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.