Humbug

In Memorium Of My Pal Ginger.

So farewell then, old Ginger tomcat,

No more warm hours, on the lawn sat,

No more lady cats to woo, or to strut for,

Purring for human's pleasure, no more.

On top of the kitchen fire I'll think of you,

Sleeping away your days, just as cats do.

Patiently waiting for food, down there in the corner,

I remember you, and feel like a mourner.

There was no malice in your heart,

As you simply played a part,

As resident "Lord of the Manor".

Would you want us to stake out a banner

In your name, to remember your grace,

I think not Ginger, with your ginger face.

How Old Were You Ginger ?

How old were you mate ?

We never knew as you didn't say,

I saw you once by the old field gate,

Slipping timidly out of the hay.

You appeared one winter some years ago,

Eating bread put out for the birds,

Starving and thin, out cold in the snow,

Not responding to our human words.

You gave us your trust that year,

In exchange for a home to live in,

With your ragged and flea bitten ear,

And a past, p'raps steeped in sin.

When you purred, you meant it,

You were quiet and warm,

In our home you simply fit,

Safe and free from harm.

Fare thee well, old Ginger mate,

I think of you, by the old field gate,

In the sun, not in the snow,

But you said, you had to go.

Well, another hiatus, and yet here we are again....2019 to boot.

Happy New Year, onwards and up.

Another few catch-ups to do yet, well, I say that, still 229 "old ones" excluding these....I so thought I was closer, and wish I'd made more effort now, but this last couple of years have been "interesting" as far as my recent life goes, and the muse has been, gone, come back for a party, then left, then texted a few times...you know how it can be. I know she'll revisit, with a fire of creativity to spur me on, while I still, after all the last attempts crashed, want to try to make my photos accessible, and sellable....but I am chaos incarnate most of the time, so don't hold your breath.

Currently I have 33,700 photos in 731 folders on my back-up drive alone......it's not bragging, as I lost over 10,000 when one of my old pcs died a few years ago. I try my best to manage and organise them, but sometimes think that it might be a good idea to start a whole new structural method off to make them more accessible. I mean, for example, it took me nearly 20 minutes to find the cat in the top picture, even though I knew it was this year.....couldn't find it in "Home" or "Cats" or any of the last two years "Holme Valley" or "Arty for the sake of it" etc...... and yet, after refreshing the last folder, 936 pictures, there it suddenly was.....

Frustrating!

I will just toddle on and try to get some good pictures in the future, and hope I know how to find them if ever I need to....

 

 

Gone

Nothing, void, chasm of soundless, stillness,

The space between the top of the glass, and the wine,

Or beer,

Or scotch.

The sound that's left when the echo dies,

The light that remains when the switch is off,

When the candles out.

When the thinker dies,

The hole in my head,

My heart,

My life.

The usefulness of the womb, newly delivered,

The empty matchbox when the fires to light,

The fag packet,

Used sellotape,

Old batteries,

Lightbulbs.

Less use than the really vacant space in a thermos lining,

Dry stream bed,

Dead trees next to a dead river,

Ash,

A broken walking stick,

Flat tyre.

Sometime unrequited, like a mindless slave,

To a freedom that has no meaning,

To a meaning that has no freedom.

A melted ice-cream sentiment.

Where we used to sit and laugh,

And love, and laugh, and love.

A chasm that no one can illuminate.

Green Man.

Turning to the hollow mood,

The shaded home of old green men,

Finding solace in a mound of food,

Or in the dancing foxes' den.

Breathing through the hollow reed,

The shaded call of the old green man,

Emotions truly from the air bleed,

Part of the Architect's plan.

But the old green man sleeps,

Cool, shady pools of sad foundation,

Deep in roots below where the willow weeps,

The Lady's nymphs attend his station.

How To Think.

Refresher course in "How to Think"

Not sublime, or restrict by drink,

Or draughts of drugs, and thoughts unstable.

Simply grab it all while you are able,

Before your number is called up,

And the vision of the golden cup,

Or black holes in flying dreams,

Streams of doubt and willing queens.

Never to feel what your position is,

Is not to drown in streams of piss.

