In Between What and What?

 

M. F.

I so much want to tell you,                                                    And I, to hear you,

I so much need to say,                                                           I must believe its true,

We must protect this that we are,                                          Hello, am I getting through?

The love that I have to give..                                                Well, its up to you.

The journey starts then,                                                        Can we find out where to go ?

We sit in cars of love and pain.                                           The road is a long one.

We live.                                                                               We love, live.

Midnight.

Beneath your midnight,

Walking ancient pathways,

Sidestep the infinite deeps.

The pools of essence

Essence of midnight blue.

Walk with me

And without words,

Beneath your midnight.

 

Friday Night.

All fixed up

For Friday night

The heat is on

You're feeling right

You've got a thirst

For some dark fine ales

Maybe one or ten

Coffin nails.

Self destroyer

On a bender

"Loves' lost child"

"The great pretender"

Down the road

With cash in pocket

To the ale-house like

Plug in socket.

All fired up to

Drink your fill

Release some pressure

Time to kill.

Send head a-tupping

And blur your words

When you're supping

Forget the birds.

Lads night out

A mini-riot

Look about

It's never quiet

Some new faces

In this hall of fame

Reserve your places

Join the game

Fill the glass

And knock it back

Pints of Bass

Or Guinness, black.

What'll happen tonight ?

Who can say ?

The light's too bright.

Spend your pay

When you've done

We'll have a curry

Far too strong

But never worry.

We're all fired up

For Friday night

The heat is on

We're feeling right.

 

Moorland Street.

Performance as an art in itself

Capturing nuance in tone and stance

And pleasure in understanding

The players’ art

Not so aloof,

On this long moorland street

The lay preacher and the common man.

And her vocal expressions

For the only critic

To have ears, and her

Tongue

Eyes and nipples and

Hands

Ideas.

As a performance that captures

Nuances of an imperfect

Moorland vocal understanding

For the only critic

Aloof pleasure, and tongue art.

 

Oily Mirrors

Running into the mirror

Away and before, in front and bleeding brow,

Cheeks, shards, glassy emotions...

No authority, just anonymous threats,

instinct drives you into survival, bloody,

Cornered, no papers or legitimacy,

Run rabbit, come with me....

Face to face with fear,

The tattoo. The world's pain now,

Hundreds of thousands of reasons, instincts,

Threats, silent phone calling, locked boxes.

Hand in hand we flee,

In front, but only just, emotions,

Survivalists, bleeding and illegitimate,

Rabbits in the spotlight.

Analogy, dark dreams coming true,

Mirrored in rainbow oiled muddy puddled thinking.

Nowhere left to run except into the oily mirrors,

And cold sweaty wakefulness, instinction.

 

Particle Accelerator

Over the years, girls,

Like neutrinos, or was it electrons?

Shot through my destiny, my cellular,

Molecular, particular, kind of, accelerator.

But virtually never hit the nucleus,

To rebound at mad

Unpredictable angles,

If only they

Existed.

Shot through particular beams

Into an uncertainty,

As to just

Exactly,

Where my central components

My years,

Could deflect them into paths of normality.

Not Heisenberg,

Not Einstein.

Just purely

Simply. In rivers of chaotry.

And over the years

The uncertainty principle

Kind of,

Took over,

Girls, like neutrinos, hon.

 

Taking Stock In The Caravan.


Its kind of true that this is real,
Sort of understand now, how she feels,
The sleight of hand, disguises rotten deals,
Unmasks the shit stuck on these wheels.

Follow the roving eye,
Fool the eye,
Train the eye,
Strain, and try.

Having some kind of self-imposed break,
May seem there's no rest yet to take,
Or that certain lacks, are certain fakes,
Or even that lochs are always lakes.

Lines to throw out,
Dispose of these at will,
Drink your fill,
Move in, to kill.

Minor power trips, full of benevolent intent,
Ooze and caress these tin walls, as meant,
Borrow, return, then steal back what I leant,
Leaving faint wafting hints of presence scent.

To know I've been,
Know more or less,
Know you princess,
Subtle hit of stress.

Just what made me turn around through tin curtains ?
At that exact moment ? Cannot still be certain,
To witness the subtle dark void field of portent,
Continuing absence of quarreling lovers, intense intent.

Breeze becoming rocky,
Rattling this shed,
Attitude depressed, less cocky,
Evenings with the dead.

 

Hate This Place.

