As the Audience Walks Out, The Heat Rises......

Welcome to another slice of nonsense.

 

Gatekeepers

There are stories, every where you look. Some of them you can relate to, some you want to tell...some you want to bury.

As you get older, the differences in your take on which is which, and what is not, and those that are worth keeping, and those that aren't, but that other people will carry for far longer than you, and bring them up at the wrong moment, all fade into one big melt of "This is actually me".

Or not, stress has a huge number of fans after all......

Speckled Wood.

Ent Porn

"Home"

Next door but three.....

Not my cat, not my problem.....

Let's get a few more posted, in this 30 degree midnight silliness.

Pinhole

And there it was, in a flash of a second

Of a dream,

That you were having, maybe,

Perhaps,

I captured your soul, as the Victorian dreamers

Believed.

What do you believe?

With your wooden horse tactical dreams?

With your paranoid, but true dream boys,

And a gypsy lover?

As the cat curled her claws in, and out,

on fake skin settee love realm.

The dream was captured forever,

Thanks to someones dream,

And my camera love

For you,

And my cat.

 

Pub Days.

By the familiar fire-bricked corner place,

We sit, in comforting beery haze,

And tell convoluted tales, of far-off days,

And laugh at how Birdy never pays.

The day to the power four, or five,

Has passed with us still left alive,

Some have sunk, but some still thrive,

Some nurse headaches from the dive.

Years later round the same table sit,

With us and shed your battle-kit,

The night is young, hang on a bit,

If we wait any longer they'll have the fire lit.

It was strange then to think that you are dead,

That you would still never leave your bed,

That we all remembered what you'd never said,

About this and that, and never getting wed.

But the "time" bell never rang in here,

We drink all night to douse the fear,

Never for valour do we sink the beer,

But why you shot yourself was never clear.

Stargazing.

I was sitting, watching U.F.O.s,

Dancing across the sky,

When the thought popped in my head,

Have I ever questioned why ?

When my stigmata had passed,

And the false wounds had healed up,

I felt the mental static blast,

As you spontaneously burned up.

The dead letters in my head,

Were blown off in the breeze,

But the corn circles still stand,

Before my eyes to tease.

Then a flying saucer landed,

I was surrounded by green men,

Who mostly were left-handed,

And smiled backwards now and then.

"Take me to your leader",

One was heard to say,

I said "But I still need her,

"You'll have to go away."

But you were gone from the faery ring,

And I guess I'd dreamt it all,

But at night when the U.F.O.s sing,

I wait to hear your call.

Stormwatching.

Pitch, with a haloed golden island,

Deep in electric black storm,

Leaning out my windowed body,

Into impossible first floor night.

Attendant of whisky, chocolate and smoke,

Big downfalls.

Wait suspended, with heavy pulse,

White nano-flash, lights this vault,

The void fills these valleys,

Ridiculous topographical illumination.

Draw deep, smoke and toke, chew thoughts,

Big pictures.

Dimensional cathedral shades the cleft,

Of hills, rivers and hysterical sheep,

Cloaking the ions and reversing their charge,

Infinite marquee of valley static.

Slug, scotch, smooth, slightly serious,

Big ideas.

Show stopping finale, or is it just half-time ?

Galactic interval, intermission to the bar,

Atmospheric performers strike a final blast,

Leave easterly orderly and drag night in behind.

Mull this dark chocolate monstrosity,

Big calories, perhaps.

The Wall

As your soul spirals away,

Helical plughole extraction,

The cracked heart sinks,

Leaving the empty vessel.

You build walls, bars to more pain,

To the outside, self-defeating,

Self-defence, isolation switch,

No current, no charge, no spark,

No power, no light.

But walls restrict your view,

Unless you lie to yourself,

And decorate them with mirrors.

A cry for help, muffled, walled,

A spiral of mirrors, inward punishment,

Dark times, dead soul, empty, sunk,

Cracked, damaged, powerless and alone.

Reach out, and feel the cold glass,

Where should be warmth and love.

Stop lying to yourself and demolish,

Breaking glass, stone and steel,

Let the sunlight fill the space,

And extinguish the punishing helix.

The Self-Accused.

A red-headed challenge to

This this hormone guided torso,

Falsely obstacle arraigned,

And falsely accused of being "The One"

Though silent,

the challenge echoes from distant years,

Familiar barriers,

Holding back familiarities,

And red-headed opportunities,

And torsos.

Arraigned with class and style,

Though regrettably unchallenged,

At least.

Properly, the groundwork's long done.

Familiar hormone guidance,

Falsely unlimbered in futile echoes,

And unfamiliar torsos,

Barriers to class and distant years,

Come haunt these groundworks,

Silently arraigned redheads,

Always accused.

I wish you all well, but then I always did.

x

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.

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.

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.......