Hello July, Don't Go, We Missed You....

Dawn in February.

Heavy burned rose skies,

Selflessly carry us into another day,

Sailors warned as darkness lifts,

Light falls to freshly revived still life,

Immaculate but ancient,

And electric trees carry blood for the millions.

Casual investigation upturns the frost,

To heavy dews of this new spring,

To mists on grazing plains,

Wind bushes still and sinister,

To carry unknown life within,

And without words, for none are here,

To hear the first foot falls,

Of nervous commuters and their dreams,

Revealed like startled deer on speed,

And never to fulfill their need,

To hide and then yet to reveal,

Wide eyes at this pleasant dawn.

"Eyes itch"

When your eyes itch a little,

When you feel your brain is mush,

"The whole sky is so brittle."

"Oh Jesus, man, hush."

And the world keeps on turning,

And the night burns away,

And I can't stop you learning,

But I don't know what to say.

I'm about as open as I get,

I've told you all about Mum & Dad,

You've seen as much as I let,

I hope I didn't seem bad.

Oh Lord, I'm so wasted,

I've got to get straightened out,

But its so hard once you've tasted,

Sometimes there's no room to doubt.

And the sun just keeps burning,

And there goes another day,

And you can't stop me yearning,

But I still don't know what to say.

My eyes are itching now again,

And my brain dissolves to mush,

So this is what its like to be sane,

"Oh for God's sake man, hush."

 

Ideas

Ideas travel, rising up from within,

Viral, sometimes media borne,

No, always media borne,

Rising up from the brain stem,

Passing in and out,

Through hands and pens,

Eyes and mouths,

Books and TV,

Tabloid hysteria.

Ideas travel inwards, and out,

Nesting and nestling, reproducing,

Feeding on your hopes, fears,

Changing you, your aims,

Thoughts and ideas, symbiotic,

But not inseparable,

Not always original,

Probably rarely,

Conscious and not.

I knew, really, you didnt take prisoners,

But was swept away, by promises

of parole,

By incredible attraction, unbelievable,

Incroyable that you should fall for this,

Hollow shade of summers and now winter,

And a deep longing that dreamers can see light,

Bright light, drawing me in, but you?

Mayhaps built a pedestal in my head,

And in your eyes, it cannot be incredible,

Or hollow, shining,

Unbelievable that the curtains, deep veils now drop,

Remembering severity of disappointing blood,

Hollow belief that attraction is swept away, deep,

Now imprisoned in this deep track,

This thing that hurts and lights my prison,

Dreaming of this, is now enough, to draw winter,

Seeing early buds of the summer beyond,

And a parochial stream of truth and love,

Running believable, at last.

I know, I know, it's the biggest local landmark, so, of course it's going to feature, time and again....SORRY!

 

No Guilt In Him.

So careless, so utterly wonderful to see

So many friends, she lends the idea that all is real

Israel looks on and back to land to catch the hand that feeds her.

He coughs, so wonderful to breath the air to taste the wasted smoke and choke Of manufactories to catch the breeze to study bees to free the thought of her Rebellion.

And yet

No time passes.

No close ups. Landscapes none. Sparse plains, drains, sewers, trees, fleas, None at all, no call.

Careless to lose so much coincidental wave, not so quick now to save the cut Red locks of her lovers hair, still no sign that the vixen cares.

Choking on a half broken lung, time has now finally become something to Recall, not just that that palls, but lends minutes to friends, sends dreams To sons, and the dead to the end that comes.

He recovers long enough to see...

No clever shots. No pictures at all.

No call.

No time really.

For these sparse thoughts on still more spartan hills are slim and undemanding, Still no less real than purely careless minutes than turn soon to months.

With casually forgiving eyes she revives the lies sends and then befriends

The accepting hand up into her land and sees perfect opportunity to then

Just go.

Still hacking out his chest he spills crimson all down his vest simply fails The Cynics test and becomes once more the butt of life's jest.

Time stirs.

Time floods through sense,

His last pretence,

Of nonchalence.

Left dry eyed upon the moor

No fondness for the night before

Lingers scent of a broody whore

And that old lie that less is more.

Weaving old cut threads untangle thoughts and confuse new heads for all these Minutes.

