Fridays Used to be Something to Look Forward to.

I nearly caught the buggers fly-tipping.....
Still, they do look guilty as sin.......

 

It's taken me nearly three weeks to eat the bar of chocolate I bought as a gift, given but forgotten. These pieces are me just screaming out random crap to get them out of the way so I can start to get my head back on straight again. I'll let you know how that goes, as so far it's a disaster.

 

 

and, because, like everyone has to have connection to the poetical dictionary of other people's ideas, here is my Black Dog. Not Winston Churchill's, or yours, just my own. 

I did have one, Lady, and I loved her, madly.

 

The Black Dog.

The black dog's emotions are not dead,

Not blind-folded in a mad kids play,

Nor does it matter to anyone anyhow,

Anyhow, the black dog loves something.

We need new expression,

New ancient language to sing,

Of the black dog's secret loves,

A trained response, almost a reflex.

Sleep with emotions under wool blankets,

Sleep with the black dog's emotions,

Hidden but an eye winks the cache,

Gives the game away but briefly.

The tears are real enough on whiskery cheeks,

But betray nothing of the reasons,

Given reasons fit the lovers excuses,

But betray nothing of the black reasons.

A silence descends in dusty mad kennels,

As the black dog holds on to her heart,

The skies ignore the frozen freeze-frame,

Of countless loves now dead.

Now buried in married earth curtains,

And they betrayed nothing of themselves,

They live out a passionless lie,

And in their dreams, with the dog.

Black dog circles round the edge of fire,

And grumbles at the secret dancers,

Retracing bitter remembered snow-tracks,

And a deliberate retreat from the truth.

Who will catch the mad black dog ?

Who among the girls will remember how ?

And who will run with his soul

On windswept beaches with mad seagulls ?

(Everyone has a “Black Dog” whether or not they write it. Just cliché)

In the meantime, there ARE Fairies! I caught a couple of snaps, and I was no where near Cottingley.

1988, Jeez, just a child. Key to the door, and all that. There's a biggy coming in the next couple of weeks, and I don't know if I know any more now than I did then, in fact, I probably know a lot less in so many ways, but so much more about nothing. 

The clock is ticking.

 

What a funny old week, icy cold, snow, hail, thunder storms, brilliant sun, a solidly numb head, and life, and mis-communications. I don't need drugs, thankfully, as none of my world makes that much sense as it is. Win!

If Carlsberg made internal dystopias......

 

 

I have lost focus, not drive, or, at least until these last few days energy, so again, hello limbo.

I am so bloody alone at the minute, and it is beginning to really hurt.

Bath and bed, tomorrow I will inject positivity. Well, extra strong Italian coffee, and go grab Saturday by the gonads.

 

Like a big cock.

Night all.

 

Nonsense

  

Aware of Another

Aware of another person in the same building blocks out the easy rider feel of satin in your mind how do you know how they will react to the knowledge that no-one is truly alone no matter how much they sometimes feel the uncomfortable muzz of a disconnected vacant stare on a stairway from the peoples' ground floor to your personal space on a first floor of a peculiar been there before when the television is silent for a moment or two kind of late night feeling of surprise when you fail to understand that the other person must have purely been wishful thinking in an odd way you don't regret a thing and take another look at your lifestyle with no style that you can put your finger on and then you hear someone going up the stairs in next doors' house which completely wrecks your train of thought though you can't see why when Jimbo is reading from his Prayer while you nervously sit and wait for the house to come alive at closing time.

Banks of The Styx

There she was, with a gun in her hand,

Picking lilies on the banks of The Styx.

It was all I could do to just stare and stand,

Remembering how you got your kicks.

She turned round to face me, but just looked right through me,

Her hands fell like death to her side.

I kept quite silent, as the moment felt violent,

But there was just nowhere to hide.

Thus stood us two, and the ferryman, who,

Almost invisibly glided on by,

I acknowledged his passing with a so subtle nod,

Saw the wink of his terrible eye.

I turned back to see her, and to reach out for her,

But as it seemed the moment had gone,

I sat down in the flowers, and summoned my powers,

Tried in vain to conjure a song.

I wracked my brain hard to come up with the words,

When I did the tune came out wrong,

So I hummed and I whistled, as my memory bristled,

It just didn’t scan and the verses too long.

There she was with the works in her hand,

Having scored on the banks of The Styx,

I opened my mouth to shout something uncouth,

But no words, just the chewing of bricks.