From this monk's monkey cell

I see hear and then I smell

the burning heaps that decry this hell

the irritated skins that will

never wash clean the incomplete twins

that will never be seen

around the corner

where I tried to warn her that

I cry at what goes in

and love being out

and danced with a girl

whose eyes never opened

once in a while

I saw her smile

and then reviled

I tried to run

she had a gun

and shot the whole place

down

god I hate

this town.

 

Sunday Morning In Bed.

Flecks of poison land unseen,
Upon the world bedecked with green,
Falling like the even star,
Blotchy minims of spotty tar.

As the darkness attempts to stay,
Prevent the coming of the day,
You see I knew the road,
And remember all you told.

The love fatigue of joyless calm,
When a "thousand miles" will keep us warm,
You sigh the breath that says it all,
Simply pride that holds the fall.

We fall, dead blossoms on grey breeze,
Me lying, you watching on your knees,
You smoke our love and dock the tab,
Sunny amoureuse at dawn makes drab.

The hysterical heights from which we slip,
Like sleeping giants lose their grip,
Melanchol toast and the day ahead,
One cannot but help to blame the bed.


Outside the dust covets the world,
Dancing breezes stir the dance and whorls,
Round the paving of poisonous black,
Above the sun lays on its track.

Over a month. Sorry, slack, slack, slack.

Another year really too, let alone month....another Folk Festival, which was fun, though not just quite as anarchic as some previous years, thankfully!

New friends, old friends, a small healing in my internal rift, and some randomly snowy weather, then heatwave, then what? Who knows, but it's still only May, so there will no no "clouts cast" around these parts just yet, unless you count the week of wearing shorts and tee-shirt to work, followed immediately by wondering whether I should break out the bloody thermals again....Mad.

It is spring, so roll on SUMMER!

Stop messing with my fonts!



Stay strong and safe people.  

S'been a While.

 

 Overdone HDR. "That Tree"

Yessir it has, and then we find a particularly dire period, fallow is an understatement, especially on the heels of the whirlwind that blew herself out at about the time of the previous post......

Let's crank up the nostalgia engine and tick a few more off the list then, and keep ruminating on the new ones that keep failing to reach pen & paper, but they will, boy oh boy, the themes are the only thing holding me back really as they became a bit too predictable, even if the love-sentiment is as predictable as ever. Love and loss, love and mis-match, hurricane-love, and so on.....Just not rock solid, dependable, reliable, understanding, compromise, trust and openness. Issues, on both sides, this isn't a blame-fest.






Hey ho, not going to slip further into the personal, that was never the point of this blog, in any of its incarnations.

Don't Call.


Don't call, crying out incredible wastes,
Don't offer a hand, tightrope walker,

I can blow this all on my own.


Don't say "I'm here any time for you."
Patent leather, patent lies,
Patience tested, tomorrow's sighs,

Urgent needs to feed the greed.

Don't bother, assistance as yours is plenty,
Plentiful, bountiful, but hollow and rare,
Is the genuine glint, eye corner stare.

I can fuck this up all on my own.


Write me a letter, "James, it will get better."
Just hold on that bit, to let fate work it out,
No thanks, ex-directory, moved address,

Don't call me anymore.

 This has become the age of my hermitage, and I don't really like it.

Dancer

Not a dance floor dodger

No way

Uncontrollable catharsis of all that

Nervous energy

So what then, crowd avoider ?

Not evader, not isolate,

Desolate soul portions, but much is sunlight,

Much is overfull

Crammed with dreams, memories, awareness of now,

Possibly chemicals,

Probably chaotic proactive reactions.

No matter,

Dancefloors and crowds,

Seething mass of sweaty designer skin tight,

Ebbing, flowing, swelling then shouting and

Human media for observant swimmers,

Eyes.

Half a second away from this universe,

Always "not just"

Following the lost scent trails of

Those before.

Through swollen uncomfortable seas of

Drunk dancers,

Speeding towards the edge, always.

Stood in the right/wrong place, as usual.... 

Kettle’s On….

And then the tiny ‘te ching’ of the heater, the ‘sss’ of the kettle on the stove, the crunch of the heart on warm shale.

Teaching.

Missions to other dimensions of stupid wisdoms = ˚45

But my love is far from obtuse.

I hope closer to tuse.

And to wisdom, though far from my judgement and closer than yours it seems,

Through this kaleidoscope/telescope, camera

Crappy old recycled papered sketchpad

It seems.

It sometimes seems, beyond Danny, beyond Carl, beyond Mama Mia, both and less,

Beyond me, and before.

Close inspections, microscopic interventions, and a nudge to the wise.

Too much wisdom blinds the self-obsessed Djin.

And his smoke/mirror entrapments for you, and all of your dreams,

Passported to just anywhere.

Stamped.