Maybe a bit cliched, but hey....it's my Blog and I'll do cliche if I feel like it.....XXX

 

How could there ever have been any justice for it revenge retribution the powers of divine intervention but no great relief from these visceral agonies denial scales to tip to weld to tilt to weigh the odds and stack great light from beyond your sense relieves regret and shit faced view in sharp contrast the sky is then covered in cast iron plates rivetted and upheld by prayer below the arc of rust and grime spinning with the wheel of time the rock gives semblance of trust and then is gone no recognition no recollection from the once loved and lies with self preservation in mind I find the tarmac hard in winter grip melds memories of burning trolleys and school diversion my version to authority not me denial as new electrical thought thunders and rebounds from the iron now corrugated in places this life and digital recollection with no visible means of rapport tense and edgy the animal fight or flight the holiday the love that asked all and caught the lightning blast slippy and royal denial steel railed and the roosting carrion look on pylonned junction to rickety life and bleary self ritual you small shit I have no pity left not yours to receive this time or hatted loss minus freezing and laughing superior dreams now seem to fly and never reach this roof below the birds and clouds and storms train waiting with ancient love and pulling the plug the floor fell away the walls quick follow and exposed timbers breeding worms and beetles grow new roots into the earth below deny all follow the jack follow the swift decisive prey and reveal nothing loose this cold clammy grip on the floor as a whole congregation of roaches and fleas and mites and choristers tumble out of sight and blend coloured glass with gold and and and lift the glass to your brain and insert with taste and tasteful backdrop to new arrivals multi ...

disciplined in the art of reason and antilogic and and and naturally it will then be time to remember not yet she was weird though in an off beat frame normality flickered behind eyes decanted from these shotgunned barrels and cut out the straw relieve the taut tight sinuses of this crazy straight fiction and with a crumbling seizure face the wall you cant its gone to create a world imagine one too much too soon too misguided and walk away over these crumbled blood soaked stones and bricks with large dreaming so fly then swim skywards and fantasise the lot so addicted to adrenaline not a thrill seeking hedon just a night owl escaper trapped in these glass flowings amber ice wispy smoke flickering joist ends telephone reality grippers so addicted to waste to oblivion to running to beer perhaps arguably to love to lovers new and old past and passed to addiction itself burn this beautiful life this beautiful optimism when you have nothing it says in piss stinking grafitti on the underside of this iron clad sky with slow flowing larva streams you have everything to gain laughable aphorism and obnoxious bilious aftertaste what do you know as God lands and reminds you of your own chemical imbalances easy to back away He doesn't follow but is there when you turn your wings hurt your legs have gone and your arms wrap around my waist too big a doubt arises in poisoned guttle where three heads boil and fizz and blow steam into these dark fissures the light return to adolescent pastures green and once again forgot intended force repressors chase new prey the outsider why cannot ever be the answer wheels within prisms and reflected spectral memories on screens of disaster as the human leaves the glass refills and melts into ancient tables no needles no pins no blood no terror just a sad whimsy a notion a creed of...

self self self where now the dawn of roses where lies the land of light so ruddy in the baking evening so barren and denied come with the dawn interpret at leisure and make lists to rule thought freestyle frames bend frames break but are not so organic cut wood and twine create your own not quite the chameleon more the diamond multi-whiskyed and many faced the Mr Ben of this revolution your red blonde brown hair in great huge windows and silver chariots only grips the childish side where browns blondes and reds should fear to tread no love lost no love found just a higher aim on this loving ground and metros at midnight and dogs at dawn not quite following the many born nor realising true germination in this sea of plough and waking within more confidence shrinking ego wilted with no serious repercussion propped suspended held up tied down and bagged and drowned lets get the hell out of town burn it down head for the hills and natures skills with no sense of timing no concluding gesture realising perhaps that to survive is a strength in itself while wobbly the normal headed escape while escaping you're nearly normal with still justice it could be said no thought of wickedness was in your head simply the observations built up in years that the people are trivial and you are people values float meaningless under torrents of blistering tears of ration control and lack are much the same soul conditions in this hall of fame but there stands the weirding mirror reflection shows the mind aquiver but as straight as a loser and half as simple as a prime contender for knockout bouts on this stage of ground illusion don't miss the station X-file elation and empty bottled romantic friction cast skywards in prime addiction duty obligation warped by self preservation yes I could learn from you look around see what it is you do to wind this clock and create your life I might be your man but you're not my wife.

