Tonight's Children.
We are tonight's children,
We, the unchosen, vagrants.
Now we arrive from our searching,
A quest for an infant,
We followed clear fate-lines,
To this eternal constant.
Our journey abandoned now,
In the knowledge that its
Just not enough anymore.
But we'll get by,
We always get by.
The impenetrable depths of candle shade,
Sink through these card walls,
And into other lives beyond.
I take care to mind the deep,
Wary vagrant, child eternal,
But now the dark eludes us,
And stepping out from behind amber bottles.
We come to new daylight,
We the night's children.
We know we'll get by.
I am so not good at this life thing. I do try, but everyone has a preconception of how I/we should "be" and I include myself in that. Sometimes I "feel" too deeply, and sometimes feel nothing at all, as if something was cut out of me.
It wasn't, it's just that we all have "perspective" based on our upbringing, and those experiences during what they laughingly call our "formative years".......
Like an unset jelly needs a mold to "become".....
Ha!
Untrue Love
I called to say
Its all off.
You kissed my silence,
And silent
I remained in,
Unfaithful, physical
Prose, artistry,
In untrue
Love.
Streaming Again.
Playful push, to tip, to drop,
To toy with thought, not now to stop,
To love the game, to play for fun,
To stare the eye out of her gun,
Perhaps to play, to prod thought within,
To do away with all that and sin,
To bargain daily with your creator,
To love him, is not to hate her,
To dream at play, to toy with love,
Perhaps to speak with god above,
The worms below, angels between,
Wrapped in ivy, gold and green,
Not now the plan, the root of man,
The death of dreams, and poison streams,
But asleep on sunny haven rocks,
To forget the lace is not the socks,
Or clocks or savagery of thought,
Passions found, lost or bought,
Nor is to seek, to really know,
What gives, goes on, or below,
When night arrives alone to find,
What the sun might have left behind,
Playful souls worn out and how,
To warm the night and her purple brow,
With fire perhaps, akin to wine,
With shared seconds, so close, so fine,
To playful thoughts we now so turn,
To drowse, as the slow fire burns,
To stone, to sleep, to turn to grey,
To relieve, and to relive the day.
Post-Bed Rambler.
Sitting before the
fire, late,
Questioning motives and
life routes.
Roots.
Since when did the
ancient wisdoms
Dictate this ?
Record these words for
your posterior,
Posterity.
Arsewipe.
When did your wisdom
dictate,
How to lead my life ?
Look around, choose
your own sound,
Taste, shout, and
let me out !
Enough, enough.
Cries from locked
doors,
Locked rooms
Behind, to find,
Secrets lost perhaps,
and then,
Cries to let us out
again.
Touchy.
Express your innermost melody,
In mimic, touchable, iced-coating,
And enwrap my perception in your world.
Then kiss me,
And truly, truly mean it.
Fast, loose, crazed bitch lovers,
Screaming from imagined bed covers,
And, in this life, are played for laughs.
Touch me,
I drench your ears, in piteous, copious lies.
But, fooled now, you must
Touch me.
Externally,
Never in shadowed counting places,
Where it
Counts.
Sixth Sex.
Feeding noisily, desperately from your love,
I see no end to the madness you bring.
One by one, then there are three,
Sitting up, in oils, scented and potent,
Erectile dreamlight makes patterns,
Sinking and flying through saneless glass.
Bring me your costumes,
Your silk, leather, rubber, your furs,
Parade your skin in my eyes,
Pose, and tease me to new limits.
I drink deeply, drowning in your love,
Feeling no fear, big wonder and surprise.
Hand on your thighs, hand in your hair,
Your face, your neck, shoulders and bare,
Lips are the new eyes, fingers of nerves,
Silkily exploring each quarter.
Bring me your limits, as I bring mine,
Insanely do our skins entwine,
This angle, this hollow, this mound,
New aspects, as each has found.
You kiss noisily, greedily, but safe,
As the pressure builds and skies lower.
New game roles, newly extended disbelief,
How now, to cover your brow ?
To sink so low, to touch so deep,
To hang on sex on the edge of sleep.
Nothing new, no new taboo,
Slightly bizarre, even to ourselves,
Then, coming down, we melt butter-like,
Into the intensest, moist, most loving, warmth.
I often think how naive I am, and was, especially re-reading some of these proper "oldies". It scares me in some ways that I can still see the same lost little unformed person through the metaphors, and allusions. Catharsis? Maybe, perhaps that is the root of a lot of poetry, if not all.
Who knows? And if they do, who cares?
Notes From "Exit".
No, you, I drank no bleach,
No rope thirst, no bullet pill,
No razor wristed grip,
No poisonous arrow headed tip.