Or slap my back 'cause I'm doing fine,

When unstable on old corked red wine,

With dregs of vodka and snorts of speed,

Never just agree that's what I need.

Still, parts of my brain remain inactive,

Not like once before, the church of "Saint Tiff"

(Where are you now ? You tired plaintiff.)

No longer will we carry on,

Simply stop, and jump,

Or

Whatever.

 

No crock of gold

No saints or angels

Just a small doorway

From the rainbows end

To the playground

Of the peripheral man.

 

Sunday Morning

Rebelling, you rend me

And wind me

Like a top.

Admiration turns to admonition

No remedial revolution.

Just a warm space in bed

From your recline

And fall.

While I know there's always been "graffiti", I was once young enough to be able to actually read and understand what it said and meant.....

Sheesh, the kids today.....

Harroumph.

One more maybe:

 

The Idea Man.

Open your doors

Throw open your minds

Hark to the call,

Roll up the blinds.

For the idea man is here in town

Children gaily dance around

Old men walk straight and hum an air

Young girls only stand and stare.

He's not a daemon, nor a charm

Ideas he spawns may do you harm

Dreams he gives you may make you king

Or maybe they won't change a thing.

Sombre dressed with hazel eyes

Has he told you truth or lies ?

Did he accept the offered drink ?

Has he made you stop and think ?

Share a moment with this man

He'll wind your brain up if he can

Until the coil spring nearly breaks

Or at least until your head it aches.

All a bit random? Hmm, what did you expect? Sense??

Soon kids, soon.

Go For It. Go to Bed.

Eyes.

Nine billion names have I,

None of which is Birdman,

Nor Fishboy,

Nor anything connected with you.

Nor will I share the one surname I know,

Not with you, my dear, my deer only temporarily.

Make love to a god,

"Screw You !" He said.

Here I sit in this Tibetan retreat,

Writing out my names,

On the line that says

"Pay the bearer"

My cheque to God.

My fruitless, but not uneventful cheque,

The billion moments of my life,

Started with the unknown woman,

And ended with an unknown.

And sit with me for a moment on this wheel,

And recall your own.

Recall our own.

As I die in your arms again,

How many fucking times ?

How many more ?

It's a dead giveaway you know,

With those eyes.

Nine billion eyes,

Nine billion lies,

Nine doesn't divide equally by two,

But nine billion does.

Four and a half billion times I loved you,

I suppose one more can't hurt.

Those eyes, those dreamy eyes.

Fish and Chips.

A vinegary smile,

Waiting at the bus stop,

Kissing in the rain,

A police car flies past,

I kiss you, again,

The bus arrives, and I

Am left with

Fish and chip love

And rain.

 

Several Beers Later & Comfortable.

I don't feel actually alone,

I'm not actually alone,

Rob's here, so there.

What's missing remains so,

Not just a partner,

Not a sexual thing,

More a clone, or sister.

Another part, waiting.

Talking is a bit of it,

I guess I talk to Rob.

I'm not simply horny, or turned on,

That's not quite it.

I'm short, fifty percent.

My wife doesn't even know me,

I'm only twenty-one, and hell,

If I'm this cut up about it all,

I may as well be a clone or sister.

Talking is a sexual thing,

What's missing is quite it,

Still, I have myself, and fifty percent.

My wife is a bit of it,

I guess I talk to Rob,

He's here, she's not.

I'm not simply a partner, or a sexual thing,

More twenty-one, and alone,

Not just waiting, another part.

I'm not feeling alone, so there,

I don't actually feel missing,

I may as well remain so.

Fool.

Feeling reflective and feeling a fool,

The two things go nicely together,

Feeling slightly lonely and used,

I guess.

With her, is a foolish reflection too.

I know I posted a random video thing based on this, so this should go there, or that should go here.....
(Did I YT it? Or just FB it......? Either way I just found the original, as I trawl through the "old stuff"......

Found it.......

Apologies!

Gas.

When the last droplet of gas 
Squeezed to boil from canister red
To moist heat this old tin shed
The last damp flame zipped, then died.

When dejected in a rare spring frost
Sitting on life deep dead sponges
May count now the choice of cost
Count stolen milk and soap and dope.

