Dungeon Wood: Fridays Used to be Something to Look Forward to.

I nearly caught the buggers fly-tipping.....
Still, they do look guilty as sin.......

It's taken me nearly three weeks to eat the bar of chocolate I bought as a gift, given but forgotten. These pieces are me just screaming out random crap to get them out of the way so I can start to get my head back on straight again. I'll let you know how that goes, as so far it's a disaster.

and, because, like everyone has to have connection to the poetical dictionary of other people's ideas, here is my Black Dog. Not Winston Churchill's, or yours, just my own.

I did have one, Lady, and I loved her, madly.

The Black Dog.

The black dog's emotions are not dead,

Not blind-folded in a mad kids play,

Nor does it matter to anyone anyhow,

Anyhow, the black dog loves something.

We need new expression,

New ancient language to sing,

Of the black dog's secret loves,

A trained response, almost a reflex.

Sleep with emotions under wool blankets,

Sleep with the black dog's emotions,

Hidden but an eye winks the cache,

Gives the game away but briefly.

The tears are real enough on whiskery cheeks,

But betray nothing of the reasons,

Given reasons fit the lovers excuses,

But betray nothing of the black reasons.

A silence descends in dusty mad kennels,

As the black dog holds on to her heart,

The skies ignore the frozen freeze-frame,

Of countless loves now dead.

Now buried in married earth curtains,

And they betrayed nothing of themselves,

They live out a passionless lie,

And in their dreams, with the dog.

Black dog circles round the edge of fire,

And grumbles at the secret dancers,

Retracing bitter remembered snow-tracks,

And a deliberate retreat from the truth.

Who will catch the mad black dog ?

Who among the girls will remember how ?

And who will run with his soul

On windswept beaches with mad seagulls ?

(Everyone has a “Black Dog” whether or not they write it. Just cliché)

In the meantime, there ARE Fairies! I caught a couple of snaps, and I was no where near Cottingley.

1988, Jeez, just a child. Key to the door, and all that. There's a biggy coming in the next couple of weeks, and I don't know if I know any more now than I did then, in fact, I probably know a lot less in so many ways, but so much more about nothing.

The clock is ticking.

What a funny old week, icy cold, snow, hail, thunder storms, brilliant sun, a solidly numb head, and life, and mis-communications. I don't need drugs, thankfully, as none of my world makes that much sense as it is. Win!

If Carlsberg made internal dystopias......