Tuesday 2 July 2019

Mid-summer Madness


 
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.

Monday 17 June 2019

Just a Random Monday Post.

The "tests" so far have all been negative, but there is one out-standing, and a CT scan still to have, so we're not quite out of the woods yet........

Keep on, keeping on.

More old stuff, sorry, but we're down to around 100 now, and only a small handful of my posts have even had that many views......

Happy Monday.


A Jackdaw fledgling on Stubbin Lane the other day.....




Nocturne

Body temperature duvet darkness invites
To restless slow grinding descents, a struggle
A bilateral, opposing (but apposite) attempt to stick to the path
To inner darkness and nightly womb returnings.

To knowingly try but revisit
To accept the held out hand,
Face Nazis and wolves, and estranged strangers
Rare loves,
Mashed towns, familiar twists,
Flight and conundrum martyrs.

Internment in self arguing perceivings, doubtful,
Meaningful moments thus lost,
Brings new terrors, or gloom, or storms,
Thousand spellings of faithless
A hundred colours in multi-speakered patinas,

Of self-delusions,
Electric meter whirs ceiling beamed variance in the silent
Slightly damp yellow room.....




 
Notes From The Red Room


Sunk deep and fast in the gloom of the red room,
Airless, over-warmed and godless,
Faithless and furtively wanton,
Deep in this red capsule.


Nothing above, below, or outsides,
Void, deep and fast in the gloom of space.

Following, not traveling, no guidance, no regret,
Ways through idealogues, dialogues.


Suspended on sky-hooks, airless, hot, gloomy,
Womb-room capsule, navigating madly,
Circular but not, linear but curved,
To our red room beginnings.







 
Rosedale Road.


I pick pieces of razor sharp metal from my boot,
They seem to have some relevance to the day.

The day, what a day,
The day I might forget,
To hear, maybe to say,
Reminds of when we met.

The sound comes at me from above, and below,
Might be the people of my house.

The imaginary telephone, unconnected,
Rings aimlessly to an empty house,
Thoughts of beaches and sex nectar,
And the timbre of a girls voice.

I sit in front of my work load and laugh,
Laughter my weapon, shines and cuts,
Blazing in the night air,
Writhing victims evaporate,
The dream begins, and I stop...

Can you hear ?
Can you see ?
What I fear,
Inside me ?

Deep within the silent voice, the murmuring of a child,
Deep deep you say, how deep can I try ?
Can I try ?
Can I try ?
Can I try ?

The flecks of lathe cuttings, razor sharp crumbs,
Deep in my leather sole, my hand now bleeds.

The crimson droplets,
And the new night,
The sense of timing,
Now I know what's right.





 
The Eye Of The Dance.

A casual advance to the
Eye of the dance
And a hideous cry of regret.

The circle of fire round the
Mystical pyre
And a silent musical band.

Flightless and sightless
The earthly may undress
The horned one is witness to all.

Hidden in the corner, she
Thought she could warn you
Maybe now you can prevent the fall.





At school we had to fill in a computer based questionnaire, "CASCAID" which was supposed to tell us what our career paths might well pan out as.......

One of the questions, which to this day I remember with a sense of dread was "Do you like growing things?" Which was one of the least well worded questions I have ever read, given how many variations of meaning it might have....but I answered something along the lines of "not bothered" rather than "of course", though I paraphrase, as it was a multiple-choice questionnaire......   


I have ended up, for the last 20 years, nearly, as a gardener.......and at the time one of the other questions was "What careers do you see yourself in?" to which one of my suggestions was "Forestry", which got a big "No no no" from the results.

Hmm.

Statistics and questions asked of a 13 year old pubescent lad are not necessarily as helpful as all that then....




 
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.
 
 
 


Wow, two of my posts have over 100 visits.....but my 10 regular visitors, please, bear with me, this could still go either way!

Be safe out there people.

Friday 14 June 2019

Half Year Report..........

A relatively short, and much overdue, exposition of my fragile mental geography, as it stands in the first half of June, 2019, my 53rd year on this planet, if you go by a printed diary and calendar......

Read it how you want, nobody said it had to make sense to you, or that I had to explain.


 
New Brick Strangers.


