Daemon
Drink. Drunk Daemon.
The lost
daemon walked through the street,
Quite
unaware of who he'd meet,
Who he'd
influence and who he'd greet,
Couldn't
say whether to rob or treat.
The bar
sold him a potent shot,
A few
more, and he felt hot,
He spoke
to us really quite a lot,
But mostly
it just seemed total rot.
The things
he sang of, in weirdish sound,
About the
crazy colours in this world he'd found,
of how he
felt safer underground,
Where
reality sometimes dances round.
He killed
me slowly, but I felt no pain,
Something
to do with me being sane,
I can't
say just what he gained,
But it
cured my streak of being vain.
I bought a
man's drink for this man,
Well you
have to do what you can,
just a
part of some master plan,
Some
walk-on part for Desperate Dan.
Could you
tell me if the daemon's real,
Could you
tell me how to steal,
What to
think and what to feel,
Why not to
eat old orange peel.
He raced
it down and looked at me,
"Do
you dream of what it is to be,
So utterly
and completely free ?"
His eyes
lost any hint of glee.
"I'd
tell you my friend, if I could,
But maybe
just knowledge isn't good,
I thought
you might have understood,
Pure
freedom may cause bad blood."
He ranted
on and I lost my mind,
I tried to
forgive myself for being kind,
My
shattered head was not lead-lined,
Now I eat
naught else but bacon-rind.
The day
drew on and we left him there,
To figure
out things like "How," and "Where ?"
I laughed
and said I didn't care,
How it was
he could walk on air.
The lost
daemon drunk in the inn,
Contemplating
what we mean by sin,
Feeling
fat, but looking thin,
From drunk
ear to ear, a cheesey grin.
Delighted.....
Delighted with new
friend games-master
Delighted to speak her
new names.
We lumbered through,
the night drunken stars.
We strayed through
forbidden ground,
And collapsed in
laughter at none-sense of it all.
Insane mimes to undress
the hour,
Touch and mental
blasting, a silent message,
(Will you touch me mute
one ?)
Hold me in impressive
alien clutches,
And will you briefly,
wantonly, love me ?
Temporary, want me.
Sinking beers in memory
trance states,
Comparing tall-stories
for the sake of unborn loves,
Unborn fire-raisers,
Anarchists.
Antichrists.
Do you remember the
bizarre night,
With touristic
motiveless behaviours ?
Preconditioned intent,
Not to relent,
Time, well spent ?
Did I drown in
language-less love ?
Did we kill ourselves
laughing ?
User, abuser, child
bird and thief,
Still finds it hard to
get some relief,
And remembers well the
wordless word games,
Miming to the stranded
victim,
Of a stuckfast tongue,
"Here, this is my
bower,
My bed, my tower."
"Come stay with
me, and
We will see, what may
happen."
Have You ?
You have my address,
Have you got my child ?
A word, on a
spite-grape-vine,
Tells me nothing that I
can rely on,
That tomorrow the sun
won't shine,
And that I'm well out
of the carry-on.
You have turned from
your ma,
And followed a crazed
welsh star.
I wrote, well once, I
thought enough,
I almost picked on the
telephone,
But you know I was not
so tough,
And left, to make it
alone.
Baby girl, with a heart
so fay,
Did you take our child
away ?
I cannot think straight
and so stop,
I couldn't cope with
bizarro love,
The nanny with removed,
detached scream,
Holds my imagined kid,
in imagined glove.
You have my address,
Have you got my child ?
Headlong In The Maze.
The wild bird is a
bagatelle ball,
The joker played
against a royal flush,
Some new way of seeing
things,
As your jest brings a
serene blush.
Your playful jibe, at
rock and roll stars,
Was lost in dead ears
of baby girls,
Who laughed and refused
the photographer,
Who only sometimes goes
to dive for pearls.
Strait-jacketed judge,
who bought the booze,
Flew foamless at the
sofa without a song,
And we played poker
'til the sun rose,
We couldn't leave him
you see, not for long.
I broke fast with the
motorcycle disciple,
The guy you know who
eats grey foals,
Read photographic
albums of his new wife,
And fell headlong drunk
into the coals.
Then Jim came, to
rescue the kids,
And we all shook hands
solemn, with the dead,
He spoke soft poison,
fat old words,
And then left us to go
to bed.
But the bird has eluded
us all,
And this card game has
done my brain,
Slow realisation that I
p'raps missed my chance,
Now left imprisoned in
the open, the sane.
How Droll.
Herein hereabouts one
may hope to find,
A corner unwashed in
the shadows of your mind,
And the secret desire
for more,
Just for the very
knowledge that there is more.
Barking at rugskinned
hippy soap heretics,
The silent woman stole
your soul,
I stole your billfold,
And the girls stole
your ability to care.
How we laughed.
I wonder what could
have happened to the girls.
