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!

Spring Rambling.

My last post, some while back now, was the highest viewed since November 2017......must have been the suggestive trees......!

  


Anyway, another month has gone by, so here's another tranche of my old stuff, sorry, there are a few bits and pieces in the works, but seeing as how random my head & life seem to be these days, I can only ask you to bear with me, oh, and share, if you can....especially in writing groups and stuff. You never know, when my Mojo does fully return, and I get chance to concentrate on more contemporary pieces....well, nothing, but one lives in hope...

 

Look.

I try to tell you, want to tell you,

Don't need to use spoken words,

Sometimes a look is enough.

(Canon 760D with an ancient 2nd hand 80mm lens, with an extension tube....frustrating experience, but worth it to see the pollen captured falling from the lily.....)

Love Canal.

My rusted, dented, bented, bi-cycle,

Awkward in my clammy grip,

Has some kind of silly relevance,

As it rests against my hip.

Standing here on the old brick bridge,

I feel let down by my bike,

I turn and look back at Love Canal,

Where we both did what we like.

Looking back at old bedsteads,

Old frames, trolleys and the lovers' walk,

Brings no insight to the female mind,

Nor to the double-dutch they talk.

I'd throw this push bike off this sad bridge,

If I thought it'd do any good,

But instead I walk it home,

And think of you in mud.

Looking back at Love Canal from home,

Is an exercise for a virgin's mind,

So, instead I let my thoughts wander,

You'd be surprised at what they find.

#lovewhereilive

 

Love Poem.

Love is a hunter

Hungry and fierce

Hidden behind loaded words

Vain speeches

And eyes, in darkness

Blinded

Love is a terrible rage

A blight, and a drug

An awkward moment to adjust

To be leaned on, and to lean

Hunger for the hunted

The vibrant colour of life

The moments uncounted

Between touch and the glance

Glancing blow to the head

And heart

The race, the chase

The eyes, the face

The body that fits

The silent madness and peril

Temptor and fallen

Love is the hunter

And the prey.

 

Lovespeke Crazy One.

If safety is what you chase, my girl,

You've come to the wrong place,

Oyster, with a strange black pearl,

In a rough edged ruby case.

Sit you down, and stay awhile,

If you came to seek me out,

Chanting, in a foreign style,

Look at me, in doubt.

My sanctuary, you think you understand,

But watch the serpent's eyes,

If you falter, she may strike your hand,

Ah, you're hypnotised.

Now listen carefully to these words,

They'll come back to you in time,

"Beware of a talking bird."

"Stranger, in a love crime."

Venture.

A simple step, so carefully took,

With all the potential of any old chaos,

The theory being that knowledge, a little

And no venture leads no where.

Four steps ahead in the old White Hart,

With specific references too unkind,

Memories of tea, and twenty years,

And sandals, not Hunters, beards,

No wings, no map, no dream,

No fossils in this river bed,

Simply flowing towards untold potential,

And calmly diverting to dam.

Don't shoot straight into the sun dudes, like ever.....

Yeah right. x

Black & yellow twat.

Unpredictable little girl...........

 

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.

That'll do for now, I'm afraid.

I'm afraid, of all sorts of things, like the mad dreams, like people believing in me, when I struggle, like those who don't when I'm doing ok.

Like the future, and the way we're going with tech and all that.

Cameras on every other lamp-post..... us, giving all our data to the wide world to use, for whatever purposes they might dream up.....

Monitoring, counting, evaluating, calculating, checking, taxing, controlling......as we walk into their world so bloody willingly.

I want to write nice positive stuff, but the environment is compromised when every bit of external world contact is negative.

But, it's Spring, and the sun still shines, and people remember how to smile, while we can.

All those little bits of nonsense are coming to a head, best to go off-grid, really, I wish I knew how.

Trees. Simple.

 

Little Man

Its just the wrong type of stuff, is all,

Shoo, shoo, shoo enuff.

Hey, little man, d'ya wanna know something?

Its your mama you see,

I kinda have a bit of a thing,

I kinda wanna spend some time,

Y'know, like, getting to know things,

Like

Your mama.

Like what she likes,

What she is,

And could be,

I mean...

You don't really mind do you ?

Its not like the right stuff would help much,

And I'm not sure it wouldn't be warmer,

Or calmer,

Or, well, you know.

Its your mama you see,

She could be interesting some time,

A shoo in, or near to,

And sometimes little man,

That's enuff, shoo,

Shoo, shoo, shoo enuff,

Little man.

