Showing posts with label Wildlife. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wildlife. Show all posts

Friday 26 July 2019

As the Audience Walks Out, The Heat Rises......

Welcome to another slice of nonsense.


Gatekeepers


There are stories, every where you look. Some of them you can relate to, some you want to tell...some you want to bury.

As you get older, the differences in your take on which is which, and what is not, and those that are worth keeping, and those that aren't, but that other people will carry for far longer than you, and bring them up at the wrong moment, all fade into one big melt of "This is actually me".

Or not, stress has a huge number of fans after all......




Speckled Wood.


Ent Porn


"Home"


Next door but three.....



Not my cat, not my problem.....




Let's get a few more posted, in this 30 degree midnight silliness.



Pinhole


And there it was, in a flash of a second
Of a dream,
That you were having, maybe,
Perhaps,
I captured your soul, as the Victorian dreamers
Believed.

What do you believe?


With your wooden horse tactical dreams?

With your paranoid, but true dream boys,
And a gypsy lover?

As the cat curled her claws in, and out,
on fake skin settee love realm.


The dream was captured forever,
Thanks to someones dream,

And my camera love

For you,

And my cat.


Pub Days.

By the familiar fire-bricked corner place,
We sit, in comforting beery haze,
And tell convoluted tales, of far-off days,
And laugh at how Birdy never pays.

The day to the power four, or five,
Has passed with us still left alive,
Some have sunk, but some still thrive,
Some nurse headaches from the dive.

Years later round the same table sit,
With us and shed your battle-kit,
The night is young, hang on a bit,
If we wait any longer they'll have the fire lit.

It was strange then to think that you are dead,
That you would still never leave your bed,
That we all remembered what you'd never said,
About this and that, and never getting wed.

But the "time" bell never rang in here,
We drink all night to douse the fear,
Never for valour do we sink the beer,
But why you shot yourself was never clear.




Stargazing.

I was sitting, watching U.F.O.s,
Dancing across the sky,
When the thought popped in my head,
Have I ever questioned why ?

When my stigmata had passed,
And the false wounds had healed up,
I felt the mental static blast,
As you spontaneously burned up.

The dead letters in my head,
Were blown off in the breeze,
But the corn circles still stand,
Before my eyes to tease.

Then a flying saucer landed,
I was surrounded by green men,
Who mostly were left-handed,
And smiled backwards now and then.

"Take me to your leader",
One was heard to say,
I said "But I still need her,
"You'll have to go away."

But you were gone from the faery ring,
And I guess I'd dreamt it all,
But at night when the U.F.O.s sing,
I wait to hear your call.




Stormwatching.


Pitch, with a haloed golden island,
Deep in electric black storm,
Leaning out my windowed body,
Into impossible first floor night.

Attendant of whisky, chocolate and smoke,
Big downfalls.

Wait suspended, with heavy pulse,
White nano-flash, lights this vault,
The void fills these valleys,
Ridiculous topographical illumination.

Draw deep, smoke and toke, chew thoughts,
Big pictures.

Dimensional cathedral shades the cleft,
Of hills, rivers and hysterical sheep,
Cloaking the ions and reversing their charge,
Infinite marquee of valley static.

Slug, scotch, smooth, slightly serious,
Big ideas.

Show stopping finale, or is it just half-time ?
Galactic interval, intermission to the bar,
Atmospheric performers strike a final blast,
Leave easterly orderly and drag night in behind.

Mull this dark chocolate monstrosity,
Big calories, perhaps.



The Wall


As your soul spirals away,
Helical plughole extraction,
The cracked heart sinks,
Leaving the empty vessel.

You build walls, bars to more pain,
To the outside, self-defeating,
Self-defence, isolation switch,
No current, no charge, no spark,
No power, no light.

But walls restrict your view,
Unless you lie to yourself,
And decorate them with mirrors.

A cry for help, muffled, walled,
A spiral of mirrors, inward punishment,
Dark times, dead soul, empty, sunk,
Cracked, damaged, powerless and alone.
Reach out, and feel the cold glass,
Where should be warmth and love.

Stop lying to yourself and demolish,
Breaking glass, stone and steel,
Let the sunlight fill the space,
And extinguish the punishing helix.





