A Little Strength.
With a little strength
I lift my eyes to
yours.
Superman could not hold
their glance.
Bitch
Bitch ! Slitch !
Cosy kitsch,
Your towers of darkness
Roofed caverns of
belonging.
Whispers beget lies
And I drive out this
anger, in solitude.
Turrets and slits of
moorland castle,
Reduce me to dust in
all your hassle.
Embedded in sea leaf
beds of forest oceans,
We dance in disbelief
and
In microscopic detail
I knelt to pray for
salvation.
Ears open and eyes
wide,
Seek to know what lies
inside,
Try to learn what we
can find
Buried precious love in
our minds.
And lengthening shadows
perform angular plays
On littered pavement
cracks and papers,
And we descend into the
tube-station to sleep,
To sleep the
conversation of long train journeys.
To kill our love in
smoky, dusty, upholstery,
Rattling Eastwards in
comfort.
And the towers of you
Sooth my soul.
Bitter Elizabeth.
Bitter Elizabeth, come
home now,
The accuser, fallen
prince and priest,
Preaches honeyed
hemlock sentiments,
To your deaf dumb blind
ears.
Bitter laughter returns
to your bruised lips,
And a vision before
your blacked eyes,
Reach sunnied rock-free
beaches,
And believe the prophet
who loves you.
Bitter memories based
on childhood thought,
Entertained before your
adult believings.
Forget the preacher,
free Elizabeth,
from the internal,
infernal, dead tears.
There's Blood On The
Streets.
When did the silence
encompass the oracular sink ?
Could the echoes have
carried the lost voices to your door ?
Now you know of the
truth in comedianic laughter,
The dull sense of
emptiness in a room full of sheep.
The glint in the eye of
the child that stands now buried
Deep in the woman who
will outlive the lie.
Faith in the thought
that everything's wrong,
That no-one can hear the
depths of the song.
But the snow-fall of
silence in this chasm of dreamers
Can not chill the
belief that the clown is for real.
Sitting upright in the
custard-bath of vision,
Casting out feelers to
the punters of tension,
And retracting to the
chorus of harmonic inner voices,
When dancing through
rainbows and killing for pleasure.
Replay the video to
peruse at your leisure.
And the inter-racial
marriage of money class and wealth,
Is purely temporary, a
way off the shelf.
There's blood on the
streets, in the road and drains.
Now return to the caves
and groves,
To the playgrounds of
child-men and quiet hidden shores,
Retracing the innocent.
A Wire Basket Of
Thoughts.
A hidden treasure, a
love, (Heart.)
Some reserved emotion.
The preserved elation,
disguising hope,
Merely a wandering
stranger,
Across grey sky and
mood.
Much scurrying and
burrowing,
To arrive, secret place
in enchanted fate,
Hinted at, a trim tail
feather,
Adorning the morose and
free.
See the herd of tame
thistles,
Feel the grip on the
noose,
To impart a mortal
wound, to the lady.
The passing black
sheep,
Heavy with longing
regret,
A cliff away from the
sea,
A deserted castle,
(A flooded tear well.)
A choked sob and a
look,
Knows your wheat ear
deafness.
A subdued division in
my reality,
A wispy cloud over a
green,
Seeing cavalry and
much new death,
A tall chimney, and
freedom.
A church spire and
within,
A lone gull and a water
tower,
A sleeping immortal,
A powerful evil,
A saviour for England
and me,
A wire fence and the
tick of a clock,
A booby trapped
valentine,
A pierced ash leaf,
An intrigue and a
timber yard,
A smile from a
stranger,
A wave from a child,
A motion from within
and a cry,
A silent howling and a
flood light,
A deserted union and
deception,
A journey away and
towards,
A sparkling jewel and a
golden chain,
The memories of an
unknown love. (Heart.)
Afterword
Dear
All,
This
letter is carried by a messenger,
Witness,
archivist, collector of reasons.
Shoot
the messenger, shoot the messenger,
Shoot
the message.
Dear
messenger,
Collect
as much as you can,
Pickle
and preserve, collect and collate,
And
shoot the all.
Avoid
dead end traps and trapped reasons,
Which,
if true, should be an autobiog instead,
And
duck when they start shooting.
In
the event of the receipt of this note,
You'll
know what to do,
And
who to shoot,
When
to stay or go,
When
to dig, and overturn stones, and sods,
So,
why you ?
So
why me ?
I
may have sent this note to another,
Or
six, or ten, or none,
Any
material removed,
Must
return,
For
my survivors to burn.
Please
allow free passage to the archivist,
Understand,
and help, and feed.
Like
sacks of paper into the shredder.
Like
shreds of my life into the archive,
To
dwell a paper pseudo person,
In
peoples minds.
So,
why, if its all bloody pointless ?
Shoot
wide, or shoot to stop,
Uncover
these secrets, expose me at last,
Who
cannot expose my truth...
No,
that's not it either.
So,
WHY ?
If
the messenger carries this to you,
You'll
know why.
I'm
waiting for a message myself.
The
Done Thing.
Alice.
Alice sits miserably
alone,
Upon an ancient stone,
In my dead garden,
In the garden of the
dancing dead,
Of a much related
dreamscape,
- She alone sits out
the party.
My head camera
encircles her.
The central star in
this dead cast,
Of a dead play, the
deceased.
