Boris Bounce....... #random or not #whocaresanymore

Welcome to August 2019....

A few more, trying to keep up the momentum.....nearly there, just not quite. On the plus side, there will be loads that don't make it, as I am growing tired of my juvenile self, even if essentially that isn't necessarily related to historical writings.

 

Unseen

She doesn't see me,

Eyes at -15º or so,

Slow to stationery cars, lanes,

Dark rings, tarmac scrutiny,

Or the thousand yard focus,

Below my level.

I smoke and sip cold coffee,

And look again, she's less humble than the truck in front after all....

No, she's gone, dead eyes,

Car still moves, spirit death.

                                                                       Gatekeeper

 Green Veined White

 

& a view of Hinchliffe Mill.....where, they say, anyone in the world who carries the name, can trace their origins back to......no idea if it's true..........

Survivor.

Sole survivor

Adrift on a green turf raft,

Catching the rays.

Look back in anger,

Remorse, and some regret.

How close could you be allowed

To get to her inside ?

For the last time have you survived

Swansea.

Sole survivor on the shores of landlock,

Send out S.O.S.

And wait for your rescuers.

 Small White

Painted Lady, and a Jasper....

 Small Skippers  ^ v

The Carriage.

So, if we walk back down your

everso conservative road

with brilliant tradition and noble thought

We might find

possibly, in the long grass

at that last bad bend

or the rocky bit just before

The wheel.

Or is this carriage now fucked ?

Should we do anything ?

Or sit in this wrecked shack,

(Once carriage)

Once we might have carried a spare.

Society's angels have evolved,

England's carters, wrights and smiths

Don't let us down now.

Give us your drugs,

Concrete, false gods, free thought, abortions,

Tarmac, fences, A roads,classes,

Photos, giant cemeteries, free expression,

Graffiti, poetry, art, drama, TV,

CDs, trips, cars, trains, reasons,

No "destruct"

Find my wheel,

England, my sweet England,

I fear for your long grasses, and mine.

 
"I'm just a Gwyn....."

Soft-Ego.

The ego slipped out, softer and limper

Damp and somehow pathetic

Moreso

With these new ages of

Altered levels

New eyes, in a slight face

Softer is the damp intent

And somehow altered

Noreso

The id remained irresolute

And unchecked

Non-monitor of heaven's gate

Non-monitor of the world

When not fired or driven

In these new ages

So somehow pathetic

The returning ego is

Anticipated

Gladly

Moreso, if slightly altered

Unchecked, but driven

To new eyes in a softer face

Fried and damp

With one hand on the post

Two hundred feet down from here

Shear, lime and fossiled with

emotions and lost dreams

Millions old, some forever forgot

From this slippery and dizzy height

The dance floor of

The peripheral man

With a thirty mile view

To the borders of heaven and fell.

 

Proper scraping the old barrel with this 30 year old one......
"Step Honey"? "Step hanie" more like..... Ha!:

Step Honey.

I've heard tell, "What you've never had,

You'll never miss,"

I've never had another girl like you,

That eternal clutch and kiss.

"I don't break word with a loved one,"

You told me late one night,

the red strong wine didn't tell me,

What's wrong, or what's right.

The Valentine, and the frippery,

I too soaked in,

If you swam the clear, clear sea,

I'd swear that that was a fin.

How could I tell you,

Just what you meant to me,

Say "Here's my heart..."

And "You're the key." ?

"I told you no lie,"

You'd know I had no need,

Into paths of whole untruths,

You'd have me take your lead.

"But distance," or "But money,"

"But time," or "But honey..."

How come your world's always so

Perfectly, painfully, sunny ?

You hurt me very deeply,

I'll heal in no time at all,

I used to think before you left,

Only you could have stopped my fall.

Gotta love trees......!

Now night arrives

Now night arrives, with her hard intentioned purple love,

And, as the moment springs forth to welcome you in,

The damburst moment confuses the issue.

But despite teenage-recollected, relived intensities,

The truth lurks to strike, to pounce, to ambush,

The best intentions.

No interruptions, but still a window of your brain closes,

Leaving distinct impression, that with the excitement,

The responsible, the dutiful, the obligatory,

Comes the dreamwaking, that its not just right.

