Here are a few more.....
Shit. Where on earth did it all go so wrong?
This is me trying to analyse myself, but as I have never managed that before, why would it work out now?
Night......
Wednesday, 23 August 2017
More House-Keeping
My "poetry" folder is comprised of various file-types, from Word Docs, to Open Office stuff, and a heck of lot of JPEGs...
Here are a few more.....
These are pretty much all over 20 years old....but it seems, rather sadly, that I am actually the same person. I thought, and hoped, that I had grown, and got stronger, but no, I am so afraid of doing, or saying the "wrong thing" that I am just getting older, not developing at all.....
Shit. Where on earth did it all go so wrong?
This is me trying to analyse myself, but as I have never managed that before, why would it work out now?
Night......
Here are a few more.....
Shit. Where on earth did it all go so wrong?
This is me trying to analyse myself, but as I have never managed that before, why would it work out now?
Night......
Tuesday, 22 August 2017
Some Random "House-Keeping"
Over the years, like since I thought this stuff was worth keeping, and trying to do something with...I initially kept all the hand-written stuff. The I typed it up, on an old Sharp word-processor.....people today might not even believe that there were hybrid machines that were part type-writer, and part (extremely basic) computer....but, believe me, there were. You could even use the old style 3 1/2 inch disks to save your stuff....(It's another story, but eventually I found a way for a contemporary machine to access such files, but, boy oh boy was it a long and eventually time-consuming thing to do......? YES!
To cut a long story short, as nobody is that interested anyway.....I ended up with a hard drive full of scans of hand-typed stuff, ("Full" is a total exaggeration as the files turned out to be tiny in the world we live in now, but still....) I have interspersed some scans along the way with other material, but now just want to crack on and get them out there, or archived through sheer embarrassment......
This post will be totally random as, like before, there is no agenda, but this time it's more a matter of just ticking boxes and doing it alphabetically.....
Forgive the weaker ones......
I apologise in advance as there will be more random posts like this in the not too distant future....I keep on putting things off, but when your life goes to hell, ticking things off your list is a bloody good way of dealing with stuff, or rather not dealing with stuff........
Take care people. Having visited one of God's "Waiting Rooms" this afternoon, to see one of my customers, I think that Loki really did take over the whole thing, otherwise, this world is fabulous and shit at the same time........
Go figure.
To cut a long story short, as nobody is that interested anyway.....I ended up with a hard drive full of scans of hand-typed stuff, ("Full" is a total exaggeration as the files turned out to be tiny in the world we live in now, but still....) I have interspersed some scans along the way with other material, but now just want to crack on and get them out there, or archived through sheer embarrassment......
This post will be totally random as, like before, there is no agenda, but this time it's more a matter of just ticking boxes and doing it alphabetically.....
Forgive the weaker ones......
I apologise in advance as there will be more random posts like this in the not too distant future....I keep on putting things off, but when your life goes to hell, ticking things off your list is a bloody good way of dealing with stuff, or rather not dealing with stuff........
Take care people. Having visited one of God's "Waiting Rooms" this afternoon, to see one of my customers, I think that Loki really did take over the whole thing, otherwise, this world is fabulous and shit at the same time........
Go figure.
Thursday, 17 August 2017
When the Adventure Stops
Albine-Gamesman.
His longest surviving
friend
Is a mad albino, well,
intense.
Precocious ?
Presumptuous, perhaps
Imperfect, and only
human.
He's only human after
all.
He had no parents that
we knew of.
No pets, no books, no
T.V.
No need to feed a
craving,
Well, perhaps ignoring
that,
Eyes, lightly
pink-lidded,
And deeper than
forever.
His longest surviving
period of insanity,
Shows no sign of
ending.
No time for new
befriending.
Like a sad pair of war
veterans,
Waiving the medals for
sad pride.
Watching the parade,
drunk and intense.
Wavering down dark
alleys, bomb alleys.
Albino boy and
pitch-tanned friend,
Speaking no audible, or
credible words,
Singing
whalesong-chants in liquor haze.
And we could see they
are only human,
Probably, perhaps its
just possible that,
When the sun dissolves,
they turn into cats,
And prowl,
concentrating on hunting hobby,
Eating the liquid souls
of girls,
Predatorial selection,
no game, no rules.
