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.