Instead of moving and growing,
Instead of growing and changing,
Fear of strange people,
Ware of strange places,
Another new brick town,
A new outlook for now,
a moving and stranging,
Fear of new brick changers,
And of being alone.




 
One Hundred and Fifty.


Forty days in the wilderness,
Tempted by the Prince of Lies,
Became a hundred and fifty,
No path, no sustenance, no sense...

A desert bird, distant, circles my thoughts,
Wheeling and catching arid thermal dreams,
Rising to heaven brings no clearer view,
Just greater distant confused leagues....

To an uncertain future, the garden,
Look for the Prince of Peace now,
Through broken binoculars and hearts,
The oasis, a sky-brimming with stars...

A billion trillion broken promises,
Why on earth should locked doors open,
To the lost and starving faithless?
Unlocked perhaps by uncertain love....

A hundred and fifty times again.....


It's relatively rare that I comment on any individual pieces, unless to say that they're important, or "shit", but I am going to make a small exception, as I remember writing this one, on a night that produced a few others.

I hope that the "shit" ones don't actually make it to get posted, as there are a good few in a separate "not for posting" folder, so I might have to bow to subjectivity, and try to say what I'm trying to say instead.

Within a few weeks of starting at Swansea Uni, very, very late at night, with an angle-poise lamp, and a much historied ancient wooden desk, and a monk's cell of a space in "Neuadd Sibley", and a lot of beer inside me, followed by rather too much tea....no, really, I was only 19......I had already made the decision that I would "keep writing" no matter what, and, mostly, I have...... The trick is writing something that somebody, well, anybody, else wants to actually read, that's the tricky bit..... 1986.....

 
Our First Date.

Standing, soaking inside the cafe,
"You really are quite a laugh"
She says, as I feel a fool,
Standing shivering in my pool.

"Twice with bits, once without,"
I stand and hear you shout,
The bags arrive and you smile,
Your teeth perfected with some file.

Vinegar, shake onto the chips,
Briefly turning I brush your lips,
"Salt ?", "Yes, but not much thanks,
"Tomorrow I'm out driving tanks."

I giggle, falsely at your jest,
You clutch the chips to your chest,
"I'm a 'Terri'" you tell me,
About a third of the regular army.

We make the bus stop just after nine,
We've done alright, we've done just fine,
A film, followed by a drink,
I kissed you, and turned you pink.

"Not here, people can surely see,"
You said, then winked at me,
Now we're waiting for the bus,
Why is love such a silly fuss ?

Back to your place, or to mine ?
Your eyes really do glint and shine,
Is this really our first date ?
I really really cannot wait...

To get you home, on our own,
And dear reader, do you know,
What will happen when we're there ?
If you don't, I don't care.




 
Pipedreamer.


When upon reflection the glass
in photographic type
of timed memory corresponds to,

New living.
And laughing.
then it could be
Time:
to jettison mental stowaways,
baggage,
exhausted emotions,
of often relived loves.
And then we could see
What
the wiped clean slate
Has to display.

To life
to lead
Anew,
With hints of memories
of dreams long gone,
with spring-cleaning
and weaving,
and dusting-out old garrets.


With New Intent
so scaring, and near sober,
About New Definitions,
with New Ambitions,
and reflecting back,


On Pipe-Dreams long since


Extinguished.



 
Pedestal.

You seemed to think you owned me,
Now can you see you don't ?
You can never stop the free,
And stop you ? I won't.







Nestled in the hood of darkness
lay the child whose eyes are gold
and burning with a steely fire

the lamplight turned
thrown back upon the wall
where spiders raced and bet upon
which one of the doe-eyed maidens

would remember what her mother said
to keep her distance and her honour
when dancing free and easy with the old men
who may just have their one bite left

to right the wrongs of many times before 


Tears of Ice-crystal.

Run your hands through your hair.

Run the tap to fill the bath,
And sink into deep breathing womb-water.

The serpent that is my promise
Watches from the mendacious mirror,
As you contemplate an extravagance,
A vital part of your bath.

Run an idea past me,
One of summer blooming bridesmaids,
One of unthought of fairy tale correctness.

I watch the indoctrination shit-full twenty-four hour
Five billion channels of what god meant.
A zillion dreams we all can live.

My serpent's eye bleeds tears of Ice-crystal.

Your hair gets in my mouth as we kiss away the lies,
The lies are deeper than your bath,
Deeper than the oceans,
And more real than your TV.