Blue Rope
Four times the length of your love,
The ropes that bound us in greener times
Four times the drop, to be human,
To eat from platters proffered,
To struggle back towards the home fires.
Smouldering.
Four times you sent me
No times did I ever doubt
My loved return.
The post-apocalypse nightmare, recurring.
We always wake before we connect,
We approach and dance with death, and happy times.
The rope is blue, a trucker’s throw-away,
But you’ll kill me for love no matter
If it was red.
Four times I crossed the line, told you five,
Too drunk to count.
Situation normal honey, broken plates.
Full of doubt and this human struggle
To my own apocalypse.
Four bloody times.
The Cygnet And The Fox.
Anew the cygnet
attempts to rise,
The strength gone, but
spirit there,
And the foxes
determination is
Matched only,
By the pen's anger and
Fatal rebuttal and
Defence of family
freedom.
Your shopping wire
basket love carries
So much static,
Many shocks.
And serves to focus no
vision of
What we could have
been.
Cygnet, you escaped
this time,
But beware the shadows
of
The lonely fox's sons.
Selected Views.
No time
No doubt
Dense mist descends
Befriends
Lends
Cosy sense of security
Purity
Erasing world views
To pews
Of oaken-seated
Gothic splendour
And vendor
Of christian dreams of
Eden
And faint
Musty
Old stone
Church smell
Mingles with
Damp moss
No time
No doubt
No time to try
To see
Without vision
Derision of sense
By
Withholding views.
Monday, 14 August 2017
Extremely Dark Time
Usual caveat applies.
My brain stopped, a week ago, though it was noticeably skiddy before that, to be honest.
This is me on auto, while trying not to offend, and wondering why.
Here are some pictures....
It appears that there are several options for aspect ratios on the camera, so I have tried to play/learn about them a bit. First by reading, then by ignoring most of what I read....(situation normal there then...) then by just trying. 1:1 as in square, and 16:9, as in what you might think of as "widescreen"....
My line of thinking though is that the camera sensor remains the same, so that the only thing that actually changes is the way the (already-cropped) sensor creates these options can only be by cropping again before saving each image...so when I first read about it, and dabbled, I gave it up as a bad job, and stuck with the common, all-garden 4:3...after playing a bit this weekend I am now not so sure, as for a start, a square picture takes a bit of thinking about when composing the frame...
Remember those old polaroids you used to see? All square.
I might change my mind and go back to 4:3, but for now have to say that these few have really made me rethink my attitude to the whole subject.......
Random YouTube insert, as it's what I'm listening to while I write this....
And when keeping your eyes open for inspiration as to how you fit in the world, and looking for a "sign" to help in that...don't go to our local woods and see what the council think you should do.....
My brain stopped, a week ago, though it was noticeably skiddy before that, to be honest.
This is me on auto, while trying not to offend, and wondering why.
Here are some pictures....
Out of the magnificent
warm dark windy
Strange sounds of
infinitely industrial prayer
Non-nature ghost of
process past in distant mills
And unidentity, queer
aromas, airs of making
Destroying these eyes
with spectral memory
Of chemical moment and
gravity, and rabbits
Downwind from this odd
airy fingerprint
A walking lecture of
past revolution progress
Removed guilty
magnificence in our own eyes
Cast useless as far
into the dark as yesterday
Turning back to windier
chemical conversations
Lost translations, just
sounds, love and poison
Upwind, upstream with
waterfall magnificence
Drying Out.
Dry, skull full of
crisp leaf memory,
Wrung out and left to
air,
Four, five days now.
How fierce comes
unimagined sphere,
Where once we flew
though dream prairies,
And thought we were the
only ones.
All wrung out, mangled
and hung,
On lines of respectable
responses,
To this tapestry, to
this life.
It appears that there are several options for aspect ratios on the camera, so I have tried to play/learn about them a bit. First by reading, then by ignoring most of what I read....(situation normal there then...) then by just trying. 1:1 as in square, and 16:9, as in what you might think of as "widescreen"....