Hard Bargaining.

It is not a foregone conclusion,

Not a predetermined thing,

Not planned out by the hand of fate,

Too late, too soon,

Too much, to expect.

Not a frank admission of God

Cumulus sits on weathered frown,

Brow to heathered thought stream,

Not the soft imagined solstice,

Simple and delightful in time.

Stretched out your belief once,

Twice and sits comfortably,

But not in this ridiculous song.

Never should you shoot at fish,

Nor clouds nor stars nor suns,

Test leads reactions to new surrounds

Test mine to heavy guns.

Seeking late Elysial entry, to deny.

(Is this denied ?)

Forever to exclude

To sink ethereal, forget my cloud

Never to predict

Not to forget

Never to submit

Predetermine my demise, admitting mistakes.

All.

That picture is DEFINITELY not mine, so I don't claim anything about it, but nor can I attribute it to the author, sorry, this is not a cash generating site, and I claim "fair use".......

Still I get the sentiment carried in it...so much more over the last few years.......

 

 

Telephoning She.

I rang you up to boil my head,

I might as well have rung the dead,

A bricked up mind, and communication,

Impossible in our situation.

Hot plastic telephone hides your face,

Two hundred odd miles from this place,

Down the road-worked motorway would I chase,

If emotions would take up this race.

But to talk is to dodge the thoughts,

Of things we've done and what we ought,

To do now to keep things going,

Perhaps your silence is a way of showing.

I should never have pretended not to love you,

You needed more than you knew I could give you,

The double bluff was called and we discover,

What it means to lose your lover.

I replace the melting telephone receiver,

I, the false one, the great deceiver,

Two hundred miles, I can see your face,

You might as well be in outer space.

I might as well be Peter Pan,

I'd not make a good Desperate Dan,

But in cloud cuckoo land, the never never,

The dreamer's heart strings are now severed.

  

 

Sod Off Old Girl Friend.

We sat in time for minutes,
Echoing events of ten years back,
Pre-guessing those ten hence too.

Why ? Neither really gives a toss,
Well maybe a bit, but really,
I wasn't bleeding then,
Now ? Its just a graze.

And the
Stretched skin splits.

And
 Bleeds.

Car genius, box world,
Logic, where's your romance ?

Express shit in dull wine bar silence,
Though irreverent, my truth stinks.

I cling to a notion that I should hurt,
Either way of reading that, I don't,
Not deliberate.

You didn't hurt me.

I finished it six/ten years ago,
So what ? Why ?

Growing over aeons of mental ungrowth,
Unrest riot and decay, entropy love.
A notion of negative drift.

Now please just 
Sod off.

Hypersanity.

Wettest afternoon, in mudbath sex games,

Melt to rainbow swimming in dream streams,

Set to statue-like beauty, but warm, wet, alive,

Time to draw fleshed curtains over, just to survive.

Then pissed and skull-less, one Thursday,

I fucked you off, for once and all,

And your blind ears tasted nothing,

Deaf cow so sacred, how I wished to run.

To the back page of this sorry story,

Before adverts of sad old book clubs,

Opium for the few who can still read,

Belies the paperback spineless diarist.

Voyeurist saving video-hire money for all,

Tomorrows beers, and laddered gloves,

To drive, and chip, and crash into bunkers,

Before the rain starts, and brings another wet afternoon.

On Friday the whole thing was at last forgot,

At best damp and sordid, like the sex book,

And the borrowed lines from pissed voyeurs,

Recalling dancing, and rainbow fleshy wet afternoons.

Leading into the inevitable talk about love,

Where deaf eyes turned hollow to the back page,

Where the nights all run, into a stoned streaming,

Of melting mudbaths and sacred sex-wishing.

And inevitable closing sequence, to not be continued,

Statuesque sobriety and serene, but wet, hypersanity,

When one finds to admit the basics is to deny her love,

Reading between the opium, the Friday bunker voyeur drew blank.

I had so much to say, but hey, it's nearly 4 AM, and I need sleep.

These few pieces are mostly over 20 years old, and no way comment on anything that has happened over the last few years.

Bits are telling me how shit I am at relationships though, so there's that......

