Challenging Times in Many Ways.

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.

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