Not intentional,
Ever present,
The dream, the truth,
The effervescent,
The slide show of bits I'd done,
No blanks in the loaded gun.
To bed, to sleep,
To numerate, uncounted sheep,
To calculate,
To extricate,
Life from spirit,
Soul from flesh,
Wisdom from the wire mesh.
But yet dead awhile, asleep a bit,
Can't quite see that, you'll see this is it,
Not my game, so not my fault,
Cast out my vision, into the vault.
Choked on vomit, or so you'll say,
Who on earth would die this way ?
Not for fun, no big gun,
No escape from your iron lung.
Thinks.
I, one, singular, a kind of practical joke,
Impractical, and improbable, in reversed perversity,
Kind of live in a world of smoke,
Kind of sink in darker nights severity.
Consider this, if you consider at all,
How one man could pass through the wall,
How most must stand, while some must fall,
Or why some are deaf to the loudest call.
Consider long the moments gone,
But think more of those to come,
Think long and hard of triumphs won,
And of the eternal none.
But don't spare a thought for me,
Improbable, doubtful type of noise,
Try hard on your own to stay free,
And run hard, with the hunting boys.
Run harder when time runs out,
Raise a fist, clench, scream and shout,
When you harbour that single doubt,
Your labours lost in the foolish rout.
But, I, the singular, the indescribed one,
Impractical in a perverse type of uncommon sense,
Shed no crystal tears when I knew you'd gone,
And rest idle, by the moss-covered fence.
Close to the moment when I discovered that my expensive gift wellies weren't up to the actual job of keeping water out, even though they are only about 18 months old, which takes me back to Cornwall, and everything that accompanied that chapter, and, well, just "and."
This isn't the time nor is it the place. But they have had a lot of use and consequently have failed to survive "wear and tear"....so are currently in a bin-bag outside waiting for Thursday's collection......
They were super comfortable, thank you Mole Valley Farmers shop........
And my benefactor.
Rockabilia.
Posters of those you find cool.
Image cool presentations,
Representing a dream of rebellion,
Of talent, of getting your girl.
Cool dream.
The coolness of your grief,
The realisation, when you think about it,
(Maybe you don't think.)
Who cares about the famous ?
The joy is no less real because its you,
Not the rock & roll god,
Not simply an icon for our times.
A photo-historical dissection,
Flash-bulb scalpel of false presentation,
Unreal representations.
But the "art" of it all is true,
Surely you won't take it all away ?
Surely we need heroes,
Surely ?
Need, and want no props,
Except your love which is real enough.
Strong enough for my needs,
Warm enough for my camera,
Cool enough to be a life-style,
Real enough to need you.
No pictures please,
No lies, except the big one,
No posters of me and you.
Just dreams,
Awake, and not in love,
In love, and asleep,
Coolness in laughter,
That is no less real because we're zero.
Nobody to no-one.
Except, maybe, perhaps,
Yes, maybe,
Not only do posters witness the real dreamer.
The Monks.
The monks, bent light,
Took great delight,
In the hollow sight,
Of you,
Gone to mars,
To study stars,
To foretell belief,
You bring relief,
A little grief,
And stress,
To press home,
The bloody point into my head.
To leave these thoughts and dreams,
Unfed,
She said,
The monks knew,
This ordinary crisis cripples,
These ripples,
Of emotion,
Love,
Deep devotion,
Glove,
To hold the hand,
That bites.
To fly scared and cold,
From the frights of,
Those vicious nights,
And days.
And she says,
She prays,
To a different god,
To some infinite sod,
Who looks like him.
To bike and swim,
To drown, to fly,
To clown in the angels eye,
And lie.
And try,
To hold onto thought,
You wish you'd brought,
Some hope and faith.
And then the next day came,
Around to find us strewn,
On this blackened ground,
Drifting in our only sound,
Your breathing,
My seething,
My hurting,
And working, to that instant,
Profound insight into,
Just how her mind works.
There was a strange mist over the river, and I more or less totally failed to capture it, though not for lack of trying......
Maybe that could be suitable, with a bit of re-working, as an epitaph, of sorts.
I think this blog needs another rethink, just not tonight.
Thank you for your patience.
Love, Extreme, porn, pornography, angling, religion, God, hate, love, facts, science, faith, cats, cat videos, dogs, horses, girls, art, anger, leather, drugs, free drugs, free people, free China, Hong Kong, lock-picking skills as a teenager...... drag, burlesque, caravan, canal boats, free gardens, politics, love, spirits, tattoos, totally fail at key-words, but it was 60 seconds of fun.
Deviant, deviation sickness, boredom, sleep.
Sexy Trees......
I need a psychiatrist, or something else, something that suits me, maybe in grey, or beige.
Hope July brings.