Touching the china
fragile shell of your love,
Your inner heat and
longings, your self,
I shatter this of mine
and sink into you,
And we live alive in
love and in each other.
How ridiculous,
The clown has no soul,
No feelings.
No tears.
The next day the day
after this,
I find myself
remembering,
How we loved to kiss,
Without all this
pretending.
The morning came
bursting into my dreams,
And for some crazy
damned reason,
She still lay there
like a helpless waif,
Oh good god the
weakness he feels.
As the caller hears no
good news,
It is decided not to
call today,
Somehow it would be
rude to refuse,
To simply walk away.
We laughed til it hurt,
Until the tears rolled
down our cheeks,
And we split our sides,
How droll.
In School.
Walking around the old
place,
I half expected to meet
me coming out,
The same eyes in the
same face,
Same furrowed look, so
full of doubt.
What to say to the poor
dumb kid ?
No advice could be
enough to hear,
I only did the dumb
things he did,
He'll only do them
anyway I fear.
A couple of photos, to
clarify the memori,
To put dimension, to a
shakey place,
Walking like an
invisible ghost, of my sensori,
Then leaving slowly, as
he lowers his face.
I Don't Do Comedy.
I don't do comedy,
I was asked to come
here...
But funnily enough,
Not by anyone who's
actually here now.
I was going to write
something for tonight,
And I waited all last
night
For "inspiration"
And I waited
And I waited,
And it came to half
past ten,
No big flashes,
No bodice-ripping head
blowing moments,
Nothing.
And then it got to
twenty to...
So I rolled a little
combination,
And everso poetically,
Slipped headlong mud
slidingly, anarchically, frenzied sinew tearingly, obliquely and
wantonly, eerily moodily, through emotion mirrors and blank faced bar
black sheepedly, through towering fuck vistas and across chasms of
self effacing humility, soaring like titanic wheeling arched god
sirens with wings of platinum and silk,
to the pub.
The Anarchy Clown.
Come here my friend, and I'll introduce
The anarchy-clown, who's name I forget.
Sit down with us, and just cut loose,
Shelve all idea of false regret.
The anarchist in our midst,
Is very rarely seen,
Seldom seen, and never missed,
But you know when he's been.
False impressions of a crazy scheme,
To spread the world on a canvas.
Its not the thought, its just the dream,
Its just a whiff of laughing gas.
The anarchist is in our midst,
He's very rarely seen,
Seldom seen and never missed,
I'll tell you when he's been.
Jeez, I wish that all this was okay,
I guess I've wished too much you know.
Some how I just need to get away,
To a place where life is slow.
But anarchy-gorilla in our midst,
is a scary dream,
Seldom dreamed and never missed,
But you know that I've been.
Oh my friend, hang on here awhile,
And play a curious game with us two.
What do you mean "Anarchy's out of style." ?
Well, you're not entitled to a view.
Anarchy in the mist,
Can hardly ever be seen,
But please, you get the gist,
I knew you weren't so green.
Sunday Afternoon
Passionate strains of
'Jerusalem'...
Then 'Rule Britannia'
En chorus,
Come over the oak tops, into the
garden.
Strangely incongruous,
With brass, and power,
With love, with pride...
A step too fast?
No matter,
The pigeons, tits, woodpeckers
and owls,
Take up the silent pause,
And chatter, with swishing
woodland accompaniment
And the honk, honk, honk of the
old crow.
The busy wren curses the sleepy
cat,
As the washing dries and the
grass grows.
The occasional rattle of the
gate against it's keeper.
As the band hit the Land of
(the) Hope and (the) Glory,
A dog barks, and the trees swish
on.
How English,
Misplaced passion, or true,
Incongruous chorus
On a lazy Sunday afternoon,
With tea.
Mostly Jazz Apathy.
Faces in the window light,
Smoky room and thoughts of mourning,
Drifting minds and eyes, no whites,
Speech with no real reasoning.
The silent jazz man, forlorn sax,
Ponders depressing thoughts of gloom,
The blues ideas seized up in wax,
Pervade the floor space of this room.
Mouths are moving, shifting words,
To stopped up ears, all talk, no hearing,
Senseless chattering, flightless birds,
Gathered round a smoky clearing.
Apathetic energetic non starters,
Drink black coffee, bemoan their fate,
Apathy devil, for their souls he barters,
Closed minds and eyes, a touch too late.
I say let the devil take you,
As you've lost the will to fight,
You cant be bothered, the lord forsake you,
No-feature faces, boring light.
No jolly little quip this time, sorry, it's a challenging time.
There is little rhyme, and less reason as to why I chose these particular pieces, and I can offer no explanation, or hints of hidden messages, as there are none.
Happy September one and all.
PLEASE DO SHARE if you can be arsed.....
My audience is up to 12 now, so I must be doing something right.........................................!