But comforting and warm,
As I convince you my love is real,
With the physical side of it all,
With the lying intrusion of the camera cock,
The approach of Medical Mendax.

You cling in doubt to the much scratched back,
Shell-less, spineless, but not loveless.

Run my hands through your hair,
Run my life past yours.

It could be time to call the Duchess.

It might be right to bathe, and go.
Life's too short for this.






I could write about Ultra-sound scans, blood tests, and the rest, but hey, this is meant to be a relatively impersonal thing. By way of a self-contradictory thing though, I will just say that these are challenging bloody times.

And the solstice is only a week away............

My visitors are slowly climbing in number, which is actually surprisingly nice, so there's that too, I stopped looking at "Site-meter" things a while back, when one got hacked, but can't help but occasionally look at the Google one, so have to say thank you for sticking with it  those of you that do.

Love and peace no matter why you're here.

Feel free to comment if you feel that way inclined.

Or not, I'll still keep churning it out.......









Tuesday 14 May 2019

Changing How You See Trees, Again.....


The sky is full
Overbrims and rainbow-free
Begins the month long rain-fall.

It rains.

Tuesday.
It rained today. (Again)

Another blank page in
The diary.




Sleeper.



While the dark hour hours
enshroud this dark minute
The hour stretches into
deep wells, cocoons of dearth,
Dour silence descends to wrap
the once bright thoughts,
Leaving nothing.



Second Thoughts.


Some kind of generation gap,
Or is it ?

Some kind of belief I had,
And, won't compromise.


Is it simply a question of 
Premature middle age ?

Or deeper ?

Something I believe in.


The question remains as your mind broadens,
Can I see this far ?
Through eyes glazed with prejudice,
Or eyes barred by cowardice ?
Or days spent off-planet,
Or is life so surreal ?


And, when you know yourself,
Why compromise anything ?

For fun ?
For the hell of it ?


Some kind of aspiration gap,
Or is it ?




Shallow Eyes.

Shallow eyes
Look at me hollow mask
A sense of deja-vu
A "sense-macabre"

As the grey head cools
In the fool's fruit basket
Of aristocrat-like heads

No question
To reply to

Tisket tasket
Smiling basket

See those eyes






Slow Solution Of Thought.


Dark putrid islands,
Perpetually drowning in white seas,
Moments repeat and again.

From my incorporeal viewpoint concentration wanes,
Landing, if such, to focus or not,
To centre at least,
Or to pick out in the rippling scenes,
A smell of an idea of a hint of a thread,

That your bleeding eyes are symptomatic,
Of the hopeless, faithless, loveless,
Downtrodden, unclass, unconscious, your view,
Permanently unchangeable, through tight eyes.

Dark rings around dull islands,
Occasions a glint, hints of reflection,
Though of light, not thought,
Not thought of it before,
To never think to drink to drown and dream,
To seem, perhaps charming,
Perhaps pathetic.

Dark unhealthy thoughts,
Mobile in syrupy rhythms,
Motile in only one poor way,
Condemning each action,
To inact, rest, station, to die slowly,
In cars, bars and in bowling alleys,
And at last, in filth and shit,
To die this way, to turn the tide.

Putrifying breaths, of fungal microscopic will,
Testament to the dead spirit,
Preserved in spirits, drowned in beer,
Killed by inertia, dearth of sky,
Wondered why ?

Grey skinned tideless seas lap shores,
Grease rings panda eyed near corpse,
Infinitely indefinitely prolonged lacks the humane,
Prolonging conflict in slow final solutions.




Stringent Love.


I had a peace-filled week,
Warmth and light were my sea.

Then came the

Stringent advice from a loaded gun,
Rules to abuse and have some fun,
And a clear sight that here's nothing
Worth a shit anymore.

Divided opinions as we cling to these rafts,
Of our device, and imagined by us.

Imagine the drowning man,
Panic so intense it becomes ecstasy,
And imagine life without God.

Burn baby burn, and turn,
The cartwheeled somersault,
Of St Catherine.
Standing joke, standing joker,
Nothing's real anyway.

Know that you limit me,
Know that you limit me.
With tunneled vision,
Small dream,
Murky vision from a murky
Preacher.

Fuck your stringent love.