 Just some cotton grass.....

Well, what a bloody mental week.

Again.

Head is now officially goosed, again. 

Again.

Someone once said that if you keep repeating the same thing, and expect different results then that's a sign of something.....I do remember what, I just would rather not say.

In the meantime, here's a heron, on a roof.....

 

And a partridge, one of about ten that jumped up out of the heather & bilberry at the side of the track yesterday.....

Peeling the seams

From legs of heaven

And arms

With cotton dressing

With silver skin below

With haste and eyes

Quite focused to the task

And hurry

To teeth, to tongues

To flesh valleys and

Respond sincere

Hard decisions, made haste

And last layers are at last revealed

And lust exploration

Painful signal defloration

Symbolised, and peeled

And then thought must leave

Betrayal by the naked

Animal now thrust and gaunt

And frenzied sincerity

Rushes blood, adrenaline, sex

Into the mental hours

And mental bruises

Physical Venus

With detaching splendour

And barmaid wonder

And the connected

The found

With sweet white definition

And dark intent

And the damp peeled seams

And knickers on the floor

And the hideous bed

Denying such admission

And finding splendid hurry

In heavenly valleys

Symbol of gaunt animal response

And sincerely naked

With haste and eyes

Betrayal of signal tongues

Sincere truth must now leave.

 "Couplings"

 

Shadow Swan.

Spectrum of some deeply perverse waxy oils

On black many fringed flight feathers

On the seemingly perfectly formed wing.

Catches the gaze and the drop of sunlight,

Sits longer than the river's waters.

Serenely selfish in royal abundant confidence,

While cruising the shallows in dappled reflection

Of a lust driven moment of passionate serenity.

Coldly, coolly following a higher instinct,

Leads the observer to detect no regrets,

No moments of doubt in supreme black confidence,

And the thought that the crucial moment has gone.

Paralell your life with that of the swan,

Among discarded debris, detritus of the dereliction,

Remain aloof to preserve the damned integrity.

And so utterly perfectly casual and remote

So beautifully carved from living velvet,

And so much that you thought was lost.

That's it, for today at least.

None of the above pieces are "recent" but that doesn't mean they're not relevant. I must pick my pen up and do something contemporary though, and that's just a sodding fact......

No more Joy Division right now though nevertheless.........

Numan

At the tender age of 12 my peers tempted me away from the safe environments I was used to, and into the insane world of train-spotting......

No, really.

Bear with me.


Insecure skinny white spotty geeks unite, before, or as well as going all Dungeons and Dragons, or other far worse forms of self abuse.....

I once had whole photo-albums of diesel engines, stations, etc...... But while I don't now, sort of wish I'd held onto them for posterity.

Anyway, stretching the apron strings is all part of growing up. Away from home, away from your home town, exposed to illicit things, beer, tobacco, hash, speed, mindless vandalism, influential stories from your senior influences, lies, violence, whisky, bitter stories from old men who chose to return to trains in their dotage...... It soon becomes less and less about categorising and collating, and ticking off which engines you've actually seen, and more and more about rebellion and self discovery.

Someone should make a film. Maybe Mr Welsh....

Back on topic. On a red hot summer's day in 1979 at the end of platform 9 of York Station an older fellah had a radio on, while brandishing a camera, notepad, binoculars, and a pack of sandwiches and cigarettes.....on this radio played "You Can Ring My Bell" "Bright Eyes" "Pop Muzik" "Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick" and so on and so forth.... what a bloody good year to really start to listen to music! (I had already, but really this was pretty influential!)

"Are Friends Electric?" played, about four times, as we waited, and watched the trains come and go, drink coffee, Coke, and cough our way through the mildest cigs going...Silk Cut, Kim, More Menthol......and it stuck with me. I thought it was so utterly different from what I thought I liked.

