Letter.
Send me a piece of your
mind,
If you would be so
kind,
Put it on paper, in
black and white,
In order there me to
enlight.
Send me a bit of your
heart,
Just a little tiny, to
make a start,
Put it on paper, in
black and white,
In order there me to
alight.
Your mind and heart are
things I need,
In order there my love
to feed,
The flames of love to
burn so bright,
So please my dear to me
do write.
Lies.
When he discovered your
lives
I was inconsequential.
The living lie.
Living your lies,
Part of a story
Used to scare small
children.
What does that make you
And him ?
Lying With My Memory.
Waking in the warm
dark,
I took stock of where I
was,
I remembered the park,
And a strange sense of
loss,
I recalled the finish,
Tense timed words of
sad,
My memory danced,
replenished,
Christ, I felt so bad.
I woke and six years
after,
It all felt like last
night,
The false ring of my
laughter,
Now everything must be
alright,
The nagging nip of
guilt,
Refused to truck and
go,
I was soft, but to the
hilt,
I remembered what I
know.
My dream faded, but
stank,
Of centuried sex and
pain,
The ocean (alcohol) I
must've drunk,
Soft gallons of beery
rain,
I came round to see
what's new,
And here I am in your
bed,
Are you the goddess or
one of the few ?
Am I real, or in your
head ?
Waking in your warm
room,
I couldn't focus on who
I am,
Why I crave
'return-to-womb',
And can't help but give
a damn.
Natural Structures.
I suppose you're
waiting, for the end of time,
Me ? I'm waiting for
mine.
Your route to then is
far less complex,
Mine changes, all the
time.
An apple on the table,
Round, green, stalked
and shiny,
Resigned to being
eaten, eventually,
(Should I be the same?)
Fate. Out In The
Valley.
In a child-like way,
Fate toys with me once
more,
Dropping bait here and
there.
Trapping me now,
A retarded growl,
And a gnash of fangs.
If we waited long
enough,
the sun would join us,
In a child-like way,
I toy with fate once
more,
Dropping bait here and
there,
A dangerous game to
play,
However charmed.
Out In The Valley. (1)
Peculiar light down the
valley,
Changeable.
Glistening
windows-polished,
A spinning white
windmill,
Turning.
The white horse
grazing,
Over on the facing,
Unconcerned.
The lattice of dry
stone walls,
Black-green,
splintered,
As if traced by a giant
feathery hand,
On a "rolling-hills"
scroll,
Heather, fir-trees and,
An enormous television
mast,
Mid-September chill,
Warm when clear,
Not now,
Fresh.
Out In The Valley. (2)
How bespeckled with
council houses,
Was my valley ?
We'll keep a welcome in
the roadside,
And if Jerusalem was
builded here,
Where is it now ?
A Question Of Taboo.
You got to how old
Without trying it for
yourself ?
Well,
Shit,
You finally did then,
So what was it like ?
Was it all your
girlfriends told you ?
Was it all your men
friends promised ?
Did you like it ?
The real question
isn't:
"Would you do it
again ?"
Its:
"Would you do it
with me ?"
But I'm not so sure I'm
ready
For your answer.
Turn Of The Cards.
The sun-rising
surprises you,
Your folly knows no
bounds,
Speak loudly on the
things I do,
Empty words, and hollow
sounds.
Preach wildly to the
mirrored face,
You might as well for
all I care,
Rant and rave, but know
your place,
The commodity wisdom I
know is rare.
No steps forward, some
kind of dead-lock,
A sticky thing, some
kind of wed-lock,
Holding hands while
stabbing backs,
Reversing sideways on
an inside track.
(Turning the cards
reveals 'The Lovers'.)
And so it was to the
west I turned,
With the silent truths
that you taught,
Several mind-chilling
secrets I learned
At what price could a
man be bought.
Visual Poem
A sleek black dog on a
Lancashire beach,
Stuff "Merseyside",
an irrelevance to the older ones,
A poacher with
reputable clothing, and a whip,
Terriers too, and
friends.
Below the hawk,
The ironman, hawk and
dog,
On The Snape,
Behind The Ford.
"Dipper", now
long shot, as sheep chaser,
Not true, Hinchliffe,
Not Bloody True.
Dipper, wet and wind
blown,
As we all were,
Dead, for no bleeding
reason.
The Orgasmatron.
"Oh shit! Not the
bloody Orgasmatron again ?"
With pornographic
nightmares, as backdrop.
You open your mind,
heart and life again,
Like a biennial lover.
Flower in morning
streams,
Awaken this flower
within.
Flower of love and sex,
and laughter,
Flourish anew, and
bloom.
Not the bloody reality,
that, nice and safe,
Is there, just like
air.
Just like my hand,
yours,
And reassuring,
murmuring, neck nuzzling.
"Oh Shit ! its the
bloody Orgasmatron,
Of hormones, and terse
reliefs,
Of visual, spatial,
rearranging loves,
Where distances waver
between priorities."
The Death Of Pride.
The hot blood runs down
her arm,
The white skin, so
clean and cold,
There is cause for some
alarm,
But ignored, like her
gesture bold.
