M.
F.
I so much want to tell
you, And I, to hear you,
I so much need to
say, I must believe its true,
We must protect this
that we are, Hello, am I getting through?
The love that I have to
give.. Well, its up to you.
The journey starts
then, Can we find out where to go ?
We sit in cars of love
and pain. The road is a long one.
We live. We
love, live.
Midnight.
Beneath your midnight,
Walking ancient
pathways,
Sidestep the infinite
deeps.
The pools of essence
Essence of midnight
blue.
Walk with me
And without words,
Beneath your midnight.
Friday Night.
All fixed up
For Friday night
The heat is on
You're feeling right
You've got a thirst
For some dark fine ales
Maybe one or ten
Coffin nails.
Self destroyer
On a bender
"Loves' lost
child"
"The great
pretender"
Down the road
With cash in pocket
To the ale-house like
Plug in socket.
All fired up to
Drink your fill
Release some pressure
Time to kill.
Send head a-tupping
And blur your words
When you're supping
Forget the birds.
Lads night out
A mini-riot
Look about
It's never quiet
Some new faces
In this hall of fame
Reserve your places
Join the game
Fill the glass
And knock it back
Pints of Bass
Or Guinness, black.
What'll happen tonight
?
Who can say ?
The light's too bright.
Spend your pay
When you've done
We'll have a curry
Far too strong
But never worry.
We're all fired up
For Friday night
The heat is on
We're feeling right.
Moorland Street.
Performance as an art
in itself
Capturing nuance in
tone and stance
And pleasure in
understanding
The players’ art
Not so aloof,
On this long moorland
street
The lay preacher and
the common man.
And her vocal
expressions
For the only critic
To have ears, and her
Tongue
Eyes and nipples and
Hands
Ideas.
As a performance that
captures
Nuances of an imperfect
Moorland vocal
understanding
For the only critic
Aloof pleasure, and
tongue art.
Oily Mirrors
Running into the mirror
Away and before, in
front and bleeding brow,
Cheeks, shards, glassy
emotions...
No authority, just
anonymous threats,
instinct drives you
into survival, bloody,
Cornered, no papers or
legitimacy,
Run rabbit, come with
me....
Face to face with fear,
The tattoo. The world's
pain now,
Hundreds of thousands
of reasons, instincts,
Threats, silent phone
calling, locked boxes.
Hand in hand we flee,
In front, but only
just, emotions,
Survivalists, bleeding
and illegitimate,
Rabbits in the
spotlight.
Analogy, dark dreams
coming true,
Mirrored in rainbow
oiled muddy puddled thinking.
Nowhere left to run
except into the oily mirrors,
And cold sweaty
wakefulness, instinction.
Particle Accelerator
Over the years, girls,
Like neutrinos, or was
it electrons?
Shot through my
destiny, my cellular,
Molecular, particular,
kind of, accelerator.
But virtually never hit
the nucleus,
To rebound at mad
Unpredictable angles,
If only they
Existed.
Shot through particular
beams
Into an uncertainty,
As to just
Exactly,
Where my central
components
My years,
Could deflect them into
paths of normality.
Not Heisenberg,
Not Einstein.
Just purely
Simply. In rivers of
chaotry.
And over the years
The uncertainty
principle
Kind of,
Took over,
Girls, like neutrinos,
hon.
Taking Stock In The Caravan.
Its kind of true that this is real,
Sort of understand now, how she feels,
The sleight of hand, disguises rotten deals,
Unmasks the shit stuck on these wheels.
Follow the roving eye,
Fool the eye,
Train the eye,
Strain, and try.
Having some kind of self-imposed break,
May seem there's no rest yet to take,
Or that certain lacks, are certain fakes,
Or even that lochs are always lakes.
Lines to throw out,
Dispose of these at will,
Drink your fill,
Move in, to kill.
Minor power trips, full of benevolent intent,
Ooze and caress these tin walls, as meant,
Borrow, return, then steal back what I leant,
Leaving faint wafting hints of presence scent.
To know I've been,
Know more or less,
Know you princess,
Subtle hit of stress.
Just what made me turn around through tin curtains ?
At that exact moment ? Cannot still be certain,
To witness the subtle dark void field of portent,
Continuing absence of quarreling lovers, intense intent.
Breeze becoming rocky,
Rattling this shed,
Attitude depressed, less cocky,
Evenings with the dead.
Hate This Place.
From this monk's monkey
cell
I see hear and then I
smell
the burning heaps that
decry this hell
the irritated skins
that will
never wash clean the
incomplete twins
that will never be seen
around the corner
where I tried to warn
her that
I cry at what goes in
and love being out
and danced with a girl
whose eyes never opened
once in a while
I saw her smile
and then reviled
I tried to run
she had a gun
and shot the whole
place
down
god I hate
this town.
Sunday Morning In Bed. Flecks of poison land unseen, Upon the world bedecked with green, Falling like the even star, Blotchy minims of spotty tar. As the darkness attempts to stay, Prevent the coming of the day, You see I knew the road, And remember all you told. The love fatigue of joyless calm, When a "thousand miles" will keep us warm, You sigh the breath that says it all, Simply pride that holds the fall. We fall, dead blossoms on grey breeze, Me lying, you watching on your knees, You smoke our love and dock the tab, Sunny amoureuse at dawn makes drab. The hysterical heights from which we slip, Like sleeping giants lose their grip, Melanchol toast and the day ahead, One cannot but help to blame the bed.Outside the dust covets the world, Dancing breezes stir the dance and whorls, Round the paving of poisonous black, Above the sun lays on its track.
Over a month. Sorry, slack, slack, slack.
Another year really too, let alone month....another Folk Festival, which was fun, though not just quite as anarchic as some previous years, thankfully!
New friends, old friends, a small healing in my internal rift, and some randomly snowy weather, then heatwave, then what? Who knows, but it's still only May, so there will no no "clouts cast" around these parts just yet, unless you count the week of wearing shorts and tee-shirt to work, followed immediately by wondering whether I should break out the bloody thermals again....Mad.