More Catchup. Sorry!

 The Apes.

Not a true anarchist, maybe,

Baby,

But I will not be ordered by apes,

Look about you !

Shout !

Look about you !

I will not be ruled by monkeys,

Civil service flunkies,

Junkies.

Money, cash, drug, life,

Nothing for me here babe,

Not too late

To get saved.

No sirree,

No monkey for me,

No diamond studded chamber,

No reminder

Of reverse evolution.

Devolution,

Devolve yourself from the apes,

No grapes for me,

I'm free.

No sirree,

 No apes rule me.

 

The Exile.

Exiled from physical love,

But sanctuary is in the family arms,

Embraced and trapped in time.

Because this is so, and you have gone,

I wallow in self pity, and whoredom,

Sleazy animal instinct runs my mind,

And here I lie in another bed.

Thinking of you.

I am exiled by choice, I guess,

May even change my mind,

But I think, I still wanted you.

When I saw your bitch photo,

In the local paper, I saw it,

I hated you and mentally then had you,

But missed your loving smile,

Missed you like crazy, I guess.

I sit in this platonic setting,

Pleasantly pissed off with you,

And at myself,

For caring.

The Middle String.

Novelty approaches ridicule,

To die beneath a mint comet,

To sleep between flesh valley, and sun hill,

Romanesque garden order and logical sex.

Gas fired, unholy candles proclaim intent,

The sleeping hunter stalks through reverie,

Brusque interview on level six,

Says nothing to perspective of sheer glass cliffs.

"Wait here" she says as reason leaves,

And your random spider leg caress begins,

Paralell falling leaves tumble into head space,

And the waking dream drinks in your presence.

To ridicule the mime, or to mimic the comic,

Pagan ritual commands that I sacrifice this,

To household gods of commerce and free fall,

And provides the clarity of the dawn vision.

To wake in cauldrons of dry sex, track eight,

Rollover spending on a micro level, how economic,

When friends turn traitor, and mice eat rat's pizza,

And then novelty dies, in your dead grey eye.

The tar talisman between the

Lady's fingers.

a drifting trail of mystery

Sharp scented.

Symbol of what high regard,

One can hold one's life in.

Illicit pleasures and anxiety

Minimal. (Mind-back nagging.)

-------------------------

Sultry pose, cool martini,

Atmospheric no-go zone.

Image destroyed as butt

Hits ash-tray.

It's mid-October, it's summer out there, though cold in the shade to be fair.

I'm in a random "challenge" on photography, in a private group of two, and it's helping me so much to re-see things. Things I see all the time, in a purely compositional, and different way.

I'm reading more of Ted Hughes, and thinking, apart from his eclectic and bizarrely random use of his dictionary, and probably Encyclopedia, yes, he was a word-smith, but his ability to carry his thoughts across was something that many might find "too much". If you know what I mean.

Story of my life really.....

Here's a duck:                (With some others to be fair)

Goodness me, we made it into double figures again.....!

Kiss all of you. Tell your creative friends. Don't tell anyone else, they're all dead already.

x

White Sodding Rabbits

Just A Suggestion.

Think in tuneless, picture-song,

Smile in time, with thought,

Meaning, that not to, is wrong,

And, find all that's sought.

Wait, with patience, for the time,

Think again, of where you've been,

Perhaps I hoped you'd see my mime,

Cannot be sure, just what you'd seen.

Forget all that, and haunty prayer,

Simply live, as you feel,

Meaning, do all, that you think you dare,

Live intense, from meal to meal.

From reel to reel, to screen, and back,

Pictures projected into your mind,

Meaningless tunes, on an old sound track,

Deep within, where love is blind.

 

Quickies.

“It’s so nice to use your mind”

She said, and I know it’s true….

Double hook, switch and back,

Triple twist and image painting

Recreational use of my head.

As I climb into the stupor, external,

My head-ballet begins again,

And moving lubricational through life,

To life and lives and loves and back….

Outside and somewhat away

From the beaten track.

 

Sandcastle

Sandcastle,

Cocktail stick, bus ticket flag,

Inverse bucket castellations,

Small spade-depth moat,

Old shell battlements,

Pebbles too, maybe,

Protecting the inner-true

You from

My incoming love-tide.

Dissolving your sand-walls,

In hot holiday memory,

Sun baked English beach,

With ice-cream and,

Knotted hankies, old men.

Us small ones paddle,

And running hard,

Laughing.

We bomb sandcastles,

With barefeet.

Your love washes against my walls,

As mine yours,

With pebbles too, maybe.

