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......

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.

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.

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....

 

Air Fingerprints

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....