The Self-Accused.


A red-headed challenge to
This this hormone guided torso,
Falsely obstacle arraigned,
And falsely accused of being "The One"
Though silent,
the challenge echoes from distant years,
Familiar barriers,
Holding back familiarities,
And red-headed opportunities,
And torsos.
Arraigned with class and style,
Though regrettably unchallenged,
At least.
Properly, the groundwork's long done.
Familiar hormone guidance,
Falsely unlimbered in futile echoes,
And unfamiliar torsos,
Barriers to class and distant years,
Come haunt these groundworks,
Silently arraigned redheads,
Always accused.



I wish you all well, but then I always did.

x

Tuesday 14 May 2019

67 Vintage



Not my image, just a random search for a certain number, and the clues are obvious. Can't claim credit for it though nevertheless, as I've been telling people I was a certain age for months already, it was a weird feeling to think that I wasn't, when it came down to it......

But, hey, I am now......

Another month, another post.

You are more than welcome.


 


The School Play.

Listen with curiosity roused by the questioning
words of the unenlightened drug children
who need no answer and could not believe
the turning of the hands on the dial of a pocket watch

and sit patiently while walking thousands of miles
back through time to a changing room of a dead school play
and games and the sweet voice of the South African blonde
who's the daughter of a minister of religion
and worships something not altogether unlike the words
that you could hear behind the conversation

that led to you burning your heart out of the body
of timeless memory that joined the spirit of the entire world
but only for the briefest of seconds on a cold stone
step to a school beneath stars that did nothing
out of the ordinary to detract from the teenage revelation

that took place a thousand years after the girls
had drunk all the sins of the year watered mildly
with applause and grease paint and costume that fits
in perfectly with the journey you feel you need to make
as the clock speaks of the still night and clean street
lit spaces for great evil and tremendous favour

for the tears that never come in the land of dry eyes
you sit and reminisce of old curious yearnings
to see beyond her blue blonde eyes that meant nothing
and carry your tired spirit to the place you smoke
your brain sleepy refuses to fight

and slipping from open-handed games of poker and love
the door catches the chair and the light her eyes
before the clock one more time you sink contented in
the old memory that you nearly saw the entire thing
and safe in your sane arm-chair you hear nothing but noise

and noise and voices with wordless spaces
in front of the flickering colour box
that simply refuses to shut up

the door is locked and the night remains
on the outside of the ill-defended present.





To The Journey.


Heading south from Crewe,
Following ancient leys from the north,
Retracing our forefathers steps,
To the place where the lesser kings lived.

The historical mist hangs about, intangible,
Fudging the industrial skyline.
Patches of hundred year oaks,
Disperse the fifty year old concrete.

A magpie, for sorrow, starts, alarmed,
Rough ground, and away to our right,
Nantwich, and houses, playing fields too,
A captive mare, and rust coloured canal.

Leaving the towns, and hard on the track,
Never once forgetting the damage of man,
herons and JCBs, corn fields and cows,
Abroad wanders the prodigal, in wonder.

Now we've hit Wrenbury, faster and more,
A cloud of black smoke, more cows,
Its harvest time, making hay, startled sheep,
Uther Rex never came this way.

The Pendragon on horseback, his men at his side,
Not rattling and hurrying like this,
Albion fair, aged, battered and used,
Rushing onwards, southwards and on.

Power-lines, old tyres, at least the green is, still,
The trackside refuse, near Whitchurch,
The tangled and unkempt wastelands,
A newborn calf and mother.

Swede fields and hayricks, hedges and trash,
Lady England here sleeps off her mortal wound,
The tractor tracks across her back,
And, poisoned by her children.

Oh to be in England in the Autumn time,
Where the hearts of men are nothing to fear.



One mighty pissed off spider spent how many hours building this masterpiece.....only to get it wrecked by airbourne seeds....... wonder what spider swear words sound like?



You know, those frequent times when you just wish you had that £2k lens......




The Dark Hour.

A mindless swirl of heady saxophone,
Drifts insidiously through, from next door's world,
Late at night the rumbled voices drone,
Through the naff wallpaper, like a serpent curled.