Pumelled.

Worlds Meet

In the in-between slice of the autumn night dark,

As in the tin-box caravan, so long left in time,

Standing at the meeting place of worlds,

Cold, freshly grated evening air running over my face,

Forearms, leg-fronts, neck, and becomes deep breath,

As behind, leg-backs, hair is warmed,

Where the worlds meet.

Wolves

Years unveiled old dreams, and scents,

Clear sight, hindsight, clarity,

Think you worked out what they meant,

Your dragon's slayed, naivety....

Assure yourself with goods, and bads,

With things that you possess,

Some make wise, some bounders cads,

All make more of less....

Wise man, woman, now see the truth,

Where will you be when come the calls?

Couldn't avoid it, now await the proof,

There always were wolves, behind the walls......

Washed Up
 

Washed up, on this tiny stone shore,

Thrown up,

from the troubled surf.

Strangely inclined sea of leaves;

Oak and ash, silver birch and beech.

Damp driftwood and stone islands.

Cool wooded beauty with ranging dogs…

Turning inward, tried hard to turn off.

Reflections and conundrums, unknowns and ‘what if?’s

The threats of adventure, impending dark loss.

Decanting thought to void the vessel…

Gaunt tired undernourished ship-wreck. Pigeon Gulls.

This body almost empty, this head quiet too,

Letting the leaves, and trees and squirrels in…

Living poems each, to deconstruct this world…

Brings no meaning, nor reasons or clarity.

Just a deep and pleasant feeling that, all is well.

The dogs return, eyes full of their own questions,

Aglow and lit with joy of life.

Check your wreckage, then again for rabbits

Flying over brambling tides and stump toadstools...

On their endless drive for the instinctive quest.

Instead of questions answered by internal voices

The flotsam moss dulls around the mind,

Calming doubt waters and a whirlpool quandary.

Darker storms brew in the woodland litter.

Distant yet, but a threat, no less.

An hour or so for the turning tide,

To stand, salt-crusted head less troubled

Summon the rabbiters and splice the sails.

Catching sight of a skimming owl,

Albatross-like to this un-drowned mariner.

Cool wooded meditative shore-leave,

…..Helped. Not much, as ideas drain out,

The empty mind blown clear of leaves,

And moss, and stones, and dogs, and rabbits,

And stumbles towards the waiting kettle.

View From Lose Hill.


Objecting to your inter-personal politics,
Allegations of, rumours of,
Chinese whispering in late Yorkshire bars,
I find solace in peak striving.

You would never believe how far I can throw 
My shadow.

Lose Hill to the valley below.

Frozen silver sunlight,
Striding, walking, stick man.

Thoughts of other filmic dreaming,
Battle with panic anxious death flows,
as once more your lungs strive to climb
Out and up, pulse to match.

No, you'd not believe how far I can throw
My shade, your politics,
My voice to echo this sentiment,
My ambition to descend.

Crossing paths with your insulting bright kagoules,
Anachronistic, we level, but briefly,
To the river,
The railway,
And the warm farm,
With whisky and cake,
Without you. 

(For what it's worth, "Lose" is pronounced "loose" in this context,

 it's near Edale, Derbyshire...)

Unknown Pleasure.

Crazed-fingers, on glass, on steel,

On rubber-matted floors, to feel,

To studs, and belts and jaws so taut,

Never stop just when you ought,

To taste the leather Eden apple fresh,

And whip the frenzy, up on flesh,

To kick, and scream, in agstacy,

While choosing how not to be,

So charged with yearning, and yet,

So unwound-up, on a losing bet,

That life so quick, so sure and able,

Won't leave you, dead, beneath my table.

Visitor.

My dreams are as real as the night,

I believe in a second sight,

I know how to set things alight,

And I know what's not black is white.

Why do I have to dream of death ?

When foul corpses try to steal my breath,

From whom did I get this curse ?

Losing you only made it worse.

While you once were a visitor to my dreams,

I think you left with the morning beams,

Now the dream-skin slips away in streams,

Leaving me to drown, or so it seems.

I know I should not fear to sleep,

Should long for where willows weep,

Should dip into unconscious pools so deep,

But the grim one lurks and yearns to reap.

My nights are longer now you're gone,

I should have guessed you were 'the one',

But I didn't really understand your song,

Couldn't see how I'd been so dumb.

But these dreams are more real than the night,

And give me a glimpse of second-sight,

Some strange way to set my head alight,

Or a way of falling, from great height.

 






Really??

Well, that's a few more off the list, but I'm afraid there are still some more to go.....

Bear with me, I'll get this chapter behind me eventually.....

