Just a Random Monday Post.

The "tests" so far have all been negative, but there is one out-standing, and a CT scan still to have, so we're not quite out of the woods yet........

Keep on, keeping on.

More old stuff, sorry, but we're down to around 100 now, and only a small handful of my posts have even had that many views......

Happy Monday.

A Jackdaw fledgling on Stubbin Lane the other day.....

Nocturne

Body temperature duvet darkness invites

To restless slow grinding descents, a struggle

A bilateral, opposing (but apposite) attempt to stick to the path

To inner darkness and nightly womb returnings.

To knowingly try but revisit

To accept the held out hand,

Face Nazis and wolves, and estranged strangers

Rare loves,

Mashed towns, familiar twists,

Flight and conundrum martyrs.

Internment in self arguing perceivings, doubtful,

Meaningful moments thus lost,

Brings new terrors, or gloom, or storms,

Thousand spellings of faithless

A hundred colours in multi-speakered patinas,

Of self-delusions,

Electric meter whirs ceiling beamed variance in the silent

Slightly damp yellow room.....

 

Notes From The Red Room

Sunk deep and fast in the gloom of the red room,

Airless, over-warmed and godless,

Faithless and furtively wanton,

Deep in this red capsule.

Nothing above, below, or outsides,

Void, deep and fast in the gloom of space.

Following, not traveling, no guidance, no regret,

Ways through idealogues, dialogues.

Suspended on sky-hooks, airless, hot, gloomy,

Womb-room capsule, navigating madly,

Circular but not, linear but curved,

To our red room beginnings.

 

Rosedale Road.

I pick pieces of razor sharp metal from my boot,

They seem to have some relevance to the day.

The day, what a day,

The day I might forget,

To hear, maybe to say,

Reminds of when we met.

The sound comes at me from above, and below,

Might be the people of my house.

The imaginary telephone, unconnected,

Rings aimlessly to an empty house,

Thoughts of beaches and sex nectar,

And the timbre of a girls voice.

I sit in front of my work load and laugh,

Laughter my weapon, shines and cuts,

Blazing in the night air,

Writhing victims evaporate,

The dream begins, and I stop...

Can you hear ?

Can you see ?

What I fear,

Inside me ?

Deep within the silent voice, the murmuring of a child,

Deep deep you say, how deep can I try ?

Can I try ?

Can I try ?

Can I try ?

The flecks of lathe cuttings, razor sharp crumbs,

Deep in my leather sole, my hand now bleeds.

The crimson droplets,

And the new night,

The sense of timing,

Now I know what's right.

 

The Eye Of The Dance.

A casual advance to the

Eye of the dance

And a hideous cry of regret.

The circle of fire round the

Mystical pyre

And a silent musical band.

Flightless and sightless

The earthly may undress

The horned one is witness to all.

Hidden in the corner, she

Thought she could warn you

Maybe now you can prevent the fall.

At school we had to fill in a computer based questionnaire, "CASCAID" which was supposed to tell us what our career paths might well pan out as.......

One of the questions, which to this day I remember with a sense of dread was "Do you like growing things?" Which was one of the least well worded questions I have ever read, given how many variations of meaning it might have....but I answered something along the lines of "not bothered" rather than "of course", though I paraphrase, as it was a multiple-choice questionnaire......   


I have ended up, for the last 20 years, nearly, as a gardener.......and at the time one of the other questions was "What careers do you see yourself in?" to which one of my suggestions was "Forestry", which got a big "No no no" from the results.

Hmm.

Statistics and questions asked of a 13 year old pubescent lad are not necessarily as helpful as all that then....

 

Sunday Morning In Bed.

Flecks of poison land unseen,
Upon the world bedecked with green,
Falling like the even star,
Blotchy minims of spotty tar.

As the darkness attempts to stay,
Prevent the coming of the day,
You see I knew the road,
And remember all you told.

The love fatigue of joyless calm,
When a "thousand miles" will keep us warm,
You sigh the breath that says it all,
Simply pride that holds the fall.

We fall, dead blossoms on grey breeze,
Me lying, you watching on your knees,
You smoke our love and dock the tab,
Sunny amoureuse at dawn makes drab.

The hysterical heights from which we slip,
Like sleeping giants lose their grip,
Melanchol toast and the day ahead,
One cannot but help to blame the bed.

Outside the dust covets the world,
Dancing breezes stir the dance and whorls,
Round the paving of poisonous black,
Above the sun lays on its track.

 


Wow, two of my posts have over 100 visits.....but my 10 regular visitors, please, bear with me, this could still go either way!

Be safe out there people.

Half Year Report..........

A relatively short, and much overdue, exposition of my fragile mental geography, as it stands in the first half of June, 2019, my 53rd year on this planet, if you go by a printed diary and calendar......

Read it how you want, nobody said it had to make sense to you, or that I had to explain.

 

New Brick Strangers.

Instead of moving and growing,

Instead of growing and changing,

Fear of strange people,

Ware of strange places,

Another new brick town,

A new outlook for now,

a moving and stranging,

Fear of new brick changers,

And of being alone.

 

One Hundred and Fifty.