Most of the pics above are from phone(s) but I just thought they seemed appropriate. well some were, on reflection, and after reviewing, I think it's obvious..........

Night 

A Whole Month Later........Good Grief.

To Kiss Jezebel.

This is my kiss to you,

My Jezebel, I'll be your Judas,

I'll be your downer,

Killing you with kindness.

"4 across; a strong feeling."

Emotion, a parody of your loving.

Melt my emotions, electric cattle prod,

Swimming and ill-formed by children,

Cruel twist to deepest Freudiana,

Oedipus finds his girl every time.

Reject your tenderness for ice,

Cruel twist my attention to ignorance,

Meant kindly, to cut umbilicae,

And because I can't say "no".

Jezebel, this time my only protection,

Is residual pain, bought from your sister,

Sinisister, glove touch to erect,

Then deep chasm abandonment.

To weep, to sleep,

In a drunk and ecstacistic heap,

Is to moth candle cavort and die,

Deep within my flaming eye,

And to drown.

To kiss you Jezebel is to switch,

Fear and lust to possession,

And now, is my Iscariot moment.

 

Valentine.

I love you so very much,

I’ll be the bunny in your hutch,

I’ll be the nightingale singing in your tree,

If only you’ll say that you love me.

I love you so very much,

Deep in my soul I feel your touch,

Deep in my heart your love grew,

I’ve always known that I love you.

I love you so very much,

You’re not Welsh, you’re not Dutch,

My heart, my soul with love you fill,

I love you, ‘cos you are brill!

 

Wedlock

It’s the saddest thing ever

But I know that it’s true,

I married the bottle,

Before I ever met you.

I know that I love you,

As all people do,

I know that I need you,

Like the bear needs the zoo.

An unfortunate feeling,

In the heat of the night,

Sent senses reeling,

And made you switch on the light.

A large whisky glass,

By the light of the lamp,

Can answer all your questions,

Your eyes look so damp.

It’s the saddest thing ever,

But you know that it’s right,

I’m afraid of the sunshine,

You pour into my life.

I know that I need you,

Like a dog needs a home,

I know I can love you,

When we are alone.

But this fear never leaves me,

I’m not sure where we are,

Are we flying through cloud-scapes,

Or just stood at a bar?

 

Lullaby

You can’t talk, so you sing,

You sing, with fist and foot,

And the chorus breaks my heart,

As rejected bags and boxes descend our stairs.

I tell my truth, but you see the lie,

Or so you say when hairs get split,

Milk is spoiled and wine is spilt,

The air crackles with electric passion.

Your song has words, but less of sense,

Than broken lamp and DVD,

Uninvited sense of another world,

One of lies and mental fracture.

I can’t sing yet am hardly dumb,

And carry home my tuneful chattels,

Blood pressure pounds against failed repair,

A way to more broken promises.

There’s blood on the floor, the chair the table,

Sad glassy reminders of bills to pay,

A chorus of bruises and electric shock,

Uninvited, unwanted, mental intrusion.

 

The dark feeling clouds slowly

Encompass your memory

And heated evening moments

As you turned to them all :

"Funny how I forgot to kill myself,

And go below."

 

Darwin, sitting on the Beagle,

Once saw flying, a Golden Eagle.

"Is that related to the thrush ?"

"Or to Basil, and his brush ?"

 

Domdamiel.

Domdamiel waits for me,

Thy kingdom lies here, beneath all this,

The blades of power, each far apart,

The old grey man waits too.

My initiation is near complete,

My inheritance near revealed,

Nothing can stop me now.

 

Draughts.

Open that cast iron door,

Let light, and luck, pour in.

Admiring this cultural-pursuit...

Do you mind the voyeur ?

As he sits up in bed,

And takes a deep draught

Of your sexual perfection ?

As he sits up in bed,

As he reaches over to touch you,

As he breaths the warm kiss

The sweet kiss and his eyes

See inside the mind of you.

Do you mind ?

The Dawn Fox.

The only sight that's more beautiful,

Than the dawn fox upon the fell,

Is thirty hounds upon his line,

Scent rising and hunting well.

The day is fine in bad weather,

When they fly upon his track,

Draw wide then they come together

There's no time for hanging back.