I couldn’t believe, as she rolled up her sleeve,

That such elegant beauty could be so unreal,

I had tried to save her, though I’d wanted to leave,

As deep down, I had started to feel.

When I looked up again, I could see through her brain,

I could see the cogs had all jammed,

Numb and so helpless, I tried hard to stand,

This just wasn’t going as planned.

I looked over again, expecting her pain,

In fact I half expected her dead,

I was mildly surprised to fall into her eyes,

As quite cleanly she entered my head.

When I awoke, to this fabulous joke,

I was alone on the ground, quickly looked round,

To try to assess just what she had done,

Little I saw, through eyes that were raw, but perhaps could make out a song.

There she was with a flute in her hand,

A garland of lilies strewn on the path,

Again and again, I then wracked my brain,

To summon beauty no woman hath.

Tragically fragile, and utterly futile,

My attempt to rescue such maid,

From my own damnation, I must seek salvation,

Footsteps on the way I have laid.

A lesson confusing, but not of my choosing,

Perhaps one that was sent,

I came back to life, to much pain and strife,

And thought; “Perhaps it was meant?....”

Came to Say.

When two pieces of broken glass,

Slightly splintered and nonchalent,

Are joined at the mutual pelvis,

Can you tell me where I left my body ?

Where I left my baby's body,

With the glistening sweet lying on a beach,

A breach of smooth stones and solitude,

For a maniacal lover to dance on.

The glass is imperfect and hazed,

But catches violent light in odd rainbows,

A spectrum of screaming emotion claws,

And incorporeal sense of typhoon love.

The mother storm bringing destruction in our path,

And as high as you are the glass is shattered,

And the beach is invisible in rubber,

Screaming splinters in my head space.

A place we may sometimes come to,

I know its more real than you,

And at the pinnacle of hot ice,

I know I only live in your scream.

I only came to say goodbye,

To the one who became me,

And I tell you with truthful pride,

That you were the only girl I came with.

 

Dark Heat

Dark heat and clear for take-off,

Dated machinery scrines in mock complaint,

And in stereo you mistake her love.

Driven by anger,

Lead by fear,

Images of self-disbelief,

Contorted shelf-like freeze marked.

Content to observe,

Not to serve,

To watch and

To mimic radio-opera.

The intense scorching heat in love bedsit,

And swim free through drowned gardens,

Mental paths to sunlit glades with

Fronds of welcome,

Wracks of loving.

Swim free,

No machine my heart,

Power cut.

( I know it's what I currently use as the background image to the whole site, but here is a slightly different version. Taken on the moors above Glossop, a handful of years ago. There haven't been any trees on there for a few hundred years.......)

 

I guess we've all had better weeks. Three of my older customers have had life-changing falls, my ever-more expensive van has needed some more costly attention, and, well, the other stuff. What a way to approach a personal life-time milestone.....

Stay philosophical. I am trying to!

As for the pieces above, I'm not setting puzzles or riddles here, these are just more points between drawn lines might be a clue as to who I am and where my head is. Or they might be just random stuff. Who knows, or cares?

On that note......Got the old Playhard (Tom Wilson/React) album on, not quite loud enough to piss the neighbours off, but it's a close call, and the fire's in. Dogs walked, laundry done, and am thinking I might do a TV hour.....

Night all. (Well, all 5 of you, whoever you might be....)

Oh You Know, Just Stuff

My Immortal Love.

As the conscious darkens,

Buckles to fold,

And wavers on smoky night air,

My mind finds a hook.

Touching your sweet soul,

I connect and tie my soul to you,

And as my spasms come on

I clench my scream and sex

And our telepath link swims,

As we fly high,

And curl insanely like Indian smoke,

And restrain our screams

To gusts of whimpering and

Colossal quakes of soul release.

Touch me in this place

Deep within this scarred old face,

And die briefly eternal,

On this giant mountain-side

My immortal love.

Mushrooms.


Mushrooms get stuck in your teeth,
Milk tastes of magic and poison in old tea,
Smoke tastes of biscuits and acid.

Watching the receding reality,
Waiting slowly for slow unravelling,
Tangling senses touch deep ethereal lines.

Drift after the rush, and dwell in mind exile,

Occasional bitter biscuit mushroom aftertaste,
Bilious back of your mouth,
Earthy and natural, but focus slacks.

And the gaps in your teeth,
Like those in your life,
Are biscuit-filled and tea-tasting.

As colours start to paisley and dream,
The first tingle at the end of your tongue,
The first casting of moorings to


This perfect but dull reality,
Fragile gateway to delicious and heavenly,
Just a mushroom-step from surreal scenes.