Forty days in the wilderness,

Tempted by the Prince of Lies,

Became a hundred and fifty,

No path, no sustenance, no sense...

A desert bird, distant, circles my thoughts,

Wheeling and catching arid thermal dreams,

Rising to heaven brings no clearer view,

Just greater distant confused leagues....

To an uncertain future, the garden,

Look for the Prince of Peace now,

Through broken binoculars and hearts,

The oasis, a sky-brimming with stars...

A billion trillion broken promises,

Why on earth should locked doors open,

To the lost and starving faithless?

Unlocked perhaps by uncertain love....

A hundred and fifty times again.....

It's relatively rare that I comment on any individual pieces, unless to say that they're important, or "shit", but I am going to make a small exception, as I remember writing this one, on a night that produced a few others.

I hope that the "shit" ones don't actually make it to get posted, as there are a good few in a separate "not for posting" folder, so I might have to bow to subjectivity, and try to say what I'm trying to say instead.

Within a few weeks of starting at Swansea Uni, very, very late at night, with an angle-poise lamp, and a much historied ancient wooden desk, and a monk's cell of a space in "Neuadd Sibley", and a lot of beer inside me, followed by rather too much tea....no, really, I was only 19......I had already made the decision that I would "keep writing" no matter what, and, mostly, I have...... The trick is writing something that somebody, well, anybody, else wants to actually read, that's the tricky bit..... 1986.....

 

Our First Date.

Standing, soaking inside the cafe,

"You really are quite a laugh"

She says, as I feel a fool,

Standing shivering in my pool.

"Twice with bits, once without,"

I stand and hear you shout,

The bags arrive and you smile,

Your teeth perfected with some file.

Vinegar, shake onto the chips,

Briefly turning I brush your lips,

"Salt ?", "Yes, but not much thanks,

"Tomorrow I'm out driving tanks."

I giggle, falsely at your jest,

You clutch the chips to your chest,

"I'm a 'Terri'" you tell me,

About a third of the regular army.

We make the bus stop just after nine,

We've done alright, we've done just fine,

A film, followed by a drink,

I kissed you, and turned you pink.

"Not here, people can surely see,"

You said, then winked at me,

Now we're waiting for the bus,

Why is love such a silly fuss ?

Back to your place, or to mine ?

Your eyes really do glint and shine,

Is this really our first date ?

I really really cannot wait...

To get you home, on our own,

And dear reader, do you know,

What will happen when we're there ?

If you don't, I don't care.

 

Pipedreamer.

When upon reflection the glass

in photographic type

of timed memory corresponds to,

New living.

And laughing.

then it could be

Time:

to jettison mental stowaways,

baggage,

exhausted emotions,

of often relived loves.

And then we could see

What

the wiped clean slate

Has to display.

To life

to lead

Anew,

With hints of memories

of dreams long gone,

with spring-cleaning

and weaving,

and dusting-out old garrets.

With New Intent

so scaring, and near sober,

About New Definitions,

with New Ambitions,

and reflecting back,

On Pipe-Dreams long since

Extinguished.

 

Pedestal.

You seemed to think you owned me,

Now can you see you don't ?

You can never stop the free,

And stop you ? I won't.

Nestled in the hood of darkness

lay the child whose eyes are gold

and burning with a steely fire

the lamplight turned

thrown back upon the wall

where spiders raced and bet upon

which one of the doe-eyed maidens

would remember what her mother said

to keep her distance and her honour

when dancing free and easy with the old men

who may just have their one bite left

to right the wrongs of many times before 

Tears of Ice-crystal.

Run your hands through your hair.

Run the tap to fill the bath,

And sink into deep breathing womb-water.

The serpent that is my promise

Watches from the mendacious mirror,

As you contemplate an extravagance,

A vital part of your bath.

Run an idea past me,

One of summer blooming bridesmaids,

One of unthought of fairy tale correctness.

I watch the indoctrination shit-full twenty-four hour

Five billion channels of what god meant.

A zillion dreams we all can live.

My serpent's eye bleeds tears of Ice-crystal.

Your hair gets in my mouth as we kiss away the lies,

The lies are deeper than your bath,

Deeper than the oceans,

And more real than your TV.

But comforting and warm,

As I convince you my love is real,

With the physical side of it all,

With the lying intrusion of the camera cock,

The approach of Medical Mendax.

You cling in doubt to the much scratched back,

Shell-less, spineless, but not loveless.

Run my hands through your hair,

Run my life past yours.

It could be time to call the Duchess.

It might be right to bathe, and go.

Life's too short for this.

I could write about Ultra-sound scans, blood tests, and the rest, but hey, this is meant to be a relatively impersonal thing. By way of a self-contradictory thing though, I will just say that these are challenging bloody times.

And the solstice is only a week away............

My visitors are slowly climbing in number, which is actually surprisingly nice, so there's that too, I stopped looking at "Site-meter" things a while back, when one got hacked, but can't help but occasionally look at the Google one, so have to say thank you for sticking with it  those of you that do.

Love and peace no matter why you're here.

Feel free to comment if you feel that way inclined.

Or not, I'll still keep churning it out.......