Eyes.
Nine billion names have
I,
None of which is
Birdman,
Nor Fishboy,
Nor anything connected
with you.
Nor will I share the
one surname I know,
Not with you, my dear,
my deer only temporarily.
Make love to a god,
"Screw You !"
He said.
Here I sit in this
Tibetan retreat,
Writing out my names,
On the line that says
"Pay the bearer"
My cheque to God.
My fruitless, but not
uneventful cheque,
The billion moments of
my life,
Started with the
unknown woman,
And ended with an
unknown.
And sit with me for a
moment on this wheel,
And recall your own.
Recall our own.
As I die in your arms
again,
How many fucking times
?
How many more ?
It's a dead giveaway
you know,
With those eyes.
Nine billion eyes,
Nine billion lies,
Nine doesn't divide
equally by two,
But nine billion does.
Four and a half billion
times I loved you,
I suppose one more
can't hurt.
Those eyes, those
dreamy eyes.
Fish and Chips.
A vinegary smile,
Waiting at the bus
stop,
Kissing in the rain,
A police car flies
past,
I kiss you, again,
The bus arrives, and I
Am left with
Fish and chip love
And rain.
Several Beers Later &
Comfortable.
I don't feel actually
alone,
I'm not actually
alone,
Rob's here, so there.
What's missing remains
so,
Not just a partner,
Not a sexual thing,
More a clone, or
sister.
Another part, waiting.
Talking is a bit of it,
I guess I talk to Rob.
I'm not simply horny,
or turned on,
That's not quite it.
I'm short, fifty
percent.
My wife doesn't even
know me,
I'm only twenty-one,
and hell,
If I'm this cut up
about it all,
I may as well be a
clone or sister.
Talking is a sexual
thing,
What's missing is quite
it,
Still, I have myself,
and fifty percent.
My wife is a bit of it,
I guess I talk to Rob,
He's here, she's not.
I'm not simply a
partner, or a sexual thing,
More twenty-one, and
alone,
Not just waiting,
another part.
I'm not feeling alone,
so there,
I don't actually feel
missing,
I may as well remain
so.
Fool.
Feeling reflective and
feeling a fool,
The two things go
nicely together,
Feeling slightly lonely
and used,
I guess.
With her, is a foolish
reflection too.
I know I posted a random video thing based on this, so this should go there, or that should go here.....
(Did I YT it? Or just FB it......? Either way I just found the original, as I trawl through the "old stuff"......
Found it.......
Apologies!
Gas.
When the last droplet of gas
Squeezed to boil from canister red
To moist heat this old tin shed
The last damp flame zipped, then died.
When dejected in a rare spring frost
Sitting on life deep dead sponges
May count now the choice of cost
Count stolen milk and soap and dope.
Hard Bargaining.
It is not a foregone
conclusion,
Not a predetermined
thing,
Not planned out by the
hand of fate,
Too late, too soon,
Too much, to expect.
Not a frank admission
of God
Cumulus sits on
weathered frown,
Brow to heathered
thought stream,
Not the soft imagined
solstice,
Simple and delightful
in time.
Stretched out your
belief once,
Twice and sits
comfortably,
But not in this
ridiculous song.
Never should you shoot
at fish,
Nor clouds nor stars
nor suns,
Test leads reactions to
new surrounds
Test mine to heavy
guns.
Seeking late Elysial
entry, to deny.
(Is this denied ?)
Forever to exclude
To sink ethereal,
forget my cloud
Never to predict
Not to forget
Never to submit
Predetermine my demise,
admitting mistakes.
All.
That picture is DEFINITELY not mine, so I don't claim anything about it, but nor can I attribute it to the author, sorry, this is not a cash generating site, and I claim "fair use".......
Still I get the sentiment carried in it...so much more over the last few years.......
Telephoning She.
I rang you up to boil
my head,
I might as well have
rung the dead,
A bricked up mind, and
communication,
Impossible in our
situation.
Hot plastic telephone
hides your face,
Two hundred odd miles
from this place,
Down the road-worked
motorway would I chase,
If emotions would take
up this race.
But to talk is to dodge
the thoughts,
Of things we've done
and what we ought,
To do now to keep
things going,
Perhaps your silence is
a way of showing.
I should never have
pretended not to love you,
You needed more than
you knew I could give you,
The double bluff was
called and we discover,
What it means to lose
your lover.
I replace the melting
telephone receiver,
I, the false one, the
great deceiver,
Two hundred miles, I
can see your face,
You might as well be in
outer space.
I might as well be
Peter Pan,
I'd not make a good
Desperate Dan,
But in cloud cuckoo
land, the never never,
The dreamer's heart
strings are now severed.
Sod Off Old Girl Friend.
We sat in time for minutes,
Echoing events of ten years back,
Pre-guessing those ten hence too.
Why ? Neither really gives a toss,
Well maybe a bit, but really,
I wasn't bleeding then,
Now ? Its just a graze.
And the
Stretched skin splits.
And
Bleeds.
Car genius, box world,
Logic, where's your romance ?
Express shit in dull wine bar silence,
Though irreverent, my truth stinks.
I cling to a notion that I should hurt,
Either way of reading that, I don't,
Not deliberate.
You didn't hurt me.
I finished it six/ten years ago,
So what ? Why ?
Growing over aeons of mental ungrowth,
Unrest riot and decay, entropy love.
A notion of negative drift.
Now please just
Sod off.
Hypersanity.
Wettest afternoon, in
mudbath sex games,
Melt to rainbow
swimming in dream streams,
Set to statue-like
beauty, but warm, wet, alive,
Time to draw fleshed
curtains over, just to survive.
Then pissed and
skull-less, one Thursday,
I fucked you off, for
once and all,
And your blind ears
tasted nothing,
Deaf cow so sacred, how
I wished to run.
To the back page of
this sorry story,
Before adverts of sad
old book clubs,
Opium for the few who
can still read,
Belies the paperback
spineless diarist.
Voyeurist saving
video-hire money for all,
Tomorrows beers, and
laddered gloves,
To drive, and chip, and
crash into bunkers,
Before the rain starts,
and brings another wet afternoon.
On Friday the whole
thing was at last forgot,
At best damp and
sordid, like the sex book,
And the borrowed lines
from pissed voyeurs,
Recalling dancing, and
rainbow fleshy wet afternoons.
Leading into the
inevitable talk about love,
Where deaf eyes turned
hollow to the back page,
Where the nights all
run, into a stoned streaming,
Of melting mudbaths and
sacred sex-wishing.
And inevitable closing
sequence, to not be continued,
Statuesque sobriety and
serene, but wet, hypersanity,
When one finds to admit
the basics is to deny her love,
Reading between the
opium, the Friday bunker voyeur drew blank.
I had so much to say, but hey, it's nearly 4 AM, and I need sleep.
These few pieces are mostly over 20 years old, and no way comment on anything that has happened over the last few years.
Bits are telling me how shit I am at relationships though, so there's that......
Bits are telling me how shit I am at relationships though, so there's that......
Most of the pics above are from phone(s) but I just thought they seemed appropriate. well some were, on reflection, and after reviewing, I think it's obvious..........
Night