But bright Charlie is bold and true,

When pressed from the rocks into sight,

His footing is sure as above we view,

Merlin and Message take up the flight.

Their musical cry alerts the others

That Charlie has made his break,

"Come run with me my brave brothers,

No moments rest can we take."

The melodious notes from the forestry,

The pack thunders towards the fell,

Awake you followers and hark to me,

Live for once, in the tales you tell.

Our hearts burn, as we reach the peak,

Hounds white dots, a distant string,

"Have they checked ?" We ask, but then they speak,

Making the woods below us ring.

Charlie has now doubled on the track,

But Mowbray has caught his scent,

Charger and Linnet are upon his back,

His doom is what they meant.

This day Charlie doesn't get away,

As the pack divide his bones,

We catch up and in the fray

The horn sings out in mournful tones.

The pack is vanned-up and for bed,

They still sing for half the night,

Making sure they're housed and fed,

We find the nearest fire's light.

We warm ourselves and toast the hounds,

For us the best in the lands,

The time's for songs and winding down,

With a glass of whisky in your hands.

More Catchup. Sorry!

 The Apes.

Not a true anarchist, maybe,

Baby,

But I will not be ordered by apes,

Look about you !

Shout !

Look about you !

I will not be ruled by monkeys,

Civil service flunkies,

Junkies.

Money, cash, drug, life,

Nothing for me here babe,

Not too late

To get saved.

No sirree,

No monkey for me,

No diamond studded chamber,

No reminder

Of reverse evolution.

Devolution,

Devolve yourself from the apes,

No grapes for me,

I'm free.

No sirree,

 No apes rule me.

 

The Exile.

Exiled from physical love,

But sanctuary is in the family arms,

Embraced and trapped in time.

Because this is so, and you have gone,

I wallow in self pity, and whoredom,

Sleazy animal instinct runs my mind,

And here I lie in another bed.

Thinking of you.

I am exiled by choice, I guess,

May even change my mind,

But I think, I still wanted you.

When I saw your bitch photo,

In the local paper, I saw it,

I hated you and mentally then had you,

But missed your loving smile,

Missed you like crazy, I guess.

I sit in this platonic setting,

Pleasantly pissed off with you,

And at myself,

For caring.

The Middle String.

Novelty approaches ridicule,

To die beneath a mint comet,

To sleep between flesh valley, and sun hill,

Romanesque garden order and logical sex.

Gas fired, unholy candles proclaim intent,

The sleeping hunter stalks through reverie,

Brusque interview on level six,

Says nothing to perspective of sheer glass cliffs.

"Wait here" she says as reason leaves,

And your random spider leg caress begins,

Paralell falling leaves tumble into head space,

And the waking dream drinks in your presence.

To ridicule the mime, or to mimic the comic,

Pagan ritual commands that I sacrifice this,

To household gods of commerce and free fall,

And provides the clarity of the dawn vision.

To wake in cauldrons of dry sex, track eight,

Rollover spending on a micro level, how economic,

When friends turn traitor, and mice eat rat's pizza,

And then novelty dies, in your dead grey eye.

The tar talisman between the

Lady's fingers.

a drifting trail of mystery

Sharp scented.

Symbol of what high regard,

One can hold one's life in.

Illicit pleasures and anxiety

Minimal. (Mind-back nagging.)

-------------------------

Sultry pose, cool martini,

Atmospheric no-go zone.

Image destroyed as butt

Hits ash-tray.

It's mid-October, it's summer out there, though cold in the shade to be fair.

I'm in a random "challenge" on photography, in a private group of two, and it's helping me so much to re-see things. Things I see all the time, in a purely compositional, and different way.

I'm reading more of Ted Hughes, and thinking, apart from his eclectic and bizarrely random use of his dictionary, and probably Encyclopedia, yes, he was a word-smith, but his ability to carry his thoughts across was something that many might find "too much". If you know what I mean.

Story of my life really.....

Here's a duck:                (With some others to be fair)

Goodness me, we made it into double figures again.....!

Kiss all of you. Tell your creative friends. Don't tell anyone else, they're all dead already.

x