I'll try not to leave it three months before the next not-especially-gripping installment....

Love/Hate This Time of Year.

Ghost Towning.

Eleven years, the returning,

The rough city of child's dreams,

Nightmares, wonders, failures, learning,

Floating oddly through imagined streams.

Can't quite remember, something familiar,

So this is how things change,

Parked the car in Wentworth Terr, similar,

At the same time something strange.

St Austin's chapel - remember Judy ?

The coaches that lined up to collect,

Spotty, screwed up free spirits and broody,

The elite, not quite, but maybe the select.

And the school, can't quite bring myself to look,

Can't quite leave it either, here inside,

Keep feeling that I should recognise..where's duck ?

And there's the pub where we used to hide.

Further into town, 'Ziggys' is now 'The Patio',

Sacrilege ! To refurbish my perfect memory,

The streets the same, my head now says go,

When I'm walking through a ghostly reverie.

I keep thinking I might see myself here,

But haven't time to check the station bar,

Nor the attic in the hall, or everywhere,

My shade memory seems not so far.

Walking now through the bus station,

Miming the journey into school,

Catch stupid strange sensation,

They didn't cure this dumb fool.

The geriatric bingo players remain,

Eleven years of sandwiches and teas,

Have they, or I at last gone sane ?

Then at last, the school...please...

Eleven years, the returning,

The battle (school playing-) fields,

The labs, classes, computer rooms, still learning,

To tell the false from all these 'reals'.

 

Flightless Angel.

The librarian’s pride knows a dizzy perch,

Leaving reason on the plains below,

Fist clenched tightly on the leash,

That binds a flightless angel.

Fast racked indexed tones

The words of angels, on virgin silk.

You have been,

Are and

Always will be

The girl I love.

Freestyle.

Giveaway, bargain. The shops all ascream,

Style is free. Free-style.

Dream.

Seem to be in thought-land, magic tree.

Shop keeper nation,

Kiss your inflation,

Credit and charge cards,

Rats in the backyard.

Ascreaming, ascreaming mind how you go,

There's nothing just left now,

But the dirty old snow.

Old snow, grizzled and non-white,

Watch where you're treading,

When you're out for the night.

Have you lost your style lover ?

Soon now discover,

The flowered-up addiction

Pointless prediction :

"Tomorrow will be just as bad..."

"The President was really just mad."

And free.

Freedom fight,

Caterwauling spright,

Defenceless and deafened.

Kiss the sign, and soak up the snow,

Nobody will tell you what you should do.

Freestyle in a municipal bath-house.

Free to be the one,

Or none.

Anyone can join in, and singalong with me,

Today is the day when everything's free,

Nothing to pay 'til the end of the year,

Balance of trade on the end of a spear.

Freestyle baby, freer than nobody's heroes....

Come home now, and love me, your own little zero.

 

High.

The high, whether natural or no,

Varies, every time.

The high you feel at escape,

The moment you hear it all pass by,

Is cool and deep,

Yet is no less real or

Hurts not a feather more

Than that real true second.

The high, whether natural or no,

When you turn to face them,

Screaming out "here I am !"

Pierces your pounding thoughts,

As you collapse and submit,

Knowing this is no less real.

Whether high or not,

Whether real, or dreaming,

We vary, every time.

Lilies

The lilies are out,

Well, this week's at least,

Trumpeting my love

To any who'll listen

Unexpectedly audienceless

Unexpectedly misunderstood

With deep shiny glossed leaves

White bells,

Six point horns

Now silent.

 

Motorway Driving.

A gap appears in the traffic,

As the rain bounces high off the road.

Your passenger's complaining they're carsick,

In the nearside a lorry sheds its load.

When you think that nowt could get worse,

And the situation can only improve,

Your passenger complains that they'll burst,

And the traffic refuses to move.

The gap that you've seen has gone,

And the stereo has jiggered itself.

All you can do is go on, and

Try to preserve mental health.

Four hours later you've moved a whole mile,

And the atmosphere is wearing thin,

The insanity forces a peculiar smile,

Which then breaks out in a grin.

A gap appears in the traffic,

And the rain bounces high off the road,

Your passenger's been horribly sick,

And your brain has just shed its load.

 

A bit random, but that in itself seems to be the order of the day. My regular readership seems to have crept up from more of less single figures to over 30....which in itself is nice. Thank you, whoever you might be. The last picture, immediately above, was taken yesterday, and I have to say that it was blooming cold......Seeing as how it's rained more or less all day today, with fog/low cloud, I doubt the Moss will look quite like that tomorrow......