In the immediate weeks after it inspired me to order a cassette from Woods Music Shop, on Wood Street, in Wakefield, my second chosen album..... My first being in 1976 when I bought "Mud's Greatest Hits" with a Christmas voucher for "Boots" (The Chemist...) (My first single was Monty Python's "I Like Chinese", also from Wood's, probably at the same time, but I was so bloody naive, I didn't even know there were such things as record shops that a 12 year old boy could go into and learn all this stuff.........

To cut a long story short, I bought everything in time that Tubeway Army and Gary Numan put out, until Strange Charm. I have no idea what happened after that, as I got side-tracked, and a bit bored. In hindsight I think I was actually on a tight budget and fell in love with a thousand and one other bands, from all the classic Doors/Joy Division/Bowie/Pink Floyd/Led Zep/Stones/Jam/etc etc onwards.....

Music shops became mecca, and my enthusiasm cost me, and benefitted me too no doubt. But I ended up ignoring my initial idol. I hardly listened to his stuff, except on very rarer occasions, and then the records got scratched, lost, left in someone else's house, or whatever when I moved.....

Thank Goodness for the internet!

The other tracks on YT are the obvious ones, until you start mining down to the nitty gritty.....when you can find all sorts of gubbins......

Got to go and listen to Savage, the new album ASAP...... not enough leaks as yet.....

Intensisfication and Other Made Ups.

 

Billy.


For a split second it looked as if,
All the speed in your head might just,
Entertain the eager millions,
Bewitch my audience to your charm,
And kill the performer.


Kill the lights.

Advanced state of lost memories,
Mnemonic heroisms,
Donkeys years ago.


Not a chance,
Never to hope.

Dreamt the swimmers,
Entrapped in soap.


All that shit you do to my head,
Leaves us as irrelevant as,
As illogical as summer rains.

Fried mush again, and bread for now,
Newly toasted eyeballs,
Red lids and sockets.

Eye-bleeding over tired speed-head.

 

 

Bonfire.


On our backs
In muck, grass and ash.

Lying near celebratory fire,
Trying for the stars,
That little bit higher,

The flickering orange light years,
Between the ground,
The flames, your names,
And

Our disbelieving minds.

 

Dreamer.

Marsh lights, weird ways,

Welcome to these strange days,

Here the start of hallucination,

Quite lawful fascinations.

Moody lighting to set the scene,

Vines a-hanging, slime in green,

Deep resonating psychic sounds,

Penetrate these dreaming grounds.

Steaming ponds of dreams you've had,

A bubbling stench, from the bad,

Familiar images deep in a wood,

Reminding you of the good.

Sleep-walking, with passion,

On a singular mission,

Manipulate your reality,

Keep, to your sanity.

Idea Smuggling.

Coming up from behind

in life's struggle to die

We suddenly make very good ground.

We leap forward

Dolphins to your drug boat; divers and camera

But dolphins with careful purpose

And an abandoned carefree game of poise

No swim boasting

No boat.

Sleep and reinvent stupid dull gods

With trappings of someone else's

Perversion.

No money to tempt

No flesh to swim

Just a hidden look

And sacred knowledge

And think now, not of reason.

For who needs reason

just sit back

Be

Go with it.

No

Tie yourself with stupid reason

Stupid fuckwit ideas

That everybody else has already had

Simply punish yourself

Already.

All HELL looks like it's about to break out over my home village.....but then, that's nothing new.....


What a couple of head-wrecking weeks. Ups, downs, bigger ups, bigger downs. Then a knock on the door from someone unexpected, and mind-blowing......and fabulous with it........!

It's only when you start appreciating that life was already crazy, that you can really begin to enjoy the
fact......

 

Used to love a bit of drama.......

"I'm not the pheasant plucker....."

 

Old man 2e.

Stiff, slow, but he still has that glint in his eye........Buddy til the end, and then some.

Late Night Post: Shadows

In spite of reading up, and asking, and then reading up again, I find G+ to be utterly frustrating. Though clearly a lot of people out there have mastered it....

When you post on the old "Blogger" as I do, it automatically turns up on G+, obviously these days since Google bought the Blogger platform some time ago now. That's fine and dandy, but, if you want to post it in a particular category, you have to go to that category, and post the link to the same post, as in, from Blogger...instead of it just being an option.