My line of thinking though is that the camera sensor remains the same, so that the only thing that actually changes is the way the (already-cropped) sensor creates these options can only be by cropping again before saving each image...so when I first read about it, and dabbled, I gave it up as a bad job, and stuck with the common, all-garden 4:3...after playing a bit this weekend I am now not so sure, as for a start, a square picture takes a bit of thinking about when composing the frame...
Remember those old polaroids you used to see? All square.
I might change my mind and go back to 4:3, but for now have to say that these few have really made me rethink my attitude to the whole subject.......
Random YouTube insert, as it's what I'm listening to while I write this....
Thought Fog
Heavy woollen water
pressure
Slow plastic oil weight
Behind scalp between
ears
Inside temples boiling
slowly
Coolly waxy muffled
moment
Plastic thought too,
heavy times
Ooze around this hollow
skull
Numb fluid crude
pressure
Invading will to live
To disempower slow
warmth
Paraffin residue seeps
in dreams
Brain death plastic
suffocation
Clearer on frosty
mornings
Thought fog, no drugs.
Factory Shithouse.
KLE-DUNK, KLE-DUNK, KLE-DUNK,
Clink, clink, clink, clink,
Dickensian workhouse setting.
Machines of Dali, and now mine.
A smoke-filled shithouse,
Next to the heaviest machine of all,
Driven by the token negro,
Employed, not just as statistic.
Within the smoky chambers,
Newly decorated with asylum green,
(First time since nineteen-sixteen.)
The chains swing from filthy cisterns.
KLE-DUNK, KLE-DUNK, KLE-DUNK, KLE-DUNK,
You light your fag and wish
For the peace of mind that eludes,
Rudely cast-forth noised interludes.
Heavy processes shake this shaky poe,
Above, clean offices, here below to find
Girly magazines secreted on top of tanks,
Grimy secreted within, and without care.
Shifty eyes, too loud to converse,
To reverse the process and cancel all,
To dream of lucid moments, of booze,
Lost once more, in industrial loos.
And when keeping your eyes open for inspiration as to how you fit in the world, and looking for a "sign" to help in that...don't go to our local woods and see what the council think you should do.....
No bloody help at all......
This one might do, for now......
Right now, life is shit, but there are always the woods, and the moors,
and the remote places to go get lost in....
Sunday, 30 July 2017
Thursday, 27 July 2017
Whitesnake Had That One Song.
Well, many, many actually.
It's late July, this is still not going to become a personal blog, as such, though everything in it is I suppose technically "personal" seeing as how I snapped, wrote, or created the overwhelming majority of it.
I closed it down, more than once, as my musings and imagination from decades ago rang true contemporarily, as it were, or perhaps better to say contemporaneously, I don't know if that makes more sense..... I made the decision, which I now am going to doubt, that I would politely explain, and be open about everything, and that poetry, and creative writing, as such, came from a mixture of pure imagination, some reality, and dreams, and whiffs of fantasy, nightmares, and not necessarily based on real people, just amalgums of both real and dreams....
If someone can look at a painting, or sculpture, or listen to an orchestral piece, (or to be honest, a punk, heavy metal, acid-jazz, industrial, techno, acid, or even light-pop...etc for that matter) and imagine the world the artist creates, and of course, see some truth in it, they manage not to get confused over the aim of that stand-alone piece......surely?
Those infamous Sunflowers needed wires to stand up to be painted......really, nothing is real.
{How mad is that? one of my early attempts with speech recognition, on a computer I don't even own anymore.....If it's late enough, and you read it aloud, in an Irish accent, perhaps, then it kind of leaves some sort of poetic impression in the air.....
....so I kept it....! }
An old gate-post, the walls long gone, but I thought it might have been something even older, and a sign that Yorkshire folk took their version of a really old religion onto the high seas a thousand years before Cook.........and well, fill the gaps in yourself.....
Cloudy satellite
Fifty million million
million years ago, give or take
You shot your love out
into my cosmos…
Comet-like, but faster,
harder
Encompassing.
Enthralling & scary
too.
My sub-cold/beyond icy,
satellite picks up vague sub-space whispers a million billion
Years
Lives later.
