In Between What and What?

 

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.

It is spring, so roll on SUMMER!

Stop messing with my fonts!



Stay strong and safe people.