Hence, anyone following you will end up seeing the same post more than once. If you want to post it to more groups than "public" and "A.N.Other" then your followers are going to get a tiny bit ticked off with that, and, worse, when you are reviewing things post-date, you, well, I mean me/I, get totally muppeted by seeing it again, and again....

I'm sure the GUI, or "interface" could be re-thought out to make life simpler. If FB can do it, then why can't Google??

In the meantime, and on a slightly related subject; if G+ is your/my chosen public platform, how can I encourage people to come out of the shadows and actually comment/like/share? It's a no-brainer on FB, but here seems a bit challenging, unless everyone is just a bit shy to start with?

 

Can't Face the Pub

Escape Velocity

Guilty feral pigeon escape velocity

Scuds through services and across the highway

Into the loving windscreen of this eighteen wheeler

Feathery fireworks and his useless brain

Evaporates across three lines of fellow traffic

Greasy pink spots washed away carelessly

A feather stuck beyond the wiper’s reach

Reminds me of my worldly presence

Just for a few guilty seconds, feathery and careless.

Found You

 

I found you

Turned over a stone

And undrowned you.

But parallel lines

Stretch, given time.

Time, a life of,

Crime, a way to

Prime the hours.

But perhaps a few hours,

Or months and the odd day,

Are all we call ours,

I pretend it's okay.

A lifetime of pretense.

Pretender.

Did I lose you ?

Surround, blind by words

And confuse you ?

Parallel lives

Stretch and

Separate.

 

Four Times.

Four time the height, length, of your love,

The ropes that bound us in green times,

Four times the drop, to be human again,

To eat from the proferred platter,

To struggle back towards the home fire.

Four times you sent me,

No time did I ever doubt my loving return.

The post-apocalypse nightmares

Continue, continued, and does today. These days.

We always wake before we connect,

We approach and dance with death, and happier times.

The rope is blue, a trucker's throw-away,

But you'll kill me for this love, no matter whether its real.

Four times I crossed the line, told you five,

Was too drunk to count properly.

Situation normal honey, your platter?

Full of doubts, as human struggle,

To my own apocalypse.

Four bloody times.

 

In The Cold Light.

It seemed for a moment that

It all could come right,

That errors we'd made

Would be naught come light.

Come light into corners

Where worries had bred.

Dissipate the nightmares,

And the dumb things we'd said.

Dumb things,

Some things,

Ideas of conflict.

Bad things,

Sad things,

Places we'd picked.

The moments that passed by

The minutes and hours,

All chance of redemption

Blown like milk sours.

Sour milk this morning, and

A time to divide.

In the cold light of breakfast

There's nowhere to hide.

God Is Dead.

Running water running rats screaming babies and

stumbling crone wardens on one last orgasmic trip

and trapped in coccooned role-gaming scenario-shifting

leg-pulling muscle busting supermen break down at the sight

of a dancing bouncing bomb

in numb surprise her eyes

and phantasise on wet moment kiss

scream death excitement escape gaming

no naming shit kicking arse splitting

head-hitting model breakers and piss takers

and dope smokers no hopers and the dark bell tolled

this night of old when such gases and vapours burned eyes

only in asylum dreams with mustard gas and ham

sandwiched between two broken doors

in the street debris

a little girl maybe 2 or 3 and a dead dog and

an intact bottle of penicillin

if she was willin' it would still not suffice

to defuse the ruse that God is dead, long live God

Amen.

It's been a while since I had a random "shed" picture....

Tonight's soundtrack has, so far, been several Red Hot Chili Peppers tracks, and most of the back-catalogue of the fabulous, but gone Red Snapper. Jazz/funk/trippy but not for the faint-hearted, well, maybe, just don't wear a roll-neck jumper, you won't need it.... Nice.....

All the poppy snaps were from work today, and my phone, as I hardly ever dare take the camera with me for fear of theft...... and when I do, I can hardly carry it around my customers' gardens while I work.....

It's Friday, and I feel so unsettled about things I can't explain. It's like there's something coming, but I have no idea which way I should look to see what it might be. You ever get that?

 
Be safe out there people.

Too Much Thinking.

 

Image-Storm.