Noone needs me or you anyhow,
Dance on molten fear glass embers.




The Last Walker.

With bizarre ordinarity she stalks,
The space being slightly small,
I gain nothing in these head talks,
Wall to wall to wall.

Pace, pace, relentless,
Back and to, fro and back,
Conversation now is pointless,
And what's not white is black.

At least we smoke together,
She paces the floor,
I'm in for nasty weather,
But I still need more.

Step, step, step, now back,
I sit and watch this show,
She follows the mindless track,
I sit in emotion snow.

Speak, I speak, I attempt to talk,
The barricade in her head is rock,
She's locked in her lonely walk,
And I'm her mental block.

Everything is so ordinary tonight,
We're a million miles apart,
Her smoky lips kept shut tight,
And I, beat my heart.

My pulse is the beat of her pace,
The irony is lost on me,
My vision reduced to this place,
Hers is memory, being free.

Break out, she breaks away,
My stone mouth stays silent,
When she's gone what is there to say ?
Her worry groundless, emotion violent.

Now the time's arrived, we die,
My word-weapons useless to me here,
Funny how I didn't really try,
At the candle death, I disappear.





The Scorpio Beach.

Bacchan denial, with familiar eyes,
Watered with blood-vessel fatigue.
Awash and awake on the shore-line of lies,
Irrational betrayal may proceed.

High above, on a rotary flight,
Witnesses bound by honour-restraint,
Curved thick glass perversion of sight,
Tests the patienceless saint.

Testimony bland that nothing was seen,
Nothing to apportion the blame,
The court is dissolved, your record still clean,
But the court-clerk has noted your name.

At breakfast that evening, a hint of a smile,
Slow reconciled position enhances,
I almost believed kissing had gone out of style,
Now the scorpionic embrace advances.

Awake and awash, on the beach of lost souls,
A murmuring dream from your mouth.
Bacchus has left me, its time to switch roles,
Out of my glass window, the south.

As I drop from this world, and out of the dream,
Hypnotised at last by your heart,
My last view of the shoreline is not what it seems,
Too late for a change at the start.




Walking


I could walk all night,
The rain, the rats, the rain,
I could pass your house, maybe call in,
But we'd all be dead by then.

Somewhere someplace, in darkened time,
We could dance and chant and crawl,
Flexing sinewed moments forever,
But we'll all be dead by then.

Half light orange pools on street,
And the vermin roaming round,
Head half full of long regrets to come,
But I'll be dead by then.

As the city sparrows herald damp circles,
And empty hearts fly past your door,
This dark bodied approach cannot come,
Because we'll all be dead by then.

I could walk home alone,
See rats and smoke, and rain,
I could call in to say hello,
But I'm at least half dead again.



The Old Green Bird.


Shame, such a sham, such a mockery,
The winning hand in the game.
Rare green bird in your rookery,
In tongues yells out your name.

You fed me into the hot circuit,
And I blew a fuse or three,
The turning card belies your gambit,
And the green bird in your tree.

"I perch here and witness your crime,
You shameful children of night,
I pass no judgement on this waste of time,
But whisper thanks that you have no flight."

He could have added that it's all a shame,
As we both should by now have guessed,
I watched as he flew off, the way he came,
And turned to see you getting dressed.

Eyes of lustful unlovely mockery turn,
To burn their message hard in my brain,
I realise what I have is what you spurn,
And whisper thanks that at least I'm sane.




 
Trefoil.

The trefoil cowers
In the shadow of the monolith.

A cross marks the exact position.

But to scream out
"I am here !" (This place called x)
Is not the done thing
Baby.

Not the thing to do.

A careless laugh trickles
Between the stones
And tickles
The trefoil.

A winged shadow passes
Overhead.
And calls out in tongues.

The trefoil cowers
In the shadow of the monolith.





Testing.


Testing her strength...
I need to know the limits,
Hers, mine, yours,
Edges.

But, should the moon drop and die on you,
Messing up all we do,
I will swing above and

I will preach back to you.

Don't push me to test your caves.

 
 
 
I don't think I'm trying to prove anything, or demonstrate, just play with visuals.


Once you've seen things, you can choose, but sometimes your brain pre-interprets for you.
Hey ho, happy Tuesday, and no, it didn't rain, it was a beautiful sunny day.....