 

 

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.

See, I still maintain some sort of level of sense of humour, even if it is totally misplaced right now.

Tectonic Movements.

My phone, which has been sat on the kitchen counter for the last twenty minutes has just randomly said "If you said something, I didn't quite hear it..." How bizarre is that?

 

Mysterious Happenings

A connection of sorts,

An idea they had in common,

A fleck of glass in a steel grey eye,

Unreasonable attractions, unexplained.

Caused a tectonic shift,

Yet mountains of laughter, colliding,

A well intentioned charade,

But torn and ragged by consciousness....

And conscience, and a vow betrayal,

Three kindly souls,

Three hares entwined,

A furious race to the west, a life choice.

Fierce questioning, incredible misunderstandings,

The source of burning guilts,

And ineffable, sad love destruction,

Witness cross-examination reveals naught.

Leaves, broken pieces, salty,

Shards, splinters of hearts, and hopes,

Returns, sorrow-drive north....

Dead loves wasteland, questions.

Not dead, sleeping, smouldering guilt,

Lives collided, as quick divided,

Three hundred miles, inexplicable,

Waves of gravity, spectrums of grief.

Embers flare, refuse extinguishing,

Gordian knots of decisions, and hope,

Flame, bringing the dancers,

Unfathomable fire-ring survivors.

But no, 'twas not to be,

Mirage, late night telephone rows,

Thousands of unanswerables, and tears,

Remembered hypocrisies, and loss.

The clearest hindsight, everyone had it,

When they wouldn't, or couldn't,

Hear alarmed, veiled misty warnings,

Gentle advice from good friends.

Leaves the trinity diverse,

Irreparable perhaps, as this chapter ends,

Her choices, and change, and his,

And in living fading memory, mine.

Riddle me this, connection,

Completion, inexplicable destruction,

Part healing, dear feeling,

And yet, more lessons forgot.

Yes, I've been to the Writers' Group again. I have had such mixed feelings about it since the last one, and have missed at least two since then for various reasons, but I made my mind up to go, and am glad that I did. The above is the result of tonight, and recent events in my life, and the theme "Mystery" was a hard one to try to tackle, but that's the point, you're thrown an idea and either embarrass yourself by simply giving up, or submitting to the whole peer-group pressure thing and giving it a go.

Which is the coward's way out I wonder?

Anyway, I am so out of practice with trying to write a story, and half wish that I had tried to go down that route, but instead copped for a semi-autobiographical thing, and yes, I know it probably would benefit from "polish", and, in time, maybe I will. I am still working my way through the back-log of old stuff though, and good grief, pretty much all of that needs "polish"......

 

Long Shadows

Long Shadows

Very long, grey shadows

Over time-pieces, clocks

Aspic stuck diaries,

Folk-song memories,

Forgetful fish.

Memorial stones,

Dusty promises, shelved for

Saccharine playtime.

Old “new beginnings”

Down ages, and ginnels,

Dreamt apologies, hypocrisies,

Interference, tickety tock.

Long diseased shadows,

Infect thought sundials,

With fractured laughter,

Come life.

Come alive.

The Other Side of the Black Hole

You came,

A friend, when I needed,

Confidant, confessor,

Ear, heart,

Every body part in fact.

Lover, whore, mother,

Not maiden, or crone.

When I needed.

Spiraling galaxies of meaning,

Whorls, cyclones of truth,

No connection, then....some.

You came, my nemesis,

My hater, my enemy,

When I needed someone else to blame.

It's ok, it's just one of those random posts..............{boom tish...}

Holmfirth Writers Group

 (Definitely NOT mine, Credit to HCF Photography, look them up on FB, I did have the link, but I've copied & pasted a few things since I found it...sorry!)

After a few years of topsy-turvy living and emotional adventure, I came to the time in my life where I really do have to re-evaluate things. 

Smoking, drinking, socialising, relationships, life-choices, attitude to all the above....All need a proper hard coat of looking-at.

In this process, I had the idea that one of my "safe" things, (that's just a relative description, so take it that way, as I have written some stuff which I cringe at to read,) was my writing. It's long been a "hobby", and at times a cathartic prop, a way to vent, to rail at the world, more particularly at my treatment of the world, and vice versa.... I have never pushed it "out there" apart from a few random "Open Mic" nights in the old "Stage Door", as was, before it became the "Box Office". And, apart from the abandoned "Writings of a Birdman" blog, now utterly deleted from every angle, as far as I can find, here, in Dungeon Wood.....