Struggle for a bolt hole,

Through the torrent and the storm.

Gloomy, but dry

A tunnel is attained,

Turn back to glance

At holocaustic rain.

Slide back down the wall

To crouch against it all.

Light a damp packet cigarette,

Catch a moment to glance around

Sitting in the urchins' set

Where the lost are never found.

A rainbow of umbrellas

Protects the dead paving.

The gutter reek of London,

Absent from this place,

Where all the harm is undone,

Some sanctuary space.

Silent choir of dead angels,

Smile at futile charity.

The image-storm is set to last,

So brace yourself against the night,

Turn your collar up against the blast,

And slip away to seek the light.

 

Some of tonight's images will be a "bit fuzzy"...as the one above is... It wasn't late when I went to one of my favourite places, but the light was a bit hit and miss, and I wanted to push the camera and see what 12800 ISO could do.... instead of relying on the Auto ISO thing....

Suffice to say it managed, but there's so much noise when I didn't need it...and then, when I put it back on Auto, the results were an ISO of 200, or even 50, which was bonkers when I needed to milk the dim light for what I could possibly have go tout of it, but hey, I'm learning, trying, failing, learning, and I mean in photography really..... Not real life or anything..

Hmmm.

 

Now this one was also at the highest ISO  the camera can manage, and yet it's turned out not too bad...it was a lot gloomier there than this picture shows. 2e and I (and Gwyn, but she was away exercising rabbits....) weren't gloomy, it was just the light.

 

Cobs.

Every distant corner of this island,

When visited has been lightened by me

To the mass of a stone, or cob, or pebble,

Red striped, blue spot, green and hazy gold,

Chalk white, grey marbled, mottled pinks and then,

To return to my room, to sit on the mantle,

For a year or more, and to remove again,

To the pool, with darkened depths,

For the course of fate and land,

Entwined with axes to my universe,

And mental threads to futures and just

Another tiny archaeological puzzle, for geologists.

As a gardener I have a lot of practical use for Glyphosphate based weed-sprays, and use several pretty much most weeks, moreso in the actively growing season.

I know farmers rely on them for big jobs, and in various concentrations.....I also am well aware of the hype and hysteria there has been over their after effects, and that the EU is pretty much committed to banning them, after tightening up, again and again their sales, and licences and so on...

I am not going to get controversial here, but the first time I ever bought a 5 litre tub, the chap I bought it off was reknowned for drinking it, to prove it wasn't toxic....

I can't recall his full name, as I didn't buy any more off him, but I think his surname was "Spence".... He died a few years back at a fairly ripe old age....I can't comment on his state of mind though, which is relevant as there are allegations of a causal link with Altzheimers's Disease, and latterly cancers of various hues.....

Still, he drove a nice car......

The field above was "Glyfossed". I think you can tell which one I mean.....

 

This one.

 

I wonder if they did it before these Lapwing chicks were created, or hatched? I was chuffed to find them, but saddened to do the maths and realise that the first time I saw the few pairs of Lapwings in that field it was definitely 100% still green......

I present that without comment, or judgement rather. These chicks seemed alright to me, but I'm not a "birder", so what would I know?

As soon as mother realised I was there she sauntered off away from them, and as soon as she did so, they vanished.....as in, they dropped down to the ground and became as stones...... fascinating to see, but frustrating when I thought I'd got a better position to take more pictures.....!

Burnt Earth

The burnt earth that slips from the foot,

The drizzled hour in this grave of trees,

And innocent tyre tracks shout your name.

The discarded stone circle with hints of modernism,

Scorched black and flaky edged altar stone,

Desecrated by the Roman Catholic sandalled steps,

And abandoned by newly educated free-men.

Here the ancient is at your finger tips,

Just beyond instant response touch taste,

And the strength of the is/it flows from the ground.

The steps you felt yourself guided to take,

Or maybe the hidden scene shifting guardians,

Or something still less paranoid calls you now.

Here we stand, in this dream scarred once-grove,

With sacred moments of sheer swimming love,

And hand in hand we silently soak and our clothes

Catch the smell of recent wood fires.

The burnt stone under-hand blacks your skin,

And sadly we move through and deeper into

Our new found reborn living loving and the sun.