"Dramatis personae
morteunt", or some such,
At least that's the
remembered memory,
Much used and ill
forgot,
On dark fire-hearth
story-telling nights.
Foaming fountain hangs
motionless,
Highlighting the
pointlessness of it all,
And the dead angels
mourning,
A banshee wail for the
living,
For my god and those of
us,
Who know what it is to
be alive.
For tomorrow we will
meet our fathers,
On short shorn lawns in
the garden,
Unliving and eternally
sunny and dead.
That girl sits
forgotten as I muse,
Tossing the idea over
to attract attent,
To persuade acceptance
of this living corpse's "invite to dance".
- He alone captures a
sly and brief glance.
Anger Works in Mirrors.
How many times have I driven home?
Slept in the van, the lounge,
Gone over the edge, but lived?
Shout louder if you really want me to die.
Passion’s one thing pussycat.
You throw fifteen different angers.
My footwell’s full, of blood, of tears, and beers,
I smoke another, drink tinned soporific,
Freeze my head and heart.
Hardly the song I’d choose to sing.
Shout, but only after misunderstanding lounges.
I can’t do anymore.
Fifteen times, I’m out of here.
Got the hint.
Anger, like light,
works in mirrors.
Another Willing Mistake.
Waking in a strange room,
So strange, its almost natural,
For a Friday night,
Saturday morning introductions,
And the photos of your child.
Too late to panic, so just
enjoy,
Damage done, or not, so warm,
So calm and beautific in
embrionic,
Waking loving and living.
No consideration has yet
occurred,
As in this guilt love your form
is stirred,
To consequential ramification,
or shit,
Radical information that a
mistake was it.
So welcoming and gently adult,
Too real to belong to me, I
said,
Too much history and
overlapping,
When you wake in your mate's
girlfriend's bed.
(20 years ago it has to be said.....)
Before The End.
Start with a question
As the bin man chases
crazy whirls of
Trash and crisp packet
trails
And fails, through
thick glasses
To see
Just stand still and it
all comes back.
With my back to the
Church
On her steps,
With dark whirls of
past life
Wall-Of-Death-ing my
head-track
Trying to focus and to
be stronginresolve
Simply exist now, and
thoughts to dissolve
Not revolve, crazy
whirls
Church step sandwich
And crisps, no less.
Belladonna.
Throw open that window,
In pours the light of
today,
Motions of the airflow,
And the things you
can't say.
The sprig of
Belladonna,
In the bouquet of your
heart,
When I saw us together,
I knew we must part.
Draw back those
curtains,
The bright light of
today,
Now I am certain,
There can be no delay.
Bespectacled
Bespectacled laughter
frame illusion shock,
Kind of reversing of a
normal clock,
Stroll in to casual
heights,
Delight in these
nights,
And please stay intact.
In fact
If you must shatter
clatter fragment and split,
Kind of conversing with
a human pile of grit,
we could try harder
To conserve this
larder,
And love once more,
Sober and lonely.
Great myths were born
forlorn and consumed,
Nothing else I think
could be presumed,
To relate to this, our
parting shot,
To be happy with the
sad man's lot,
And tell tall tales,
In late bar
conversation.
To talk of feeling the
ceiling and new depth,
And to speak wordless
to catch your breath,
To delight quite
briefly insanely,
We must depart now
quite gamely,
And write false red
letters
To disbelieving reading
voyeurs.
Betrayal
I know I'm going to
betray you,
Even in your unmoving
big black eye,
The knowledge that this
is true,
Brings a hideous and
secret doubt.
The borrowed, plastic
yellow handled knife,
Past sharp, and nearly
past blunted,
Is my conduit, the
medium of this traitor,
Losing, flinging your
trust away.
Big deep red globs, on
this wet stinking floor,
as I denude your chest,
belly, throat, groin,
Then chain your neck,
in not words,
Your eyes unmoving, as
so I pray.
Pulling this functional
chain, slowly you rise,
Above the floor, as
your feet drag, I twitch,
They seem to twitch
back, oh god, oh god,
Then aloft you swing,
and at last are skinned.
Bigot Bitch.
And that supreme black
leather bigot bitch
All hate-studded and
perversely hung,
With chain and mail and
device,
Stood at this
London/Nurembourg and said :
"So what the hell
are you ?"
"Colourblind
bastards ?"
And we hung our heads
in shame,
Not to ever rise in
pride,
Bigotted bitch
whirlwind dance, the flame,
And I felt a little
death inside.
Before they all raised
the Voice,
And the bitch had stole
the crown,
"To arms ! To arms
!"
I draped my cloak on
dead oak chair,
And sank into brandied
minute monumental well,
And prayed to a white
god,
To forgive the white
men,
And the black, and
everyone too.
And drowned in world
spirit of uprising,
Frustrated race memory
daemons,
To kill all our
children,
Not to forgive or
forget. Bitch.
If I'm ever going to finish the older stuff, I have decided to just crack on and post them willy-nilly, basically alphabetically, (ish), and hope for the best......
Hardly any are contemporary, so don't take offence anyone!
Oh, and the same for FB, I am not going to post any full sized pictures anymore, as I think that some might have a tiny bit of value, and I've been thinking cards/prints, etc, but these might still be good enough to steal if you're that way out, I don't know......