Maybe the damburst moment,

Maybe something a lot deeper,

Maybe the resurfacing redhead,

Who I think I need, to breath,

In order to carry on breathing.

A strange, strong feeling,

Beyond dreamwaking, but ambushed,

Still a number of windows to climb through,

Before I can get my head around this.

The obligatory confused,

Welcoming night, in this damburst impression.

The Prisoner.

Misdirected whirlwinds,

Ricochet from stupid coincidence,

And strew zilliad possibilities,

Of chance,

Alternate line and, yeah fine

Words and deeds.

And base-line needs.

Not real

Or

Leap into kralizecian breeze,

Feel chaos and ease,

Into adventure pathways.

Not societal costumier,

Broad arrow.

Time

Runs

Out.



Let's finish for now, on a good note.

Back to single figures again.......

Sheer bloody mindedness is keeping this blog afloat now.......as ever.

#random
or not

#whocaresanymore

#mylife
#hatehastags
#kiss
#poetry

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.......

Changing How You See Trees, Again.....

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.

Sleeper.

While the dark hour hours

enshroud this dark minute

The hour stretches into

deep wells, cocoons of dearth,

Dour silence descends to wrap

the once bright thoughts,

Leaving nothing.

Second Thoughts.


Some kind of generation gap,
Or is it ?

Some kind of belief I had,
And, won't compromise.


Is it simply a question of 
Premature middle age ?

Or deeper ?

Something I believe in.


The question remains as your mind broadens,
Can I see this far ?
Through eyes glazed with prejudice,
Or eyes barred by cowardice ?
Or days spent off-planet,
Or is life so surreal ?


And, when you know yourself,
Why compromise anything ?

For fun ?
For the hell of it ?


Some kind of aspiration gap,
Or is it ?

Shallow Eyes.

Shallow eyes

Look at me hollow mask

A sense of deja-vu

A "sense-macabre"

As the grey head cools

In the fool's fruit basket

Of aristocrat-like heads

No question

To reply to

Tisket tasket

Smiling basket

See those eyes

Slow Solution Of Thought.


Dark putrid islands,
Perpetually drowning in white seas,
Moments repeat and again.

From my incorporeal viewpoint concentration wanes,
Landing, if such, to focus or not,
To centre at least,
Or to pick out in the rippling scenes,
A smell of an idea of a hint of a thread,

That your bleeding eyes are symptomatic,
Of the hopeless, faithless, loveless,
Downtrodden, unclass, unconscious, your view,
Permanently unchangeable, through tight eyes.

Dark rings around dull islands,
Occasions a glint, hints of reflection,
Though of light, not thought,
Not thought of it before,
To never think to drink to drown and dream,
To seem, perhaps charming,
Perhaps pathetic.

Dark unhealthy thoughts,
Mobile in syrupy rhythms,
Motile in only one poor way,
Condemning each action,
To inact, rest, station, to die slowly,
In cars, bars and in bowling alleys,
And at last, in filth and shit,
To die this way, to turn the tide.

Putrifying breaths, of fungal microscopic will,
Testament to the dead spirit,
Preserved in spirits, drowned in beer,
Killed by inertia, dearth of sky,
Wondered why ?

Grey skinned tideless seas lap shores,
Grease rings panda eyed near corpse,
Infinitely indefinitely prolonged lacks the humane,
Prolonging conflict in slow final solutions.

Stringent Love.

I had a peace-filled week,

Warmth and light were my sea.

Then came the

Stringent advice from a loaded gun,

Rules to abuse and have some fun,

And a clear sight that here's nothing

Worth a shit anymore.

Divided opinions as we cling to these rafts,

Of our device, and imagined by us.

Imagine the drowning man,

Panic so intense it becomes ecstasy,

And imagine life without God.

Burn baby burn, and turn,

The cartwheeled somersault,

Of St Catherine.

Standing joke, standing joker,

Nothing's real anyway.

Know that you limit me,

Know that you limit me.

With tunneled vision,

Small dream,

Murky vision from a murky

Preacher.

Fuck your stringent love.

Noone needs me or you anyhow,

Dance on molten fear glass embers.

The Last Walker.

