More Catch-Up; Sorry and all.....

Grow.

A new seedling twists about,

Under a cover of dark,

Searching upwards for freedom,

Pressing firmly to light.

Guillotine.

Shallow eyes

Look at me hollow mask

A sense of deja-vu

A "sense-macabre"

As the grey head cools

In the fool's fruit basket

Of aristocrat-like heads

No question

To reply to

Tisket tasket

Smiling basket

See those eyes.

Ask the killer if he knows

(Strange how we assume its 'he')

Just how far it is to go.

 

The Gypsy King.

Female cat on the yard wall,

Surveys the suitors,

The gypsy toms with vagabond smiles,

And deigns to sing a love song,

The chorus, banal,

Offends her delicate sense.

Gypsy King alights and croons,

The lady is charmed,

And moonlight starts the dance.

Oh, the games to play with

The emotions of kings,

Of ladies, and even

Of gypsies.

 

Gypsy Marsh.

Standing in a dawn mist,

Down by Gypsy Marsh,

Half-dreams of your last kiss,

In times I'd call harsh.

Hollow glow through the trees,

A chill on a fevered brow.

The child takes in all he sees,

Bows down to the holy cow.

Witness to the virgin light,

Detract from mental pain,

Resists well the urge for flight,

In the valley of the slain.

As the faery beams then take hold,

And the new age is begun,

Twenty-four hours in the cold,

Relieved by the morning sun.

But observation on the edge of life,

As the swans survey the land,

May send inward chaos rife,

Destroy the urge to understand.

Half-dreaming of unreal days,

Abroad this land so harsh,

I found I believe in what she says,

Standing in Gypsy Marsh.

 

Hands. 1.

Hands are those of another,
Older, perhaps more mature,
Retain, illusory suggestions girl,
(The rear of a young boy)
As feminine as forgotten wiles,
Angular skeleton.

Hands and nails torn, worn to harsher,
Less lovely perhaps, those of industry,
Those of academie, later of hashish,
Later still, to still my shoulders,
Neck to knead, and then to feed,
To weave new spell fabric.

Transparent skin to reveal what within ?
No hard glass surface, nor vacant stares,
No blood perhaps, blue lines direct,
Old attentions mature, suggestive of age,
And hawk-like precisions of touch,
To touch through these layers.

 

Hands. 2.

Nails and hands torn, worn to harsher
Harsher progress, slow-time in metal,
Where once graced vellum, and cartridge,
Reveals cartilage, and hashish histories.

Hands. 3.

Around the glass, her hands,
Strangling occasional whisky drops to lips.
Idly settle, blue-bottle distraction,
Nerves caress cheap-bar-crystal.
Flicker in visible veins,
While toying with these mental games.
Flit to wing, upstarted, to hawk a fag,
To lighter, dead, to match, then drag.
Hands older than they should be,
Holding the tar talisman.
One returns to drape more energies on,
More whisky, or was it rum ?

Haunted.


Haunted by your picture,
Nothing new, just an aged thought,
Kind of "What if..?"
Kind of moment of weakness.


 Kind of you to share with me
 Bits of your life, and loves.

When you finished with her,
Why pick on me ?
Why breed insanity ?
Why make love to me ?

Man against woman,
Fool against her,
Not much left in common,
Which sex do you prefer ?

Dance sex, and drink love,
Come with me, down above,
And we will explode,
Not too far to overload.


 Kind of shared dream that died,
 Kind of bedsit, where we lied.

Haunt me still,
Nostalgic overkill,
But memories fade to this,
The sweetness of your kiss.

"Hello, is ____ there ? What...? Oh, it's me,

I'm in _____ and thought I'd try to get in touch

While I was here. Oh, right....I see,

I'm sorry to trouble you, perhaps you could say

Just say, I called."

The tight pulse in your heavily drugged arteries

Belies the cold school room floors,

The library

The hall

The stage, God, the stage.

Hey ! That was something, wasn't it ?

Hello Scotland, Hello James,

Hello smoke, Hello James,

We make some team, huh ?

Your jealous eyes,

Reflected in this half whisky glass.

My letters are all gone

Your replies litter my room

Like confetti gone mad.

With sure promises of uncompromising.

When you go to the church

Will you tell yourself I called ?

Hindsight

Really, looking through hind eyes,

With full twenty, and everything,

Its like kind of, more than apparent,

Kind of obvious,

I should have

Realised.

Smelled coffee, and backed out quick,

Instead, another kiss,

And hard earned, now passionate,

Regret.

This realisation arrives hindways,

Full detail, and obvious passion,

Its like, kind of, more than twenty,

Obvious regret,

Hard earned everything,

Full kiss.

Weak High

At a weak, but strangely high moment :

It all came vaguely apparent,

All kind of nearly clear,

Some kind of self-perspective,

I needed you here.

But Swansea, Devon, the Lakes, and Wales,

All passes into my focus, unfocussed sight,

All the "not-to-try"s, and the "tried-but-failed"s,

On this rainy, dreary, stoning night.

The hour, the dope, or beer,

Couldn't quite expel the fear,

Couldn't make you come to me,

Didn't feel like, completely free.

The "weak" is the fatigue,

Caused by, whatever, or not,

Brings me in a different league,

Where to touch is hot.

The "high" is successful return,

To seek, and to try to learn,

To experience life, for what its worth,

More than a wet night, in Holmfirth.

Time thereabouts, or nearly so,

Now its time for me to go.

At a strangely high, but weak moment :