Soft drinks carton pirouettes a mockery play for us,

And I have you lightly on my silver thread.

A (chain-) harrowing experience all round......

So that's how to transport them, after all these years I never knew..........

Music

I'm 99% sure I've posted this before, but which version? I can't be bothered to go and look, as even though it's not an overtly political post, it is the eve of the General Election, and it just seems tiomely, so forgive me.....

Turn it up!

Definitely not of my creation, it's just one of my "Liked Videos" on YouTube, and I've just posted the acoustic version on FB...This is the full blown version though, and is well worth the volume.....

IAMX- "Think of England"

In the grip of a winter came love and greed
Insane with faith, I took the driving front seat
In the lowlight comfort of Berlin streets
The calm from emptiness duetted with my body heat

I was alone at the front line
The message I was told was to triumph at
The joy of a lifetime

I just can't think of England
I can't see the picture
I'm still running from the fire, the fire

I just can't think of England
I can't see the picture
I'm still running from the fire, the fire, the fire

In the twilight hours of nervous rest
I bought the peace before believing the threats
In a foreign field, I cut all regrets
But the boys in stories just repeat themselves in a fucked up mess

I was alone for the first time
The message I was told was to triumph at
The joy of a lifetime

I just can't think of England
I can't see the picture
I'm still running from the fire, the fire

I just can't think of England
I can't see the picture
I'm still running from the fire, the fire

I just can't think of England
Can't see the picture
(Ah)
Can't see the picture
(Ah)
Can't see the picture

(Lyrics by Chris Corner)

Nice Times and Not

 Well, it's the right colour for a Bullfinch....

Black Sun.


This deep and exotic trip,
Reveals, as has done before,
The orange peel behind the zip,
And the window behind your door.

To escape from form and state of mind,
Is simple and so easy to do,
The dark place within to find,
The off-switch to the life of you.

Soaring above crystalline carpets in heat,
Inward visions so quick slows time,
Face to face at last you can meet,
Paisley guides and trickle rhyme.

But all is well now darkness escape,
So tempting, fleeting, like a loaded gun,
Like some hyper-techno video tape,
Diving beyond this internal sun.

Accept this deep dark slow, and coma,
Will arrive, envelope and entrance,
Will love and then get to know you,
And join this termination dance.

 

 "Moss Edge Farm" (Above)

Candle Wax

 

Candle wax and smell of joss buddha chains

in the shadowy attic floor room

help to let him sell the idea

that all is connected in threads of fate

like kharma with dancing flame

and moments of pure anger

seem five times longer

than those beauty mornings in bed

with your favorite and loving cup wonder

and have a smoke with a new friend

before the true ideas whisper themselves

infinitely quiet in the back of your chair mind

where I like to sit and drink your perfume

from time to time I like to see out of your eyes

and listen to your mind and sit and play ideas

on your song line down

the glass empty will rattle in an unsteady hand

on the bartop with swilling ash and we smoke again

while outside the darkness echoes

to scrawny nightcrawlers in madness and cold dirt

fox scavenger treading through the alleys of your life

and the childhood that you attempt to recreate

in exaggerated form

and when you stroll in to my nightmares

with garish abandon I imagine seeds of a love

that can never be real or for me

but the attraction is physically killing my insides

while caffeine and sleepless nights sing

heart pounding chants in my neck and chest

and arms and in this candle wax light

round midnight December first and second

I think of myself

as always there's no reply and I pretend to sleep

in this smoky over heated self imposed self imagined

prison cell in a single double bed

on the floor

in the corner

with the future sitting in before me.

 The "Black Rabbit" of Watership Down is real.... Who knew??

Crashing.

Some crashes happen for no reason, madness,

Others create them, forlorn, understated belief,

That it'll all just work its way through...

The articulated dream, hybrid, mad thing, mad thinking,

Took you to caves, to dark twittering, caves that drank you in...

The ambulance couldn't get, snowed in by your early decisions,

But we lie here with its blue lights, on the bedroom ceiling,

It's sirens in our hearts.

#############

Be safe, be happy, be you. Simple.

No, it's just not is it? Not when you over-think everything, like, ever.......