With bizarre ordinarity she stalks,

The space being slightly small,

I gain nothing in these head talks,

Wall to wall to wall.

Pace, pace, relentless,

Back and to, fro and back,

Conversation now is pointless,

And what's not white is black.

At least we smoke together,

She paces the floor,

I'm in for nasty weather,

But I still need more.

Step, step, step, now back,

I sit and watch this show,

She follows the mindless track,

I sit in emotion snow.

Speak, I speak, I attempt to talk,

The barricade in her head is rock,

She's locked in her lonely walk,

And I'm her mental block.

Everything is so ordinary tonight,

We're a million miles apart,

Her smoky lips kept shut tight,

And I, beat my heart.

My pulse is the beat of her pace,

The irony is lost on me,

My vision reduced to this place,

Hers is memory, being free.

Break out, she breaks away,

My stone mouth stays silent,

When she's gone what is there to say ?

Her worry groundless, emotion violent.

Now the time's arrived, we die,

My word-weapons useless to me here,

Funny how I didn't really try,

At the candle death, I disappear.

The Scorpio Beach.

Bacchan denial, with familiar eyes,

Watered with blood-vessel fatigue.

Awash and awake on the shore-line of lies,

Irrational betrayal may proceed.

High above, on a rotary flight,

Witnesses bound by honour-restraint,

Curved thick glass perversion of sight,

Tests the patienceless saint.

Testimony bland that nothing was seen,

Nothing to apportion the blame,

The court is dissolved, your record still clean,

But the court-clerk has noted your name.

At breakfast that evening, a hint of a smile,

Slow reconciled position enhances,

I almost believed kissing had gone out of style,

Now the scorpionic embrace advances.

Awake and awash, on the beach of lost souls,

A murmuring dream from your mouth.

Bacchus has left me, its time to switch roles,

Out of my glass window, the south.

As I drop from this world, and out of the dream,

Hypnotised at last by your heart,

My last view of the shoreline is not what it seems,

Too late for a change at the start.

Walking

I could walk all night,

The rain, the rats, the rain,

I could pass your house, maybe call in,

But we'd all be dead by then.

Somewhere someplace, in darkened time,

We could dance and chant and crawl,

Flexing sinewed moments forever,

But we'll all be dead by then.

Half light orange pools on street,

And the vermin roaming round,

Head half full of long regrets to come,

But I'll be dead by then.

As the city sparrows herald damp circles,

And empty hearts fly past your door,

This dark bodied approach cannot come,

Because we'll all be dead by then.

I could walk home alone,

See rats and smoke, and rain,

I could call in to say hello,

But I'm at least half dead again.

The Old Green Bird.

Shame, such a sham, such a mockery,

The winning hand in the game.

Rare green bird in your rookery,

In tongues yells out your name.

You fed me into the hot circuit,

And I blew a fuse or three,

The turning card belies your gambit,

And the green bird in your tree.

"I perch here and witness your crime,

You shameful children of night,

I pass no judgement on this waste of time,

But whisper thanks that you have no flight."

He could have added that it's all a shame,

As we both should by now have guessed,

I watched as he flew off, the way he came,

And turned to see you getting dressed.

Eyes of lustful unlovely mockery turn,

To burn their message hard in my brain,

I realise what I have is what you spurn,

And whisper thanks that at least I'm sane.

 

Trefoil.

The trefoil cowers

In the shadow of the monolith.

A cross marks the exact position.

But to scream out

"I am here !" (This place called x)

Is not the done thing

Baby.

Not the thing to do.

A careless laugh trickles

Between the stones

And tickles

The trefoil.

A winged shadow passes

Overhead.

And calls out in tongues.

The trefoil cowers

In the shadow of the monolith.

Testing.


Testing her strength...
I need to know the limits,
Hers, mine, yours,
Edges.

But, should the moon drop and die on you,
Messing up all we do,
I will swing above and

I will preach back to you.

Don't push me to test your caves.

 

I don't think I'm trying to prove anything, or demonstrate, just play with visuals.


Once you've seen things, you can choose, but sometimes your brain pre-interprets for you.
Hey ho, happy Tuesday, and no, it didn't rain, it was a beautiful sunny day.....