Milestone.....Nearly

The Were-Beast.

The howling of the were-beast,

The grumbling in a throat.

Pads hardened, talons sharpened,

A moonless night on a moor-top.

Seeing by scent-light and stars,

A warm pulse in a coarse hide,

A mustiness and a deep hunger.

A lone pack animal hunts this night.

New flesh, unknown fears, crack of bone,

Dark eyes, a mist for its breath,

Dark yellow, and as deep as forever.

Again the beast calls for a mate.

Or for a meal before dawn.

Takes a sheep one time, a hiker the next.

Its hunger not sated, it slips through the night,

Ears flattened, hackles raised, picking its way,

Seeing by scent-light, and stars.

A moonless night on a moor-top,

The howling of the were-beast.

The Twins.

The girl in your mirror

Spins in a circle of glass

Entranced to the splinters below

Murmuring "Don't let it pass."

Ride the tornado in dance

Oblivious to the sight of a whore

Take up the new ancient stance

Give up when she asks for more.

The girl and the whore are not twins

Though each is alike as the other

One craves the richest of sins

And one has been known to smother.

Reaching for new depth of learning

Experiencing the real twilight zone

Your mind spends more than it's earning

And answers "There's nobody home."

The Racers.

About two hundred yards from the pub,

Two pairs of high speed headlights,

Alongside and ignoring their passengers,

Headstrong, alestrong, maelstrom.

Sharp bend and the screaming of rubber,

The klaxon tolls for the race-end.

 

The Prince.

New colours dance around in

The dead brain trance of sound.

A new reason to get "out-of-towned",

Never one to glance undrowned.

The misty thoughts of hollow ground,

Rainbow's end in ultra-brown.

Mental prince in borrowed crown,

Sobbing with the sorrowed clown,

"There must be some up to this down,"

Fingering falsely at his gown,

Looking strangely like his hound,

But unaware of what he found.

His inner clock was poorly wound,

But still got to where he was bound,

Where new colours danced around,

His dead brain, a trance of sound,

No reason to get "out-of-towned",

Such a shame when he drowned.

Senses.

You can see,

But you're as blind as hell,

How can you be free ?

Have you lost your sense of smell ?

And I would eat any two of you for breakfast,

Given just half a chance,

You on the end, I may save for last,

And yes you, the red-head, dance !

You can hear words but,

You're as deaf to me as reason,

Your baitings deeply do me cut,

Some kind of deep love treason.

And if I could swallow all of you,

To drink at magic springs,

I wouldn't know just what to do,

To stop you spoiling things.

Sue. Out In The Valley.

Of trust we talked,

Of faith, and love.

All good things would come to us,

If we wanted them enough.

I don't want to believe you lied,

And won't believe myself.

I am more than afraid,

Of losing us.

The bhean sidhe cry,

Of disunion, and discord.

I can't hear you,

I can't feel your warmth,

You're so damned far away.

I can't talk on a 'phone.

I want to hold you now,

I want to tell you now,

Of how we are.

And how all good things would come to us,

If we want them enough.

1992, work-placement from Sheffield....at British Coal, as was....

The Bitch.

Now watch whereabouts you plant your feet,

While dancing, in this place,

A poisonous floor creature you may meet,

With cracks upon her face.

The serpent-tongued twisted bitch,

Plays games with the unwary,

Beware the viper in your midst,

Her lips, like her morals, hairy.

The narrow minded floozy, slag,

Pathetic, and trivial, a witless chancer,

Is really just a tired old hag,

Jealous of all the dancers.

Her toothless, childlike witticisms,

About as funny as something sad,

She thinks she flies above criticism,

But when she's gone we're glad.

Who could we mean, the "Two-faced cow" ?

Or the cheap cork popping "other woman" ?

Perhaps we should feel sorry, for the old sow,

But she wouldn't want us to be so common.

She's above us all, with noble airs,

Backstabbings, and horrific laughter,

She takes the rise out of other's cares,

But no-one else is dafter.

