Love/Hate This Time of Year.

Ghost Towning.

Eleven years, the returning,

The rough city of child's dreams,

Nightmares, wonders, failures, learning,

Floating oddly through imagined streams.

Can't quite remember, something familiar,

So this is how things change,

Parked the car in Wentworth Terr, similar,

At the same time something strange.

St Austin's chapel - remember Judy ?

The coaches that lined up to collect,

Spotty, screwed up free spirits and broody,

The elite, not quite, but maybe the select.

And the school, can't quite bring myself to look,

Can't quite leave it either, here inside,

Keep feeling that I should recognise..where's duck ?

And there's the pub where we used to hide.

Further into town, 'Ziggys' is now 'The Patio',

Sacrilege ! To refurbish my perfect memory,

The streets the same, my head now says go,

When I'm walking through a ghostly reverie.

I keep thinking I might see myself here,

But haven't time to check the station bar,

Nor the attic in the hall, or everywhere,

My shade memory seems not so far.

Walking now through the bus station,

Miming the journey into school,

Catch stupid strange sensation,

They didn't cure this dumb fool.

The geriatric bingo players remain,

Eleven years of sandwiches and teas,

Have they, or I at last gone sane ?

Then at last, the school...please...

Eleven years, the returning,

The battle (school playing-) fields,

The labs, classes, computer rooms, still learning,

To tell the false from all these 'reals'.

 

Flightless Angel.

The librarian’s pride knows a dizzy perch,

Leaving reason on the plains below,

Fist clenched tightly on the leash,

That binds a flightless angel.

Fast racked indexed tones

The words of angels, on virgin silk.

You have been,

Are and

Always will be

The girl I love.

Freestyle.

Giveaway, bargain. The shops all ascream,

Style is free. Free-style.

Dream.

Seem to be in thought-land, magic tree.

Shop keeper nation,

Kiss your inflation,

Credit and charge cards,

Rats in the backyard.

Ascreaming, ascreaming mind how you go,

There's nothing just left now,

But the dirty old snow.

Old snow, grizzled and non-white,

Watch where you're treading,

When you're out for the night.

Have you lost your style lover ?

Soon now discover,

The flowered-up addiction

Pointless prediction :

"Tomorrow will be just as bad..."

"The President was really just mad."

And free.

Freedom fight,

Caterwauling spright,

Defenceless and deafened.

Kiss the sign, and soak up the snow,

Nobody will tell you what you should do.

Freestyle in a municipal bath-house.

Free to be the one,

Or none.

Anyone can join in, and singalong with me,

Today is the day when everything's free,

Nothing to pay 'til the end of the year,

Balance of trade on the end of a spear.

Freestyle baby, freer than nobody's heroes....

Come home now, and love me, your own little zero.

 

High.

The high, whether natural or no,

Varies, every time.

The high you feel at escape,

The moment you hear it all pass by,

Is cool and deep,

Yet is no less real or

Hurts not a feather more

Than that real true second.

The high, whether natural or no,

When you turn to face them,

Screaming out "here I am !"

Pierces your pounding thoughts,

As you collapse and submit,

Knowing this is no less real.

Whether high or not,

Whether real, or dreaming,

We vary, every time.

Lilies

The lilies are out,

Well, this week's at least,

Trumpeting my love

To any who'll listen

Unexpectedly audienceless

Unexpectedly misunderstood

With deep shiny glossed leaves

White bells,

Six point horns

Now silent.

 

Motorway Driving.

A gap appears in the traffic,

As the rain bounces high off the road.

Your passenger's complaining they're carsick,

In the nearside a lorry sheds its load.

When you think that nowt could get worse,

And the situation can only improve,

Your passenger complains that they'll burst,

And the traffic refuses to move.

The gap that you've seen has gone,

And the stereo has jiggered itself.

All you can do is go on, and

Try to preserve mental health.

Four hours later you've moved a whole mile,

And the atmosphere is wearing thin,

The insanity forces a peculiar smile,

Which then breaks out in a grin.

A gap appears in the traffic,

And the rain bounces high off the road,

Your passenger's been horribly sick,

And your brain has just shed its load.

 

A bit random, but that in itself seems to be the order of the day. My regular readership seems to have crept up from more of less single figures to over 30....which in itself is nice. Thank you, whoever you might be. The last picture, immediately above, was taken yesterday, and I have to say that it was blooming cold......Seeing as how it's rained more or less all day today, with fog/low cloud, I doubt the Moss will look quite like that tomorrow......

Between Lives, Seeing as.....

Seeing as how that is how it feels.

 

Dreamdancing.

The dream of the dance,

With white tiled toilets the size

Unbelievable, of the Albert Hall,

The deja-vu, your dress,

Your fathers signet ring,

Tuxedo ? How Americaine,

And your split skull smiling mother.

Maybe you'd smile as goddamn f*ing much,

If you rattled as you walked,

Or danced on designer drugged clouds,

With Archangel Valium and the Tremazipan Seraphim.

Dreaming did not dilute the senses,

Idiocy, fallacy, total hypocrisy,

The scent of garlic on your breath and clothes,

The stink of piss in the car park,

And the unmistakable stench of Janus.

In step we walk into St Pancras,

Or is it the dance floor,

Dinner of shellfish and langoustine,

With real champagne,

Real glasses,

Really embarrassing.

The memory of her blasted hypocritic's lecture,

On my lifestyle, your future,

My potential, my wasted three years,

My euphoric smoker bows to her depressants,

And duly the thread snaps.

You and I boarding different trains.

And Mrs Goody Flip-top head,

Waves me goodbye, from impossible,

Bar, cave, station toilets, and platform,

As she believes shes doing

The right thing.

Treaclebrain.

