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.
Pummeled.
The Empty House Of
Janus.
The chained door to the
empty house,
That isn't, containing
A wolf, a jackal, a
cow, a cat, and clown,
Janus should be the
master,
For the number of faces
is more than one,
Per body.
The silent dark,
without,
The silence within,
Contained within is the
prismic soul,
Of the clown,
The anarchy clown of
this circus,
The circus of deaf
fools.
There is but one within
the unchained house,
But one, but one what ?
Many-faceted, many
lives,
Not truly the nine of
the cat,
Nor the sacred cow,
Nor the unfeeling wolf,
Nor the false-humoured
clown,
But just one.
The chain keeps them
all out,
And all of the one
within,
Away from the world.
Janus looks down from
the door,
Patron of travelers,
and me.
Static on the carpet of
this circus,
Static in my solitude.
The empty house holds
the wolf within,
And in my ears echoes
His lonely howl.
More Birdsong.
And then the moon sung
me a song,
Not a terribly good one
its true,
But she told me I'd
been all wrong,
Was never really meant
for you.
But my sun-god argued
my corner,
Saying that I shouldn't
hang back,
But he can't see the
doubts adorn her,
Or the moon concealed
in black.
I could still hear her
faint words,
Coming through the
evening air,
If you decide to go
hunting birds,
Do you think it should
be fair ?
I laughed and caught
the tune she'd thrown,
I knew that you were
only an air,
I whistled it round,
then up and down,
And knew then I didn't
care.
(Fairly sure I've already posted this, but hey...)
Perceiving You.
How do you see me ?
I see me as
A lunatic sitting
dribbling insanity
From your motorway
bridge
Onto the fast
executive.
There was a dead Ent in the river.......I was surprised, as I had no idea there were any around here.
Snippet of
Conversation.
My eyes burned the skin
beneath,
The hidden layer of
living.
My eyes char, and you
flame,
I guess this is my way
of giving.
The cat purrs, the
clock ticks,
I slumber in the
after-glow,
Last night is so far
behind,
I just thought you
ought to know.
My eyes fall out as you
tell me,
That there's something
I should hear.
The promise somehow
remains unworded,
Hidden by protests,
driven by fear.
You hurt, I hurt,
perhaps the cat does too,
Who knows about
allaying love ?
My Confession......*
* I've been Blackberrying...... Made a Blackberry & Apple Gin variant.....not sure if it's going to be any good, but as I'm not a Gin drinker, it can only be an improvement......
* I'm not a murderer.
Infectious Laughter.
Fill me with your
bastard fire,
Where it hurts most,
Deepest burning pain of
Guilt senseless
infection of
A false lovers' life.
False words filled with
deep truth,
And a crucified
sex-life,
I died in three whole
weeks,
And your telephone,
Couldn't just do that
to you.
Love you, hate you,
Its not the same as
real life:
Real life, pain and
highs,
I died once more
between your thighs,
Fell drowning out of
your eyes,
And never believed my
own lies.
And the paradox that
faces us,
Who has been astray ?
I drove a thousand
miles,
To your house and back,
To see the fire and to
die,
To watch satellite
shite,
And to catch a bastard
truth.
Neither of us really
believes the other,
And I'm the one with an
Imaginary bastard fire
In my imaginary bastard
loins.
It rains, so ? less
often, never more than,
Who gives a toss ?
I sleep in pain, next
to your
Clean and poisonous
motherhood.
NEVER EVER USE "Not Waving, Drowning"
It's BEEN DONE TO DEATH.
All because of a fabulous old Public Service Film in the 70s......
Every would-be poet since has used it, no really, even if they don't admit it, it was such a powerful image..... So, here's mine:
Image Of A Drowning
Man.
Heavy storm, high sea,
Falling rain.
An open scream.
Salt water.
"Hey luv, that
man's waving !"
In the queue for the
check out,
Domestic tensions
mount.
Scaling inclined fears,
Tiers to a theatre.
Pounding head and
pulse,
Hand puts change and
tickets
In the opposum's purse.
The climax brings more
silence.
Image of a burned
A burned out car.
A dead baby,
Heavy storm,
High seas,
A brother's scream.
Salt water
Brine for the dying.
Infusion for the
spiritual,
And death to the
drowning.
"Hey luv, that
man's waving !"
Poor White Girl On
Loads.
What do you think
they'll call you
Twenty years from now ?
Wild child, you're such
a child,
Your eyes made black
As is your style,
Your nose is full of
bitterness,
Taken through a straw,
Wander in you
wilderness,
Who could ask for more
?
The car stops and out
you get,
You don't know who nor
where,
But some promise your
appetite has whet,
And so, abandon care.
No cash, no sleep, no
lifestyle,
Or one I can cope
without,
Empty stomach, churns
up bile,
I think you won that
bout.
Wild child, a flawed
model girl,
Did he promise you the
world ?
Or just more dope to
stop your mind ?
Do you think I'm so
unkind
To tease you back to
reality ?
Sense and sensibility,
Bright and capability,
But senseless death
will knock,
Knock, let him in.
What the hell do you
think you'll be
Twenty minutes from now
?
My Rose cuttings......not terribly promising, but they're not dead.........5 reds & one white/pink.......
My last post got 11 views.....and I bet at least one of those was me. I won't give up though, some were way over 50........sheer bloody mindedness is keeping me going..........
Feel free to share though, if you're in any poetry groups or anything......
Happy Friday all 8/9/10 of you.......