I can't take full credit for this one, though I'm sure I re-wrote it my way. I won't go into the back-ground, but a friend called Sarah wrote the original which I changed a bit. She was having a particularly shit time, and I listened. If ever I do make "print" then I will ask her about it...

 Sarah's Poem

I’m not a poet or scribe,

Nor an author or diarist,

I’m a mathematician

Living through numbers,

Not words.

But numbers don’t express emotion,

They’re set.

Rigid and conforming,

They can’t flow,

Can’t describe,

Just own bare, factual meaning.

Like me.

I’m a number,

Not a sentence or phrase.

Emotion isn’t conveyed

As numbers fail to free it

From the prison of my logical mind.

Though life isn’t logical,

So why the patterns of numeracy?

Why the need to fit boxes?

The strive for uniformity?

I’ve been placed on a track,

Never to leave it.

Stuck on this line, unable to detour

Via Reaction or Feeling.

So here I am,

A number.

A staid, statistical sign.

Bereft of expression.

Until I find words.

Sleepless Examination.

I'd like to stretch out my arms,

Embrace all, and nothing.

I'd like to sleep,

I'd like to sleep with all of you,

I'd like to live, long enough to try,

I'd like to sleep.

Please love me, I love you,

Confiscating your love,

Stealing your dreams for tonight,

Waking in love pools,

Sheets sticky with last night's heat,

And recognition that its not enough.

Playing fire catching, losing and winning,

Simple games have the deepest skill,

And complicate my need for you,

My rejection is the truest love,

Rejecting the pain I know will come,

To share my pain with everyone,

To share dim moments with the night.

To sleep, so deep, my dreams to keep,

Is enough ambition for the sheep,

Enough to hold me from the leap,

And another body lands on the heap.

Stretching out my arms to enfold,

And love, and stifle, and drown,

In lakes of, pools of damaged emotion,

Pure thought of the clear visioned,

Outcast, self exiled lover of dreams.

I did have a male friend in mind when I wrote this next one, but hey.....

Taking Liberties.

I'll take it all,

Everything you can throw.

But

I will not stop.

I will take your life,

Your house,

Cash, dog, car,

Horse, pictures and

Even your gun,

But...

Even though I'll take it all,

However big, or however small,

Remember

Your woman will forever be

Forever, safe from me.

 

Time.

There was a time

Split the universe into two equal parts

Draw a line, find some dots if you have to

Right in the middle, that’s where

My life started and ended

Stupid line crossing mistake

I’d spell it out, but who’d give a second thought? Shit.

I’d say somebody would, but

She’s not the one I loved.

But, oh, you know.

There was a time.

 

Worm's Head.

This is the car park

the field that they use as a car park

next to the small hotel and National Trust Visitors centre

that has a nineteen sixties feel though timeless

is the place you now stand for the millionth time

the hang-gliders in the sky like great dragons

from an impressive distance dancing and gliding

as they do from time to time in the over heated air

above the not so mild looking surf that breaks

on the ten mile shore that curves to an infinitive caravan

park beyond which there is nothing but more

open sea and more south welsh coast

if it's clear you can see it all from here

so we walk to the cliff's edge and marvel at the drop

to the beach with the ribs of shipwrecked dreams

with white surf playing there for the open eyed

to see the patient sea playing as your eyes see

the last million times you were here you hear

the words and walk to the green to the very end of it all

with gorse and rock-roses in abundant splendour and history

and sheep grazing on impossible cliff ledges

where the bodies get washed out to the distant deeps

where you make your way slowly as we all do eventually

you come to the rock-pooled causeway that sweeps

right-handed to the structure that holds the real devils bridge

and you walk below it one time your friend above

the camera records the difference between the sun

and the rock not daring to check the tide

you make the island cringing on grazed knees and hands

grasp the climb to the very end you sit as close

to the one hundred plus foot drop into rather vicious

waves that mock the bravery you fake for the intrusive camera

that you leave behind in the car in the field that they use as a car-park

you live in this place at the edge you can sometimes make out

the distant form of Lundy and beating the incoming tide

you can see seals and cormorants at play with work not far

to go as you simply soak in the mystery and history

you see that white farm below the hangliders is

the one place I would want to live and die

at Worm's Head and shoulders

In the car-park at Rhosilli.

No real "news" just stuff. Work, drink, sleep, repeat. Occasionally have a nice time socialising, eating curry, chatting nonsense, laughing and getting older.

White sodding rabbits.

Hope you're all good? All six or seven of you?