Sometimes the thoughts

Transmitted from uncertain sections of the brain,

Take a disproportionate time

To reach the nerves intended,

As if they're rebounding,

Or being held back,

Then being released, by another force,

Or traveling through either

A damaged track

Or

Treacle.

Sometimes truly lovely,

Sometimes truly, disorienting.

After the event,

Simply a cause for concern,

No drug residue

If no drug intent or present.

A many year hang over ?

Or a subject

For further study ?

 

Extract From A Lucid Dream.

Two lush living hedgerows stand,

Twelve feet apart, or thereabouts,

You and I move with hand in hand,

Though in a dream I have no doubts.

Our daughter, that we haven't had,

Walks between us along the grass,

Though I can't see her eyes aren't sad,

I know they smile like shiny brass.

I pick her up and on my shoulders,

We stroll between these neatest rows,

I loose your hand to help me hold her,

And fail to notice your pace now slows.

Carry on this sunny walking,

In a dreaming that I once had,

You've fallen behind as I'm stalking,

And I know I should feel so sad.

As the years roll by I know you're gone,

Leaving me to walk almost all alone,

But my daughter seems forever young,

What I see next near cuts my bone.

Up ahead you stand and smile,

We catch you up, as if you'd never gone,

We walk once more in double file,

I feel like, and raise my voice in song.

Two intensely living hedgerows green,

Twelve feet apart or thereabouts,

Still today, I don't know what it means,

But even in this dream I had no doubts.

Games With No Rules.

Friend or lover, who's to say ?

Who knows best but you and me ?

I'm pissed off with being free,

Need someone to fight with me.

The place that we came to then

Was hot and dusty and all the buildings were white,

The dogs lay in heated gutters,

The sprinklers sprinkled in the gardens.

My insecurity screwed up my haze,

I got lost in your arguments,

Got sucked in the spiral of laziness,

And made love with words of jealousy.

Held hands as we drove to a river beach,

And I felt like it was all so new,

It was all so old and alive,

We swam with the fools gold of short-time.

The day lasted longer than my brain,

I swam in the dark, insane,

I'm sure the fish must have felt the same,

And the fat French man woke up and went home.

Friends, we sat together,

We opened and closed a chapter in our life,

So short are our times together,

I dreamt about you as his wife.

I'm pissed off with living so far from you,

Want more than this game we're in,

And so I do sod all about it,

Except plant more crowded seeds of regret.

To flourish in the melanchol dusty gardens,

Behind my eyes where I sit back,

And laugh and cry and swim,

And make love to you in my mind's bed.

 

Happy Slippers.


Quickly cutting, the hazed, overhot,
Staggered horridly to the wood-covered door,
Flung open the horrid, wooden, hinged flap,
Into May, late balmy over-calm night,
Fell in brown slippers forward and drew breath.

Hideously contrasted by refreshment,
Drunken not, but inebriated on clear air,
Smooth, too warm perhaps, maybe, could be, humid.
Liquidly, ten-thirty, sweetly, lungs filled,
Compares ridiculously with smokey fire-heated comfort,
Reminds someone of something long ignored.

Happy slippers, heels trodden, into evening grass,
Transport the spirit to the ludicrous dream,
Heralded the storm, or rumoured the summer,
Nights of last, but thirsty, unsure perceptions,
Quickly forgot, to the host tin coffin.
Inexplicably perched, on exposed meadow-like hillside,
Now irrelevant, as desire seeks out tin-womb return.

 

Green. (2)

Not quite stagnated, quite,

Green, but the green of decay,

Scented by mould.

A broken hand-glass,

A shattered illusion,

Splinters of nothingness,

Bloody fur, on scum.

 

False hope.

Stop for your own sake,

Take a quick gap and take

A second to really soak in

All the depths of this scary thing.

Gap analysis.

Take that walk and turn around,

Roundabout love under stars of Wales.

And boarding the ship

We must part, for now.

You seized my eyes

Dragged my voice and dowsed my love,

To the ground of your floor.

Lying berserk and lost,

I felt your face in this darkness,

And tasted your mind.

Anger and repressed longing,

Dreams of free love, tense hang-ups,

And this squalid carry-on.

You held my hand and my tongue,

opening your barriers for insane moments,

Of crazy emotion induced love.

And this dark carpet beneath,

Holds its own counsel, and guards

Against the return of forgotten reservations.

Forget-me-not, astrewn abandoned and out of season,

Blows rag-tag across the 2am wet lane,

And my muscles remember that peculiar night.

Dead Bulb

There are lights coming up the hill,

Far too fast for some odd reason,

To this small town tight lane.

Your lights are too fast, and too bright,

No sense but bags of reason,

Makes me consider the dead bulb

In my emotional tail-light.

I am so trying with the whole night/timed-exposure/stars thing, but it's bloody hard to get it right. You can mess around with the aperture, fine, the shutter-speed, fine, the ISO level, yes, I get that, but actually manually focusing on a distant point, in the dark, when you're long-sighted...is tricky, believe me, it is. Add to that the minus 8 or whatever it was the other night......Sheesh, I'm glad these came out at all......

Life really sucks right now, but hey, my usual caveat applies, so I'll leave that one to you dear reader. What would you do? Keep sodding on...yes, that's all you can do at time, just keep sodding on.

Why does my brain kick off at midnight, and then refuse to stop until it's time to actually wake up and go get ready for the day ahead???? Bugger.

Zombie......

Here's a timed exposure of the snow the other night.......

 

I loved it so much I messed around with it, and some others, and a couple of video clips.......

Addiction fighting, and trying to understand where I'm at......Welcome to the end of 2017. I will raise a glass, and share, and shed a tear to the whole thing.

Happy December. x

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.