The mystery transcends, to a forgotten plane,
Deep smoke filled breathing, lets you mellow,
And mull over the events of late again,
In time to the dripping candid tallow.

The sax slows now from jazz to blues,
And settles in for this traffic night,
Somehow your control has become abused,
But wound up, won't give up the fight.

Da da da, de de da, the old sound croaks,
Feel like "mais je ne comprends pas"
Entangle your thoughts with sax and smokes,
How did it go ? Da, da, da ?

Sink happily, mellowly, deeper down,
To the very brink of mystic paths,
Where you discuss dreams with Anarchy clown,
Maybe join in darkly with his laid back laugh.

Swim now dreamer, to the mindless tune,
And breath hideous surf in the red gulls' game,
Wallow in safe gardens, behind the moon,
Try not to remember just why you came.

Then at last sleep docks in your wharf-mental,
Your conscious drifts off idly into lost hills,
On another night's journey on paths ungentle,
Through forgotten, lonely, silent mills.






 
The Northern Light.

Black light shadows the size of this night,
A blue light races across distant horizons,
Sitting on damp grass on a hill from seven,
Like a roman of times dissolved in smoke.

Smoke, we smoke silently and without thought,
Or no thoughts recordable given the night.

Give me the night.
Black light silhouettes your profile.

We watch the scene unfold,
Of orange lights and tales untold,
Untellable, unspeakable horrors and
"True life" crime.

The seat of my jeans transmits discomfort,
And the air is only just cold,
But smoky.

We are Northern, we are the watchers,
We see everything, and nowt.

The blackness is something else,
Swallowing roses and cherry blossomed paving,
Swallowing doubts but choking on desire.
Choke and cough.

Shades of ancient love come at us,
Mainly through the seats of our jeans,
And haunt this Northern starless night,
This fox's dream of seven hills,
And streets bathed in spewy orange,
Calming like the asylum painted walls.

The dream that neither of us ever had,
The place we sit.

The place we sit is in a park,
Forgotten in the urban death,
Urbane.

We are the Northern watchers,
Our judgement comes, as ever, to nothing.



 I saw this cat afterwards.....walking back towards home, when one of the usual pigeons got ambushed, but somehow got away...... I waited for another ten minutes to see if I could catch a shot of the crafty bugger actually getting his tea........but only one close call, as the other birds seemed to realise that one window wasn't open to them any more..... Looks like he's got patience in spades though, and will eventually try another window.........


 As usual, I could write an essay, and maybe one day I'll cut loose and vent, but when I do that on FB I so often have to delete it next day, or way more often, just as I'm about to click "post".....so wanting to keep the blog relatively "neutral" and "safe" I will hold off, but it's been a really funny couple of months for all sorts of reasons. Hope I/we are through the worst of it, but this patchwork life, with 3D dreams, and continual connections, and disconnections, and scare stories, and health issues, and way too much to compute, is a stream of experience(s). For which I am thankful, as the alternative is too hideous to contemplate, and I know people who think that that is "normal", so maybe it's best just to crack on.........
 1967........Hmm, can remember a lot from the couple of years after, believe it or not, pram-life, mashed up Weetabix, moving house at two years, and more than one carry-cot nights in Walton-on-the-Naze, at my grand-parents.....

69, the B&W TV showing the moon landing........I kid you not.

Why can't I remember what I'm supposed to be doing now?

Lost my way a bit.

Stay strong friends.




Tuesday 9 April 2019

Sheesh, it's Only Tuesday

Why Poem?


So many dream sets,
Descriptions of self,
Dissections of self,
Self obsession, introspection,
To compare with A N Other, or merely to reflect,
Self, against the mass.

Why not start with the mass, and compare,
With the infinite ?

Or the infinite to reflect the mass, impossible,
Even then the terms return to analogy,
Metaphysical mirrors of, self projection of

Is it possible to be someone other than fantasy ?




Untitled, as yet.