Anyway, to cut a long story short, ha, timely, and appropriate. I made a few moves to find out about the local writing scene, and ended up tonight, sitting in on the Holmfirth Writers' Group meeting.

I have to qualify this a little bit as to "why?"

I want to be inspired, yes, people, events, occurrences, random stuff and things around me do that already. But I'm writing more or less in a total vacuum....  I wanted and needed to see how other people handle their addiction to the pen & paper, or keyboard, or whatever...so, I bit the bullet, and ridiculously, for someone who can sing in front of two hundred people or so when necessary, (or at least I used to be able to, it's been a while) I got the jitters.. My heart was actually racing, like border-line panic attack material, for pretty much the entire time, at least until we retired to the pub.

  

I'm not sure what I expected, but, again, to cut a long story short, we were presented with about half a dozen photos, and told to write something, a short story, a play, poetry, or whatever came into our heads, inspired by one of the pictures..

I chose the top picture, (as I tagged, definitely not one of mine, but one from HCF Photography, who I don't know, and have no connection with, that I'm aware of.... LINK)

Anyway, after about 20 minutes, or so, it was "pens down" and then we went around the table of (I think it was ten) and read aloud what we'd written....

Talk about pressure.....

Dead Mill

Scents, Clean fighting dust, oily, dark,

A breeze disturbs cobwebs, abandoned,

Broken glass crunched underfoot,

Historic North-light pierces into forgotten corners.

Pulling on his roll-up, his memory stirs,

The menders sat here, way-back in his hour,

Sly laughter echoing though his years,

Silenced by stiff charge-hand command...

He peers into time shadows,

Hearing the clatter and back, clatter and back, of looms,

And the shouts of his mates,

Trusted team workers, hard men all.

He spares a thought for the boys,

Shifting wool bales and running hard errands,

Between spaces now silent, labours long lost,

Indescribable perhaps to anyone now.

It was a mistake to come back,

The vacant sad warehouse, broken shuttles on the floor,

Dead spindles,

A trip out he'd said, to revisit his youth,

The old mill, and it's dangerous truth.

Turning from his story, peering at now,

A memory ache in his muscles, a long gone vow,

The machines all sold, along with his soul,

Cheaper imports, deep sadness, then dole....

Stepping through the seized still doors,

Back to today, and positive sunlight,

Briefly he turns and whispers “farewell”

To his pals, the weavers, menders and all.

As he squeezes thought the chained gates,

For the very last time, he half hears “So long...”

From the end of the line,

He knows he's half-dreaming, but can't help but turn back...

Brings forth “farewell, God keep you”

Then, makes his way home,

Puts those memories safe, out of reach,

In an old biscuit tin. And sits.

 ..............

It's not one of my best, far from it, but I'm reasonably happy, under the circumstances. I had to get out of my comfort zone. It's made me think though, which was pretty much my entire reason for braving the whole experience, and I think I will go again next week.

Instead of writing "Woe is me" and "Another failed attempt at trying to understand my world..." or "...  my seeming inability to maintain a relationship...." (a recurring theme if you can be bothered to go back through it all) I suddenly had to run with something else. I now have to try that again, like taking a photo of something new, from a new angle, or whatever.....

 I could write an essay, but I think I nearly did....and it's late. A lot of food for thought, indirectly. The meeting stimulated my own thought processes, which is pretty much all I wanted, so overall it was a success. I hope the others got something, no matter how small out of the experience......

 

Darkness Inside

A Dark Place Within.


Deep within the true and bizarre universe,
Of percept and concept and lucid visions,
Of internally programmed psycho televisions,
When free falling through trance states to fly,
To attain a pure and natural high,
Lies a black disk, a region to avoid.
Self-preserver steers away, but lingers,
Nothing to warn, except accurate fingers,
And though before confused, the truth will out,
Mind, once dumb, tongue once numb, now should shout,
To keep from falling in, this mental bin,
To tell total all to the driver,
This belated stoning, awry arriver,
Internal voice talking stops, and manyana,
Narrow is the escape from unsought nirvana. 

Metaphors

Metaphors Run Out

Was that the week, when allegories flew?

Meanings were lost in sincere conversation,

And the metaphor mill stopped grinding?

Demonstrations of love, affection, and concern,

Fell slack as the enemies' guns sad-hiatus,

Words failed, as shutters stealed to...

Silent brooding metaphors, self protection,

A heart's clang, a clicked steel lock,

Towering doubts and incomplete parley.