 

Silverwood. 12.5.92

Down in the Silverwood

Where the poachers do go,

Something is happening,

Quite what I don't know.

But someone is prowling,

I think their up to no good,,

They're behaving quite oddly,

Down there in the wood.

A young man with an accent

Of Erin's green shores,

Is watching, on night shift,

The effect, what's the cause ?

He's questioning strangers,

Though he is one too,

Playing a weird sentinel,

But what does he do ?

When the casual observer leaves,

He sits there alone,

Waiting for something,

With a portable phone.

The young Irish stranger,

Guardian of our Silverwood,

Some kind of feeling

That he's up to no good.

Talk.

Talk, talk, blarn and the deaf,

Speak to me,

Converse with me.

Hear what I said ?

Can you feel the wall that you're building ?

Dumb, dumb, I have no words,

I hear what you say.

Listen intent, malcontent,

I heard what you said,

But couldn't see over the wall.

Yack, yack, clickety-clack,

I walked out then and

Never looked back.

Never knew just what I'd done,

But knew you were not 'The One',

You never saw that I'd gone,

How many tears did I see ?

None.

Gone, gone, away from nothing real,

Nothing left for me to feel.

Never looked back,

Clickety-clack.

Sultry

Sultry pose, cool martini,

Atmospheric no-go zone.

Image destroyed as butt

Hits ash-tray.

Scrunch.

Scrunch miniature ventilations in scrutiny.

Vascillate, loquacious in irreverent prose,

Cavort in lunacy-language fractured chant,

Decant this missionary in freight car trips.

And lay your love

Thickly in layers on my lips.

Petulant débutante encircles the predatorial

Mime dance of the mantis in symbolic agriculture,

Spin out the legendary amnesia alibis and

Displace this unsound vision with malicious intent.

And lay your love

In reams of syrupy sumption.

It's rained, a lot, so here's a video of the nearest river...



The "Milestone" was meant to be the death of the archive, and the birth of "contemporary" stuff, but I ran out of head-space, so it's a bit "penultimate"

I have so much that I want to say, but shouldn't.

This blog has changed and changed over the years, but, FWIW I quite like where its ended up.

Three Quarters Through 2019...

September

There were clear blades piercing the wood this morning,

Though still and otherworldly, not attacking,

Defending, yet revealing, carpets of hundred year leaf,

And dampened human dreams, and foot prints,

Timeless, as such the blades, innocent, natural,

Caused magma doubts to catalyse foot movement,

Towards true love, thus revealed, doubts trailing,

Hundred year love,

Otherworldly.

As the sun picked out the low lying mists,

In my mind,

As in this wood,

Dissecting fallen branches,

As dreams,

As loves,

As impossible corners with revealed loves,

Natural,

Not dictated by anything you could possibly catalyse.

We have spoken of this,

Just once too often.

Now I think, rashly perhaps, that I know you,

Doubts trailing,

This hundred year mist,

Reassuring the trees of their heritage as the

Sun breaks through

In early

September.

It's an annual ritual, so I probably have posted it before, but at just under one minute twenty, I don't feel compelled to apologise......

Smoking Coals.

A rare old day draws to the dark,

Time for hoarding the fire's light,

Time for remembering summers gone,

Dreaming, of those to come.

Smoking coals hint at the thoughts beneath.

We need neither light nor heat,

Time for holding each other tight,

Time for remembering lovers gone,

Dreaming, of those to come.

Smoking coals hint at the thoughts beneath.

We sing our song silently in the charm,

Time for dreaming in the howling night,

Time for remembering the lovers' dream,

Now I drown, in your lovers' stream.

A sly touch hints at the thoughts beneath.

Our eyes speak the truth in the fire glow,

Time for being lovers in the dance,

Time for remembering things that count,

We both forget the things that don't.

As you take my hand, feel love beneath.

A rare old day draws to the dark,

Time to leave the fire's light,

Time for remembering the things to come,

My heart races, as reg'lar drum.