I pick up my glass,
I take a mouthful of welsh beer,
I sit back and breath smoke,
I listen to Rob quoting verse,
I hear the folk band sing,
I write nonsense, black on white,
I feel warmth from a heater,
Walt Whitman leaves Rob's mouth,
Likewise James Joyce, and a Hero.
The night is short and work nudges,
The beer is cold, the verse is not,
The tunes are pleasant and comfortable,
the pub was too.
My glass is half full,
I write black and white nonsense,
Rob listens to my writing, and hears,
A folk group likewise,
I take another mouthful of beer,
Welsh tunes are pleasant,
I feel warmer from heat,
Walt Whitman leaves the folk band,
The work nudges my glass,
I pick up my smoke and breath,
The song finishes.



 
Turn Again


The dawning of the frostiest morning
in hell
Will auger the eager survey
Of your immaculate frame
With the instrument of my
Naked eyes.


Hastily sipping at the daylight stream
Throwing dust slides through the air
Golden bedroom penetration
Sopping up the disappointed
Feelings conjured, bare,
By summery air.

Becomes a daily habit,
To taste at the outside hell,
Before regretting more
red-headed
Might-have-been moments,
With my patrons pathos & fear, we need no more names
Or sex
Or words
Or bodies.

Riding this chariot, headlong,
Through all self-worth.




Time Spending.


Listening to happy happy
Radio force in your musty room.

Mind's eye/camera pans about,
Shifting scenery in shadowy, dry-iced,
Smouldering glances, pouting dancers.

And that faint smell, of doubt.

Cars in the filmic background,
Lights on the sickly stained ceiling,
And floating past that moment....


We arise to catch fallen glimpses
The music box chocolate box
The stinky fag-end pizza box,
And sticky smoky hair.

"Put a tape on." Someone shouts,
But what ? Who ?

Forced me to turn to really see you.

Forced me to force myself to turn to really face you.

And the beautiful memory is awake,
Never lost, discard discordant dream,
Never ever just what it seems.

And at 3.30 on a sunny Sunday afternoon
The whole game is abandoned again.



 
The Answer.

Because it was there.

The challenge is countered,
Turned awry and dismissed.

The defender is unmarked,
Clean and virginal.

Storm cloud rises, and close,
Humid backroom decision time.

Sound of nearby machinery,
Clattering and production line repetition.

The challenger circles and waits,
The black storm won't choose sides.

So why did you do it ?
Why did you have to ?

Because it was there.




 
The Eye Trek.

The delicate, living, perfect throat,
Lends direction to my vague, rogue stare,
And my eyes slide on that pure surface,
In slow-time, real-time, they drag down.
Passing choker, and pendant,
Through flawless acres of fragrant, white velvet.
My covetous glance catches the woman.
Whole, complete, in totality.

Eyes flutter, and cross from floor to wall,
To pictures, to photos of youth,
Photos of fountains, and things,
And to my legs, settling momentarily,
And to my face, and my name.
I hold the accidental gaze,
And the moment strides past,
Past her choker and pendant,
To where we should both react.

My lips move, to round the words,
Round words of wrestling meaning,
My eyes sink into that perfect skin,
Into the depth of longing and owning,
In real-time, in four-time, they drag down,
To bird-hands, loose in the lap of luxury.
Essential instruments of comforting, erotic,
Precision mandate for this night,
And I reach out with luminous desire.

My hands slide down her vague arms,
Then to pendant, and young-girl breasts,
Of wisdom, and ancient amber traps,
Resinous moments as we contact in electric-syrup,
Guilty second vaporises, as I photograph her sex,
In my minds camera, I witness my failure,
To back away, retreat from inevitable escape,
And capture, wrapped in her perfume,
Sent to trap my humble eyes.



Tradition.

Living the lie
Laying the lady
and servant
Besides ideas of
Tradition.

Then the moving picture
Of what you were before
You became my conscience.

Then the moments of last doubts
And unconvincing kisses
The chaste loves.

Living my lie
I laid the lady
And her servant
My servant by
Tradition.



It really is, only Tuesday.
The wheel goes round, you catch up with some stuff, some stuff leaves you, some other stuff builds up....


Occasionally you might pat yourself on the back, metaphorically, as you've achieved things you were aiming for, and then there's that all encompassing sense of idiocy when you realise there were so many other options, but you are then left wondering about scale, and perspective.


It's really only Tuesday, the rest of the week still has potential........ The weekend was pretty three-dimensional, as it were, but never quite enough time to sleep.....


More catching up in this post, new stuff soon, promise!