Change of Direction

 

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