Little Liar

How can I get my shit together

When those whose frame I grew to

Have no frame now

Nothing is true

Nothing is true

Crowley had it with

"Everything forbidden is compulsory"

"Do what thou wilt

shall be the whole of the Law"

No conscience ? When you've always ?

Liar liar liar liar

Pants on fire.

Never forgot the horse switch

Broken plate glass lie, so small,

Against the hypocriticall.

 

Live.

Live inside this comic farce

With me and us and you,

Visit life, from time to time

We remember what to do.

 

Mindset.

As if you can ever have

The "Mindset" you had 3 years ago,

Thank god !

Keeping forward.

Sense of helpless innocent optimism,

Brought about by heavy misery.

Which now has matured

Into a meaner animal.

With less reason to be

Than ever, but somehow optimist,

Keeping forward.

New "Mindset" with strong tendencies,

To return, could be self-defeat,

Going back.

To innocent optimism,

With any bloody luck,

Heavy and strong, but mature tendencies.

As if you can ever have

3 meaner years

Thank god !

Less reason for heavy optimism.

There really is "something" about trees isn't there?

 

Peeling the seams

From legs of heaven

And arms

With cotton dressing

With silver skin below

With haste and eyes

Quite focused to the task

And hurry

To teeth, to tongues

To flesh valleys and

Respond sincere

Hard decisions, made haste

And last layers are at last revealed

And lust exploration

Painful signal defloration

Symbolised, and peeled

And then thought must leave

Betrayal by the naked

Animal now thrust and gaunt

And frenzied sincerity

Rushes blood, adrenaline, sex

Into the mental hours

And mental bruises

Physical Venus

With detaching splendour

And barmaid wonder

And the connected

The found

With sweet white definition

And dark intent

And the damp peeled seams

And knickers on the floor

And the hideous bed

Denying such admission

And finding splendid hurry

In heavenly valleys

Symbol of gaunt animal response

And sincerely naked

With haste and eyes

Betrayal of signal tongues

Sincere truth must now leave.

Stonesexy.

Her throat is dry and cracking

Voices mingle intimately in trance

Speech becomes irrelevant anyway.

And the time stretches again

Into pockets of endless thought.

Her tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth

Mingling with the slowness of it all,

Love becomes irrelevant in retrospect.

And your mind stretches out to nothing,

Into pockets of infinite moments.

The slow-mo lovemaking contains no fear

No love, but mingling with the sheet,

The irrelevant scent of oils.

And the high stretches to hours,

And pockets of senseless regrets.

Withdrawal.

Listening passively, and not hearing,

Switching off, and not seeing.

Sounds "cotton-woolled" and dull,

Only mulling inwardly,

Chewing the cud, of recent events.

But beware, not for nothing,

Do warning bells ring, and,

Buzzing lights speak out.

You leave a corner of your mind,

Monitoring at the slightest level.

In your own world, do you live ?

You must hear and be ware,

You cannot shut out all.

The phantom screams overhead,

Lifting...instantly muffling.

Oh, how quickly you withdraw,

Like an upturned winkle, or whelk.

You leave the warning bells,

In a corner of your mind.

Back to single figures.

Hash-tag "trees" maybe? Or "Poetry" or "Bollocks"

I dunno, let's run it as an experiment......

#trees

#poetry

#bollocks

#wayofseeing

Hmm, I doubt it'll make a scrap of difference.

That was February.

Already a 1/6th of the way to the next one.......

Change of Direction

 

Letter.

Send me a piece of your mind,

If you would be so kind,

Put it on paper, in black and white,

In order there me to enlight.

Send me a bit of your heart,

Just a little tiny, to make a start,

Put it on paper, in black and white,

In order there me to alight.

Your mind and heart are things I need,

In order there my love to feed,

The flames of love to burn so bright,

So please my dear to me do write.

 

Lies.

When he discovered your lives

I was inconsequential.

The living lie.

Living your lies,

Part of a story

Used to scare small children.

What does that make you

And him ?

 

Lying With My Memory.

Waking in the warm dark,

I took stock of where I was,

I remembered the park,

And a strange sense of loss,

I recalled the finish,

Tense timed words of sad,

My memory danced, replenished,

Christ, I felt so bad.

I woke and six years after,

It all felt like last night,

The false ring of my laughter,

Now everything must be alright,

The nagging nip of guilt,

Refused to truck and go,

I was soft, but to the hilt,

I remembered what I know.