Smoking thoughts hint at the coals beneath.

The Gate.

Then the gate slammed against the post,

The post jarred and juddered resent.

Through the fields of the unknown ghost,

Now I know, quite what you meant.

The dancers in the village game,

Flex impossible bone-structured feats,

And laughing at errors, shout your name,

Eclipse from sight by the summer heat.

Then the hat-man, road-man, bird-man,

Idles from the edge of your mind,

Miming impossible tales of a forgotten clan,

Almost as if he expected you to find.

But the gate signaled the moments lapse,

And brought you back, to this mortal coil,

The memory lingers, lets you think perhaps,

Of soft dance-prints, on the meadow soil.

Who Now Jezebel ?

Windows on your underground

The crystal in your head

Rose tinted imagery all around

In the life of the undead.

Wade into deep water,

And lose your sense of fear

Jezebel, Satan's daughter,

Sheds the unsightly tear.

She's not here, unless she's you,

One part of the unholy three,

All I see is just us two,

And the tattoo above your knee.

Doorways to the ancient place,

And the virgin's lonely walk,

Are in your mind, behind your face,

In your voice I heard her talk.

Voices.

I hear voices, but there's no-one there,

They talk to me but I can't always hear.

I don't understand everything you say,

They do.

Threads.

Threads fall from unnamed space,

Dragging gossy words as you spit,

Cutting me, or trying, but baffled,

Tiny fibres enshroud and blunt the effect.

Billions of spidery lines, verbal "window",

Dampens the onslaught of frustration,

Release the coil, sparks of static,

Failing in flaying me.

Invisible stretched snowfalls abate,

Only when the fire is out and gone,

And though grazed, I'm alive,

Survived your ferocity, and then

As your head hangs, the last droplets of venom,

Glistening on predators lips, then gone,

I collect you in aching spider limbs,

Cling then, I need this, I need us,

Saved by falling threads of calm love.

The Mockingbird.

No intent,

Her eyes reflect the mockingbird,

A hidden, dreamlike quality.

Ephemeral,

Eternal.

Intending a union with awareness,

Ignoring the jester's intent.

A gaze of comprehension,

Bitten-lip, but no false tears,

Poor clown,

Poor fool,

Soul of the heron,

Lionheart.

Grace and serenity,

Companion to queens,

And rooks,

And jesters.

Comprehending little and

Caring less.

Ephemeral,

Eternal,

Flawless and careless,

Child of the ghost.

And she knows the mockery

That they call

The Tomfool.

 

The Dream. (pt1)

Eight cubits across,

Four, and a span, deep,

Many coloured, and angled,

One-hundred-twenty widths the roof,

And lit by inner heats.

No doors, no window,

No point to refer to as 'here'.

But here I am where I'm most alive,

Inferno that I know.

Now I see "to be, to die",

And held still in after-glow.

The Dream. (pt2)

An angled place,

To dream, to dream.

Through the gate, you lead me,

Holding tight my hand,

Call it fate, I say you need me,

In this place you've planned.

A burning needle in my left eye,

Have me, kill me, eat my name.

Piss on my smoking pyre.

The hallowed alcove you created,

Where nothing can be real,

Intense illusion of love unstated,

Improvised with impressive zeal.

We strive, and our heads are one,

Our bodies smoulder yet awhile.

I am dying. We are flame.

As my death begins, I know we give,

In pure unencumbered dream,

And I realise that I only live,

In this angled place,

Your scream.

Happy September.

x

Throw Me a Life-Belt

Rollercoaster

Tis a strangely mad route to take

When a decision has been made

To effect and affect the world

And how

And now

And when

As the little car clings to these rickety tracks

Following ratchet demand

Defying potential and becoming kinetic

And foreign

Alien

Like most decisions before.

                                                                       Long Tailed Tits......

This one decided to just get stuck in, right in the caged feeder.....

Second Coming.

Every night remains the same,

The day before, the waiting game,

The eye for the chance,

The monument's dance.

