

Sooth my soul.

Bitter Elizabeth.

Bitter Elizabeth, come home now,

The accuser, fallen prince and priest,

Preaches honeyed hemlock sentiments,

To your deaf dumb blind ears.

Bitter laughter returns to your bruised lips,

And a vision before your blacked eyes,

Reach sunnied rock-free beaches,

And believe the prophet who loves you.

Bitter memories based on childhood thought,

Entertained before your adult believings.

Forget the preacher, free Elizabeth,

from the internal, infernal, dead tears.

There's Blood On The Streets.

When did the silence encompass the oracular sink ?

Could the echoes have carried the lost voices to your door ?

Now you know of the truth in comedianic laughter,

The dull sense of emptiness in a room full of sheep.

The glint in the eye of the child that stands now buried

Deep in the woman who will outlive the lie.

Faith in the thought that everything's wrong,

That no-one can hear the depths of the song.

But the snow-fall of silence in this chasm of dreamers

Can not chill the belief that the clown is for real.

Sitting upright in the custard-bath of vision,

Casting out feelers to the punters of tension,

And retracting to the chorus of harmonic inner voices,

When dancing through rainbows and killing for pleasure.

Replay the video to peruse at your leisure.

And the inter-racial marriage of money class and wealth,

Is purely temporary, a way off the shelf.

There's blood on the streets, in the road and drains.

Now return to the caves and groves,

To the playgrounds of child-men and quiet hidden shores,

Retracing the innocent.

A Wire Basket Of Thoughts.

A hidden treasure, a love, (Heart.)

Some reserved emotion.

The preserved elation, disguising hope,

Merely a wandering stranger,

Across grey sky and mood.

Much scurrying and burrowing,

To arrive, secret place in enchanted fate,

Hinted at, a trim tail feather,

Adorning the morose and free.

See the herd of tame thistles,

Feel the grip on the noose,

To impart a mortal wound, to the lady.

The passing black sheep,

Heavy with longing regret,

A cliff away from the sea,

A deserted castle,

(A flooded tear well.)

A choked sob and a look,

Knows your wheat ear deafness.

A subdued division in my reality,

A wispy cloud over a green,

Seeing cavalry and much new death,

A tall chimney, and freedom.

A church spire and within,

A lone gull and a water tower,

A sleeping immortal,

A powerful evil,

A saviour for England and me,

A wire fence and the tick of a clock,

A booby trapped valentine,

A pierced ash leaf,

An intrigue and a timber yard,

A smile from a stranger,

A wave from a child,

A motion from within and a cry,

A silent howling and a flood light,

A deserted union and deception,

A journey away and towards,

A sparkling jewel and a golden chain,

The memories of an unknown love. (Heart.)

Afterword

Dear All,

This letter is carried by a messenger,

Witness, archivist, collector of reasons.

Shoot the messenger, shoot the messenger,

Shoot the message.

Dear messenger,

Collect as much as you can,

Pickle and preserve, collect and collate,

And shoot the all.

Avoid dead end traps and trapped reasons,

Which, if true, should be an autobiog instead,

And duck when they start shooting.

In the event of the receipt of this note,

You'll know what to do,

And who to shoot,

When to stay or go,

When to dig, and overturn stones, and sods,

So, why you ?

So why me ?

I may have sent this note to another,

Or six, or ten, or none,

Any material removed,

Must return,

For my survivors to burn.

Please allow free passage to the archivist,

Understand, and help, and feed.

Like sacks of paper into the shredder.

Like shreds of my life into the archive,

To dwell a paper pseudo person,

In peoples minds.

So, why, if its all bloody pointless ?

Shoot wide, or shoot to stop,

Uncover these secrets, expose me at last,

Who cannot expose my truth...

No, that's not it either.

So, WHY ?

If the messenger carries this to you,

You'll know why.

I'm waiting for a message myself.

The Done Thing.

 

Alice.

Alice sits miserably alone,

Upon an ancient stone,

In my dead garden,

In the garden of the dancing dead,

Of a much related dreamscape,

- She alone sits out the party.

My head camera encircles her.

The central star in this dead cast,

Of a dead play, the deceased.

"Dramatis personae morteunt", or some such,

At least that's the remembered memory,

Much used and ill forgot,

On dark fire-hearth story-telling nights.

Foaming fountain hangs motionless,

Highlighting the pointlessness of it all,

And the dead angels mourning,

A banshee wail for the living,

For my god and those of us,

Who know what it is to be alive.

For tomorrow we will meet our fathers,

On short shorn lawns in the garden,

Unliving and eternally sunny and dead.