My dream faded, but stank,

Of centuried sex and pain,

The ocean (alcohol) I must've drunk,

Soft gallons of beery rain,

I came round to see what's new,

And here I am in your bed,

Are you the goddess or one of the few ?

Am I real, or in your head ?

Waking in your warm room,

I couldn't focus on who I am,

Why I crave 'return-to-womb',

And can't help but give a damn.

 

 

Natural Structures.

I suppose you're waiting, for the end of time,

Me ? I'm waiting for mine.

Your route to then is far less complex,

Mine changes, all the time.

An apple on the table,

Round, green, stalked and shiny,

Resigned to being eaten, eventually,

(Should I be the same?)

 

Fate. Out In The Valley.

In a child-like way,

Fate toys with me once more,

Dropping bait here and there.

Trapping me now,

A retarded growl,

And a gnash of fangs.

If we waited long enough,

the sun would join us,

In a child-like way,

I toy with fate once more,

Dropping bait here and there,

A dangerous game to play,

However charmed.

Out In The Valley. (1)

Peculiar light down the valley,

Changeable.

Glistening windows-polished,

A spinning white windmill,

Turning.

The white horse grazing,

Over on the facing,

Unconcerned.

The lattice of dry stone walls,

Black-green, splintered,

As if traced by a giant feathery hand,

On a "rolling-hills" scroll,

Heather, fir-trees and,

An enormous television mast,

Mid-September chill,

Warm when clear,

Not now,

Fresh.

Out In The Valley. (2)

How bespeckled with council houses,

Was my valley ?

We'll keep a welcome in the roadside,

And if Jerusalem was builded here,

Where is it now ?

 

 

A Question Of Taboo.

You got to how old

Without trying it for yourself ?

Well,

Shit,

You finally did then,

So what was it like ?

Was it all your girlfriends told you ?

Was it all your men friends promised ?

Did you like it ?

The real question isn't:

"Would you do it again ?"

Its:

"Would you do it with me ?"

But I'm not so sure I'm ready

For your answer.

 

 

Turn Of The Cards.

The sun-rising surprises you,

Your folly knows no bounds,

Speak loudly on the things I do,

Empty words, and hollow sounds.

Preach wildly to the mirrored face,

You might as well for all I care,

Rant and rave, but know your place,

The commodity wisdom I know is rare.

No steps forward, some kind of dead-lock,

A sticky thing, some kind of wed-lock,

Holding hands while stabbing backs,

Reversing sideways on an inside track.

(Turning the cards reveals 'The Lovers'.)

And so it was to the west I turned,

With the silent truths that you taught,

Several mind-chilling secrets I learned

At what price could a man be bought.

 

 

Visual Poem

A sleek black dog on a Lancashire beach,

Stuff "Merseyside", an irrelevance to the older ones,

A poacher with reputable clothing, and a whip,

Terriers too, and friends.

Below the hawk,

The ironman, hawk and dog,

On The Snape,

Behind The Ford.

"Dipper", now long shot, as sheep chaser,

Not true, Hinchliffe, Not Bloody True.

Dipper, wet and wind blown,

As we all were,

Dead, for no bleeding reason.

The Orgasmatron.

"Oh shit! Not the bloody Orgasmatron again ?"

With pornographic nightmares, as backdrop.

You open your mind, heart and life again,

Like a biennial lover.

Flower in morning streams,

Awaken this flower within.

Flower of love and sex, and laughter,

Flourish anew, and bloom.

Not the bloody reality, that, nice and safe,

Is there, just like air.

Just like my hand, yours,

And reassuring, murmuring, neck nuzzling.

"Oh Shit ! its the bloody Orgasmatron,

Of hormones, and terse reliefs,

Of visual, spatial, rearranging loves,

Where distances waver between priorities."

 

The Death Of Pride.

The hot blood runs down her arm,

The white skin, so clean and cold,

There is cause for some alarm,

But ignored, like her gesture bold.

Her bright white hand held up above,

As the stream of red washes to the floor,

Like a virgin, wearing a wedding glove,

She dies the death of a cast-off whore.

The grey room stinks of white smoke,

Where men have gone, and come alone,

She alone saw the whole damn joke,

Like the first innocent to cast stone.

Now kneeling in the cooling draught,

She weakens, but is strong in resolve,

If she was a witness, she'd have laughed,

At how the room sometimes revolved.

