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......