Her bright white hand
held up above,
As the stream of red
washes to the floor,
Like a virgin, wearing
a wedding glove,
She dies the death of a
cast-off whore.
The grey room stinks of
white smoke,
Where men have gone,
and come alone,
She alone saw the whole
damn joke,
Like the first innocent
to cast stone.
Now kneeling in the
cooling draught,
She weakens, but is
strong in resolve,
If she was a witness,
she'd have laughed,
At how the room
sometimes revolved.
It starts to spin for
one last game,
As she enters her
darkest trip,
Her brain has closed
and lost her name,
Drips, with the last
quiver of her lip.
The hidden camera then
pans aside,
And the grey music
comes, on cue,
Docudrama, on the price
of pride,
But she's not likely,
to sue.
Skimming Stones.
Sitting at this
profound table,
Brings back childish
memories
Of dangling legs in
dark cool rivers,
Like this conversation,
Slow, certain and deep,
Providing ample
opportunities
To skim questions, like
pebbles,
The flatter the better,
Across your glassy
surface.
To finally trip, and
dip
Into your undercurrent.
Occasional beams of
light break through,
Hinting at brilliant
depths,
Sometime translucent,
Sometime bejeweled
with tiny whirlpools
Around my limbs, and
your table legs.
Not Lovers.
Beneath the twenty year
old carpet,
Full of dust, and skin
and ash,
Above the cellar, hid a
lone trapdoor,
Unopened, for far too
long.
I looked out, of the
covers,
To see you stare, at my
face,
Hidden here we are, not
lovers,
But merely killing,
time in space.
Carpet duvet, curtains
drawn,
Silent storms, rock
this ship,
You created this, air
failure,
By a quiver, of your
lip.
I burn a hole, in my
head,
Tread on my floor,
bored,
Unopening trap, I
caught nothing,
And lasted longer than
you.
Like You.
Like you
I like you.
Like you
I love you.
Listener.
She listens to gushing nonsense,
Likens to the babbling child,
Nurses 'there there', no pretense,
That the tame is wild.
The sky is full
Overbrims and
rainbow-free
Begins the month long
rain-fall.
It rains.
Tuesday.
It rained today.
(Again)
Another blank page in
The diary.
Little Boy.
If you look into me,
You'll find a little
boy,
Afraid of spiders and
going to school.
If I look into you I
see
A heavenly female
being,
Partially covered by a
Fine spider's web.
Losing My Sex.
Stone doors conceal amniotic yearning,
Lose touch, lose mores, drive free,
Sense the abyss, swim for sex.
Losing, losing my, losing, losing my
Sexuality.
Chain me, cane me,
Undress me, caress me,
Unzip me, whip me,
Disguise me, fantasise me.
Drown me in amnio-streaming,
Lose me in long lust dreaming,
Treat me, then beat me,
Tie me, try me,
Divert me, then insert me,
Invert me, then convert me.
Crashing these doors in senseless frames,
Crack of cane on leather.
Losing my, I'm losing my,
Sexuality.
Losing my, I'm losing my,
Sexuality.
Shave me, deprave me,
Get me, and wet me,
Shower me, then flower me,
Juice me, then sluice me.
Pervade me, then invade me,
Scent me, then re-invent me.
Hurling the rules to spinning horizons,
Silhouetted nude form.
Invite to excite.
"What you're trying to call 'more civilised',
I see as 'more numerous'"
Move on.
A day with a mad woman,
And friends.
And in the bottom left
hand corner,
The girl that I love.
No beach.
Just following my
instincts.
My brothers birthday.
(The Bizarre Razors In
Here.) Rescue Me.
On the cliffs and crags
of me,
Standing barefoot in
the breeze,
Broken cockleshells
under soles,
A lone gull winging
nearby.
(A hero to the
land-bound)
Fierce sunlight
toasting skin,
Glaring dazzle from my
sea,
Rescue me.
I'm statue-like in my
innocence,
Guilt-free, as Satan
tickles.
Smoke from his fires
rises,
The horizon lies
broken.
My last temptation is
behind,
And yet...
I'm not alive,
No-one hears the covered
howl,
Nearly...
A candy-cotton mist
descends,
Near silence, nothing
cows the breakers.
Cold, but I'm burning,
My personal stigmata
bleed,
I weep from my soul.
I am.
I love.
Rescue me.
I crunch the shells,
and bleed,
I cower from the
howling,
No-one hears my hell.
Down below, its a fine
day,
The puppet-masters got
bored.
I'm my hero, to the
land bound,
We laugh at the
funnies,
Glaring dazzle, the
gull leaves,
Taking his cue,
Rescue me.
On my walks, and in "My gardens" I find things. Broken pottery, glass, toys, just "things". Being a bit Magpie, I keep some, and collect them.....some just go into the nearest bin.
I have had a long-standing Art project in the back of my mind, and I am at last trying to do something with that, but doubt it will set anything on fire in the process.
The poems are all old ones, as this was a random (half-) day off yesterday, not planned, just the fact that my van keeps on trying to fall apart.....
Happy mid-February.
x