It starts to spin for one last game,

As she enters her darkest trip,

Her brain has closed and lost her name,

Drips, with the last quiver of her lip.

The hidden camera then pans aside,

And the grey music comes, on cue,

Docudrama, on the price of pride,

But she's not likely, to sue.

 

Skimming Stones.

Sitting at this profound table,

Brings back childish memories

Of dangling legs in dark cool rivers,

Like this conversation,

Slow, certain and deep,

Providing ample opportunities

To skim questions, like pebbles,

The flatter the better,

Across your glassy surface.

To finally trip, and dip

Into your undercurrent.

Occasional beams of light break through,

Hinting at brilliant depths,

Sometime translucent,

Sometime bejeweled with tiny whirlpools

Around my limbs, and your table legs.

 

 

Not Lovers.

Beneath the twenty year old carpet,

Full of dust, and skin and ash,

Above the cellar, hid a lone trapdoor,

Unopened, for far too long.

I looked out, of the covers,

To see you stare, at my face,

Hidden here we are, not lovers,

But merely killing, time in space.

Carpet duvet, curtains drawn,

Silent storms, rock this ship,

You created this, air failure,

By a quiver, of your lip.

I burn a hole, in my head,

Tread on my floor, bored,

Unopening trap, I caught nothing,

And lasted longer than you.

 

 

Like You.

Like you

I like you.

Like you

I love you.

 

Listener.

She listens to gushing nonsense,
Likens to the babbling child,
Nurses 'there there', no pretense,
That the tame is wild.

 

The sky is full

Overbrims and rainbow-free

Begins the month long rain-fall.

It rains.

Tuesday.

It rained today. (Again)

Another blank page in

The diary.

 

Little Boy.

If you look into me,

You'll find a little boy,

Afraid of spiders and going to school.

If I look into you I see

A heavenly female being,

Partially covered by a

Fine spider's web.

 

Losing My Sex.


Stone doors conceal amniotic yearning,
Lose touch, lose mores, drive free,
Sense the abyss, swim for sex.

Losing, losing my, losing, losing my
Sexuality.

Chain me, cane me,
Undress me, caress me,
Unzip me, whip me,
Disguise me, fantasise me.

Drown me in amnio-streaming,
Lose me in long lust dreaming,
Treat me, then beat me,
Tie me, try me,
Divert me, then insert me,
Invert me, then convert me.


Crashing these doors in senseless frames,
Crack of cane on leather.

Losing my, I'm losing my,
Sexuality.

Losing my, I'm losing my,
Sexuality.


Shave me, deprave me,
Get me, and wet me,
Shower me, then flower me,
Juice me, then sluice me.

Pervade me, then invade me,
Scent me, then re-invent me.


Hurling the rules to spinning horizons,
Silhouetted nude form.

Invite to excite.



"What you're trying to call 'more civilised',

     I see as 'more numerous'"

 

 

Move on.

A day with a mad woman,

And friends.

And in the bottom left hand corner,

The girl that I love.

No beach.

Just following my instincts.

My brothers birthday.

 

 

(The Bizarre Razors In Here.) Rescue Me.

On the cliffs and crags of me,

Standing barefoot in the breeze,

Broken cockleshells under soles,

A lone gull winging nearby.

(A hero to the land-bound)

Fierce sunlight toasting skin,

Glaring dazzle from my sea,

Rescue me.

I'm statue-like in my innocence,

Guilt-free, as Satan tickles.

Smoke from his fires rises,

The horizon lies broken.

My last temptation is behind,

And yet...

I'm not alive,

No-one hears the covered howl,

Nearly...

A candy-cotton mist descends,

Near silence, nothing cows the breakers.

Cold, but I'm burning,

My personal stigmata bleed,

I weep from my soul.

I am.

I love.

Rescue me.

I crunch the shells, and bleed,

I cower from the howling,

No-one hears my hell.

Down below, its a fine day,

The puppet-masters got bored.

I'm my hero, to the land bound,

We laugh at the funnies,

Glaring dazzle, the gull leaves,

Taking his cue,

Rescue me.

On my walks, and in "My gardens" I find things. Broken pottery, glass, toys, just "things". Being a bit Magpie, I keep some, and collect them.....some just go into the nearest bin.

I have had a long-standing Art project in the back of my mind, and I am at last trying to do something with that, but doubt it will set anything on fire in the process.

The poems are all old ones, as this was a random (half-) day off yesterday, not planned, just the fact that my van keeps on trying to fall apart.....

Happy mid-February.

x