Overdone HDR. "That Tree"
Let's crank up the nostalgia engine and tick a few more off the list then, and keep ruminating on the new ones that keep failing to reach pen & paper, but they will, boy oh boy, the themes are the only thing holding me back really as they became a bit too predictable, even if the love-sentiment is as predictable as ever. Love and loss, love and mis-match, hurricane-love, and so on.....Just not rock solid, dependable, reliable, understanding, compromise, trust and openness. Issues, on both sides, this isn't a blame-fest.
Hey ho, not going to slip further into the personal, that was never the point of this blog, in any of its incarnations.
Don't Call.
Don't call, crying out incredible wastes,
Don't offer a hand, tightrope walker,
I can blow this all on my own.
Don't say "I'm here any time for you."
Patent leather, patent lies,
Patience tested, tomorrow's sighs,
Urgent needs to feed the greed.
Don't bother, assistance as yours is plenty,
Plentiful, bountiful, but hollow and rare,
Is the genuine glint, eye corner stare.
I can fuck this up all on my own.
Write me a letter, "James, it will get better."
Just hold on that bit, to let fate work it out,
No thanks, ex-directory, moved address,
Don't call me anymore.
This has become the age of my hermitage, and I don't really like it.
Dancer
Not a dance floor
dodger
No way
Uncontrollable
catharsis of all that
Nervous energy
So what then, crowd
avoider ?
Not evader, not
isolate,
Desolate soul portions,
but much is sunlight,
Much is overfull
Crammed with dreams,
memories, awareness of now,
Possibly chemicals,
Probably chaotic
proactive reactions.
No matter,
Dancefloors and crowds,
Seething mass of sweaty
designer skin tight,
Ebbing, flowing,
swelling then shouting and
Human media for
observant swimmers,
Eyes.
Half a second away from
this universe,
Always "not just"
Following the lost
scent trails of
Those before.
Through swollen
uncomfortable seas of
Drunk dancers,
Speeding towards the
edge, always.
Stood in the right/wrong place, as usual....
Kettle’s On….
And then the tiny ‘te
ching’ of the heater, the ‘sss’ of the kettle on the stove, the
crunch of the heart on warm shale.
Teaching.
Missions to other
dimensions of stupid wisdoms = ˚45
But my love is far from
obtuse.
I hope closer to tuse.
And to wisdom, though
far from my judgement and closer than yours it seems,
Through this
kaleidoscope/telescope, camera
Crappy old recycled
papered sketchpad
It seems.
It sometimes seems,
beyond Danny, beyond Carl, beyond Mama Mia, both and less,
Beyond me, and before.
Close inspections,
microscopic interventions, and a nudge to the wise.
Too much wisdom blinds
the self-obsessed Djin.
And his smoke/mirror
entrapments for you, and all of your dreams,
Passported to just
anywhere.
Stamped.
Pumelled.
Worlds
Meet
In
the in-between slice of the autumn night dark,
As
in the tin-box caravan, so long left in time,
Standing
at the meeting place of worlds,
Cold,
freshly grated evening air running over my face,
Forearms,
leg-fronts, neck, and becomes deep breath,
As
behind, leg-backs, hair is warmed,
Where
the worlds meet.
Wolves
Years unveiled old dreams, and
scents,
Clear sight, hindsight, clarity,
Think you worked out what they
meant,
Your dragon's slayed,
naivety....
Assure yourself with goods, and
bads,
With things that you possess,
Some make wise, some bounders
cads,
All make more of less....
Wise man, woman, now see the
truth,
Where will you be when come the
calls?
Couldn't avoid it, now await the
proof,
There always were wolves, behind
the walls......
Washed Up
Washed up, on this tiny
stone shore,
Thrown up,
from the troubled surf.
Strangely inclined sea
of leaves;
Oak and ash, silver
birch and beech.
Damp driftwood and
stone islands.
Cool wooded beauty with
ranging dogs…
Turning inward, tried
hard to turn off.
Reflections and
conundrums, unknowns and ‘what if?’s
The threats of
adventure, impending dark loss.
Decanting thought to
void the vessel…
Gaunt tired
undernourished ship-wreck. Pigeon Gulls.
This body almost empty,
this head quiet too,
Letting the leaves, and
trees and squirrels in…
Living poems each, to
deconstruct this world…
Brings no meaning, nor
reasons or clarity.
Just a deep and
pleasant feeling that, all is well.
The dogs return, eyes
full of their own questions,
Aglow and lit with joy
of life.
Check your wreckage,
then again for rabbits
Flying over brambling
tides and stump toadstools...
On their endless drive
for the instinctive quest.
Instead of questions
answered by internal voices
The flotsam moss dulls
around the mind,
Calming doubt waters
and a whirlpool quandary.
Darker storms brew in
the woodland litter.
Distant yet, but a
threat, no less.
An hour or so for the
turning tide,
To stand, salt-crusted
head less troubled
Summon the rabbiters
and splice the sails.
Catching sight of a
skimming owl,
Albatross-like to this
un-drowned mariner.
Cool wooded meditative
shore-leave,
…..Helped. Not much,
as ideas drain out,
The empty mind blown
clear of leaves,
And moss, and stones,
and dogs, and rabbits,
And stumbles towards
the waiting kettle.
View From Lose Hill.
Objecting to your inter-personal politics,
Allegations of, rumours of,
Chinese whispering in late Yorkshire bars,
I find solace in peak striving.
You would never believe how far I can throw
My shadow.
Lose Hill to the valley below.
Frozen silver sunlight,
Striding, walking, stick man.
Thoughts of other filmic dreaming,
Battle with panic anxious death flows,
as once more your lungs strive to climb
Out and up, pulse to match.
No, you'd not believe how far I can throw
My shade, your politics,
My voice to echo this sentiment,
My ambition to descend.
Crossing paths with your insulting bright kagoules,
Anachronistic, we level, but briefly,
To the river,
The railway,
And the warm farm,
With whisky and cake,
Without you.
(For what it's worth, "Lose" is pronounced "loose" in this context,
it's near Edale, Derbyshire...)
Unknown Pleasure.
Crazed-fingers, on
glass, on steel,
On rubber-matted
floors, to feel,
To studs, and belts and
jaws so taut,
Never stop just when
you ought,
To taste the leather
Eden apple fresh,
And whip the frenzy, up
on flesh,
To kick, and scream, in
agstacy,
While choosing how not
to be,
So charged with
yearning, and yet,
So unwound-up, on a
losing bet,
That life so quick, so
sure and able,
Won't leave you, dead,
beneath my table.
Visitor.
My dreams are as real
as the night,
I believe in a second
sight,
I know how to set
things alight,
And I know what's not
black is white.
Why do I have to dream
of death ?
When foul corpses try
to steal my breath,
From whom did I get
this curse ?
Losing you only made it
worse.
While you once were a
visitor to my dreams,
I think you left with
the morning beams,
Now the dream-skin
slips away in streams,
Leaving me to drown, or
so it seems.
I know I should not
fear to sleep,
Should long for where
willows weep,
Should dip into
unconscious pools so deep,
But the grim one lurks
and yearns to reap.
My nights are longer
now you're gone,
I should have guessed
you were 'the one',
But I didn't really
understand your song,
Couldn't see how I'd
been so dumb.
But these dreams are
more real than the night,
And give me a glimpse
of second-sight,
Some strange way to set
my head alight,
Or a way of falling,
from great height.
Really??
Well, that's a few more off the list, but I'm afraid there are still some more to go..... Bear with me, I'll get this chapter behind me eventually..... I'll try not to leave it three months before the next not-especially-gripping installment....