Barefoot, with
dressing-gown & tobacco
I watch the pulses of
your love
Permanent &
irrevocable
Through a slightly
cloudy & hazy winter’s late evening,
With whisky.
With deep longing &
a strange numb left arm feeling, non-feeling, that
It all should be
evolutionary, and in a lovely starlit, cloudy way
It’s faster and
harder than the chromium shell of my vague but sincere satellite.
Out of whisky, out of
tobacco, but never ever out of my love for you.
It's late July, this is still not going to become a personal blog, as such, though everything in it is I suppose technically "personal" seeing as how I snapped, wrote, or created the overwhelming majority of it.
I closed it down, more than once, as my musings and imagination from decades ago rang true contemporarily, as it were, or perhaps better to say contemporaneously, I don't know if that makes more sense..... I made the decision, which I now am going to doubt, that I would politely explain, and be open about everything, and that poetry, and creative writing, as such, came from a mixture of pure imagination, some reality, and dreams, and whiffs of fantasy, nightmares, and not necessarily based on real people, just amalgums of both real and dreams....
If someone can look at a painting, or sculpture, or listen to an orchestral piece, (or to be honest, a punk, heavy metal, acid-jazz, industrial, techno, acid, or even light-pop...etc for that matter) and imagine the world the artist creates, and of course, see some truth in it, they manage not to get confused over the aim of that stand-alone piece......surely?
Those infamous Sunflowers needed wires to stand up to be painted......really, nothing is real.
Rose Petals Mean
Sincerity.
Manic moment passing
fancy,
Fanciful idyll and
bee-swarm stress,
Momentous duress
Caress,
Undress.
Press your love in my
heart,
Wring out doubt and
halo light,
Take new delight,
Flight,
Kite.
Maniacal debacle throws
scorn down,
Littered in this hollow
rugged box-cube,
Where love exhudes,
Hollow moods,
Broods.
Deep down dawn of
loving eye,
Flutters about this
dreamed return,
Where lights burn,
We learn,
Yearn.
To have and to hold and
embrace within,
Two as one meld and
weld this boon,
Betroth the moon,
None too soon,
Strewn.
"Our Yahoo Us"
Our Yahoo
us “where Twelve tracks monkeys monkeys monkeys
Arts
Thermo monkeys mangy mangy man jinked jinked count
Charlie
Binn journal angel wings
Bike
Minoru McGuinness NIC his unique hairs fabulous arts
But takes
but took us
Vendors
liggin neck in new York. Making it.
Fairview
less Fairview yes by the U.S.
Politics
Straight
Us
Carefully
Carefully
Us
Known
Map
Arts
Gary Jerry’s
Jim Binn from King twilight you 9,100 open air base (into training
Then
backing Betty’s
Becky
Kind
Of
Nikki Mack
a new
Again
Magic
Mouse
Minus minus might be more wary where wall The
eight Category N. bloomin
There is a
N.
Will
28 Iran
to
downright
Down
And
if you are not making any then
p
{How mad is that? one of my early attempts with speech recognition, on a computer I don't even own anymore.....If it's late enough, and you read it aloud, in an Irish accent, perhaps, then it kind of leaves some sort of poetic impression in the air.....
....so I kept it....! }
An old gate-post, the walls long gone, but I thought it might have been something even older, and a sign that Yorkshire folk took their version of a really old religion onto the high seas a thousand years before Cook.........and well, fill the gaps in yourself.....
Selected Views.
No time
No doubt
Dense mist descends
Befriends
Lends
Cosy sense of security
Purity
Erasing world views
To pews
Of oaken-seated
Gothic splendour
And vendor
Of christian dreams of
Eden
And faint
Musty
Old stone
Church smell
Mingles with
Damp moss
No time
No doubt
No time to try
To see
Without vision
Derision of sense
By
Withholding views.
Always a few early ones.......best leave them to flourish..... This reality isn't anything I want to cling onto right now either way.
I haven't quite closed my FB thing, though only scan it briefly now, and have deleted it from my phone, as it was getting addictive, and upsetting, and depressing. For a couple of weeks now though, I have been this close to just deactivating my account for some proper breathing space. My internal conversations would have made a radio play.........
I am border-line with this blog too, but it's still sort of going, for now......
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