No black dogs, no silly waving,

No bleeding daffodils, nor endless dreams,

Just a dried-up metaphor well.

No bleeding hearts, lost souls,

No telephonic pleas for clemency,

Pointless behind these walls.

Hearts still beating, under safe roofs,

Food in the pantry, but not for souls,

Gut reaction, purely digestive.

Deeper, darker sadness, impossible explanation,

Connection unbreakable, remains unwatered,

Starved but immortal, sad shutters.

No anger, no fear, just monumental loss,

Infinite ways to expound these feelings,

Evaporated and gone, in plain super-heated drought,

Drying all the metaphors, and parching my love.... desolate-preservation.

  

 

Off Centre

A half-degree from centre

Switching between eye-searing ice-scape

Mountainous valleys, and sweeping, brilliant moors

Then back to patched chaotic nonsense

With radios, photos, tables, candles, cutlery

Mad web-blink then, off-key

Slightly perhaps, I sing my love-song

From behind snow blind burned retinal memory

Like a child, window seat behind closed curtain

Cut-off and uncertain

Repeating a chorus from volcanic depth

Cut off again

Slowly circling, off-pitch, off-centre

Now hum with me and see for me

This half degree from opposites

This near closeness to sheer blind perfection

As lofty cragged ice walls creak worryingly

Stepping back to chaos from this window seat

I watch you in my prejudice

Predeciding the depth of my love

Waving the web away to nothing with casual hand

Before giving my eyes wholly

My tongue, my throat, my lungs,

Your kiss, your window seat, your curtain,

My love song

The one with ever such a disturbing chorus

My ice valleys, my volcano, my chaos

A half degree from centre

A thousand miles to the nearest doubt.

 There are times when words aren't enough. They help though.

A very expensive month so far March, very very blooming costly.....in all sorts of ways.

Turning a Corner

Got.

Forgotten chips of granite and calcite,

And unknowable string, mermaids’ hair.

Put my shell to your ear:

You’ve got me, you’ve got me, you’ve got me,

Now, never lose me….

Dancing across white hot beach love,

Too much for the simple barefoot approach.

Crash into waves then crash on love loungers,

Water, wine, beer and song:

You’ve got me, you’ve got me….

Hear the roar of my love,

Calling from distant shores.

Crash through cool foliage, fragrant,

Noisy with birds and grasshoppers,

To the cool, cool white room….

And dive from these rocks into love.

You’ve so damned got me.

 

 

The camera never lies, I do possess a giant dog......

===========

 

Car Park.

Standing by a fifth century castle in twentieth century ruin and rack

And the greensward all about the picnic area

Car park and a sense of lost perspective

That may never be the kind of trip

You'd let your children ride round on a three ring circus horse

Guard on sentry duty

Outside the palace where you saw the shade

Of an unrealistically beautiful woman

Keeping hold of the hand of time

To watch for the return of common sense

And reason and burning ships that carried the souls

Of her children

And when you speak she leaves a faint scent of

Autumn woodland maybe a hint of pine

And herbs that remain indescribable in

Profusion of senses that reminds

The car park attendant to check his pulse

And his purse to buy cigarettes

To smoke lonely in his wooden sentry shed

Where the fifth century seems to live these days

And knights have left to sleep at Alderley with the wise man and

His king carrying out the role of the watchmen who wait for a secret

Picnic signal

To remind them of Armageddon and innocent heady days

In the very place you stand in feeling no larger

Than the mushroom in the sward and no sword

Leaps to you grip as the battle-chief locks

The car park gates for the end of the day.

 

 

There is no common thread between these, except for me. No personal comment, no hidden messages, just some random poems picked out, and pictures likewise.

What has this to do with turning a corner?

Maybe nothing, but I have made a decision, and, hard though it initially is going to be, I've managed a few days already, so am determined that it's one that's going to last for some time yet. The alternative is to sink back into the same old mind-numbing routine, again, and we know that that doesn't really work, so maybe having an ever clearer head might.

I'm not going to drag out the soap-box and tell the world about the reformation, but as I said, I'm giving myself a sincere chance here.

  

 

Sprite.


Blind bats frequent your head,
Flick switch, blast tycoon said :

"!"

Instant combustible sprites,
Burn now and then, for foreign pupils,
And leave
No waxy trace,
No bones or wings of steel.

Steal my head
From flower show garden lovers,
Frequently absent.

"In absentia"

Gorn, forget the visiting troops,
Forget 'Home Rule !'


Never before, never again.

I will love you as much as you need.