Here in your cavern, insane,

Nobody's ever heard your name,

Called over the cliff-top,

Scream please stop, don't stop.

All the tales that went before,

The bi-millennial metaphor,

My saviour's gone insane,

Sitting in on the waiting game.

The Lord of the Dance,

The eye for the chance,

What can you see there ?

Just the cavern's wall bare.

Anglicans and Papists,

Theological rapists,

Assaulting the mind,

With you left behind.

Come out from your cave,

In the land of the brave,

Hold up your hands,

Encompass these lands.

Jesu, I implore thee,

Rise up from the sea,

Walk up from the sands,

To encompass these lands.

The Oracle.

The oracle spoke

Through the early mist

Feminine and clear, the voice

Someone you might have kissed

A voice in tongues, words no need

But You hear

I hear you clearly

But deafened by fear.

Very nearly the view from my bedroom window. Hill House, and Cartworth Moor.

The North facing side of this part of our valley, bathed in yesterday's evening sun....

Gwyn accepting that her Dad is busy trying to capture the evening light, rather than working.

Hardly any rabbits there, and we lost our old team-mate, so working the brambles isn't really a goer right now anyway......

The Virgin's Song.

If she'd just look this way,

Ah, she's seen him.

Well, let the moments play,

Even sharks learn to swim.

Learn to dream, but awake,

Alert to the chance maker.

But when I saw you, him, the snake,

The two-faced fork tongued faker.

But the meat of the Bird of God,

Is poison unto the serpents.

See, his head starts to nod,

Under Satan's breath relents.

Retreat still smiling,

Is she coming our way ?

In your head she (your numbers dialling.)

Let bravura come to play.

Fortune will smile on the righteous,

But these days are long,

No fun for the virtuous,

As they sing the virgin's song.

Wait now, pretend not to see,

Ah, the introductions,

("Please fall in love with me."

There are no compunctions.

But the reserved

Is reserved for fate,

Your loss conserved,

And lands upon your plate.

Not necessarily  aesthetically up there, but, when you see a horse on a roof, when you've your camera in hand, what would you do....!?

 

The Old Boy

A couple of kids, from the school,

Used to come round and play with him

The old boy looked at the terrier.

Then there were two more then four, then ten,

All playing, and piling on him....

I wondered.

But he never turned, never grabbed, never bit.

He threw the yellow plastic ring.

A flash of inspiration, of sharp clean, white teeth,

Finished the game, and the sentence.

With wise ironic precision and

That knowing look.

Nice to see a few sheep up on the moor again, though not a fraction of what there used to be. Maybe they're escapees...... Times are a-changing, just wish they'd change for the better, for once.

 This old road is just about a mile straight.....

The Viewpoint.

The sombre reality

Surely a matter of perception,

'The Percept'.

Sobriety, a naked concept.

Shield my shame with numb mooring,

Bob in time with the lapping tides.

And still gain some acceptance

In a world adrift from itself.

Self-delusion, and image,

Prideless lion-cub.

Sober and incommunicado

With the dreamer.

The sombre reality is

Surely a matter of deception,

'The Decept'.

An old favourite...

For the record, especially for the UK, as I'm sure there are others globally, check out The Butterfly site......

As a rule, a tripod is way better for a long-exposure, rather than a mono, but hey, these will do......

 

My mistake, this last was the 1/4000th sec one.....but hey, it's my Blog.


This is the bit where I don't do personal, but as there isn't anything personal to write, that's an easy ask. Am shut. Closed to things, while able to smile and operate and function.

It's September, and I didn't post the David Sylvian song.........not sure if that's a good sign, or not, but hey.

Presented without comment.......!

Long Tailed Tits, Nuthatches, A random Woodpecker, House-sparrows, Blue/Coal/Great Tits, Robins, Blackbirds...... and earlier this week my first visiting Goldfinches......

Just waiting until the local Sparrowhawks suss it out, as my neighbour's cat has......


Stay strong, and thank you for visiting. It actually ridiculously means quite a bit to me. x