That girl sits forgotten as I muse,

Tossing the idea over to attract attent,

To persuade acceptance of this living corpse's "invite to dance".

- He alone captures a sly and brief glance.

 

Anger Works in Mirrors.

How many times have I driven home?

Slept in the van, the lounge,

Gone over the edge, but lived?

Shout louder if you really want me to die.

Passion’s one thing pussycat.

You throw fifteen different angers.

My footwell’s full, of blood, of tears, and beers,

I smoke another, drink tinned soporific,

Freeze my head and heart.

Hardly the song I’d choose to sing.

Shout, but only after misunderstanding lounges.

I can’t do anymore.

Fifteen times, I’m out of here.

Got the hint.

Anger, like light, works in mirrors.

 

Another Willing Mistake.

Waking in a strange room,

So strange, its almost natural,

For a Friday night,

Saturday morning introductions,

And the photos of your child.

Too late to panic, so just enjoy,

Damage done, or not, so warm,

So calm and beautific in embrionic,

Waking loving and living.

No consideration has yet occurred,

As in this guilt love your form is stirred,

To consequential ramification, or shit,

Radical information that a mistake was it.

So welcoming and gently adult,

Too real to belong to me, I said,

Too much history and overlapping,

When you wake in your mate's girlfriend's bed.

 (20 years ago it has to be said.....)

 

Before The End.

Start with a question

As the bin man chases crazy whirls of

Trash and crisp packet trails

And fails, through thick glasses

To see

Just stand still and it all comes back.

With my back to the Church

On her steps,

With dark whirls of past life

Wall-Of-Death-ing my head-track

Trying to focus and to be stronginresolve

Simply exist now, and thoughts to dissolve

Not revolve, crazy whirls

Church step sandwich

And crisps, no less.

 

Belladonna.

Throw open that window,

In pours the light of today,

Motions of the airflow,

And the things you can't say.

The sprig of Belladonna,

In the bouquet of your heart,

When I saw us together,

I knew we must part.

Draw back those curtains,

The bright light of today,

Now I am certain,

There can be no delay.

 Bespectacled

 

Bespectacled laughter frame illusion shock,

Kind of reversing of a normal clock,

Stroll in to casual heights,

Delight in these nights,

And please stay intact.

In fact

If you must shatter clatter fragment and split,

Kind of conversing with a human pile of grit,

we could try harder

To conserve this larder,

And love once more,

Sober and lonely.

Great myths were born forlorn and consumed,

Nothing else I think could be presumed,

To relate to this, our parting shot,

To be happy with the sad man's lot,

And tell tall tales,

In late bar conversation.

To talk of feeling the ceiling and new depth,

And to speak wordless to catch your breath,

To delight quite briefly insanely,

We must depart now quite gamely,

And write false red letters

To disbelieving reading voyeurs.

 

Betrayal

I know I'm going to betray you,

Even in your unmoving big black eye,

The knowledge that this is true,

Brings a hideous and secret doubt.

The borrowed, plastic yellow handled knife,

Past sharp, and nearly past blunted,

Is my conduit, the medium of this traitor,

Losing, flinging your trust away.

Big deep red globs, on this wet stinking floor,

as I denude your chest, belly, throat, groin,

Then chain your neck, in not words,

Your eyes unmoving, as so I pray.

Pulling this functional chain, slowly you rise,

Above the floor, as your feet drag, I twitch,

They seem to twitch back, oh god, oh god,

Then aloft you swing, and at last are skinned.

Bigot Bitch.

And that supreme black leather bigot bitch

All hate-studded and perversely hung,

With chain and mail and device,

Stood at this London/Nurembourg and said :

"So what the hell are you ?"

"Colourblind bastards ?"

And we hung our heads in shame,

Not to ever rise in pride,

Bigotted bitch whirlwind dance, the flame,

And I felt a little death inside.

Before they all raised the Voice,

And the bitch had stole the crown,

"To arms ! To arms !"

I draped my cloak on dead oak chair,

And sank into brandied minute monumental well,

And prayed to a white god,

To forgive the white men,

And the black, and everyone too.

And drowned in world spirit of uprising,

Frustrated race memory daemons,

To kill all our children,

Not to forgive or forget. Bitch.

If I'm ever going to finish the older stuff, I have decided to just crack on and post them willy-nilly, basically alphabetically, (ish), and hope for the best......

Hardly any are contemporary, so don't take offence anyone!

Oh, and the same for FB, I am not going to post any full sized pictures anymore, as I think that some might have a tiny bit of value, and I've been thinking cards/prints, etc, but these might still be good enough to steal if you're that way out, I don't know......