Head in the clouds,
feet in the gutter,
arms around my waist
what does it matter?
OR AS HUGO THINKS IT SHOULD BE
Head in the clouds,
feet in the gutter,
arm's round your waist,
i must be a nutter!
Tuesday, 8 June 2010
On hearing an old friend describe his girlfriend as proper mental..... made me laugh so i ran with it!
3 am phone calls,
texts that just don't stop,
drunken conversations,
and head fucks the lot of us.
Crazy and mad,
a real pain in the arse,
The ones to avoid
Evil harpies,
wicked witches of sex
A furious group are we
psychotic, licentious
needy neurotic
all of us
fit to be garrotted
Whether we left you,
or your still running from us
We are the ones you
bemoan in beer
and drug fuelled excesses
Either too mad, bad, vixen or bitch
best friend shagger,
Or frigid virgin desperate to hitch
How quickly we shift
from the arms of love.
Fall down the cracks
This distance you crave
We wish to save
If we be woman
our souls are stone
We are 'proper mental'
in need of straitjackets
and restraining orders
battle lines drawn
we cannot cross your borders
so who are we?
Who are we?
That awful bunch
Of exes....
texts that just don't stop,
drunken conversations,
and head fucks the lot of us.
Crazy and mad,
a real pain in the arse,
The ones to avoid
Evil harpies,
wicked witches of sex
A furious group are we
psychotic, licentious
needy neurotic
all of us
fit to be garrotted
Whether we left you,
or your still running from us
We are the ones you
bemoan in beer
and drug fuelled excesses
Either too mad, bad, vixen or bitch
best friend shagger,
Or frigid virgin desperate to hitch
How quickly we shift
from the arms of love.
Fall down the cracks
This distance you crave
We wish to save
If we be woman
our souls are stone
We are 'proper mental'
in need of straitjackets
and restraining orders
battle lines drawn
we cannot cross your borders
so who are we?
Who are we?
That awful bunch
Of exes....
taxi thoughts
Black contained wealth
glides by, as taxi windows
reflect passing streetscapes
and pavement treaders.
Sun like syrup,
pours into the cracks between buildings.
A break in a passing cloud
illuminates like theatre spotlight,
a ramshackle man,
a hand to mouth drunkard.
He stops and lets sun warm his cheek,
this piercing heat
like the thousand cheek slaps
from women in bars
less drunk than he
and feels nothing but the sensation.
Yet trussed up suit,
stuck in traffic
in stuffy cab
see's only the sun
beating down
and is envious for a moment
of the freedom that comes
from having nothing left to lose.
glides by, as taxi windows
reflect passing streetscapes
and pavement treaders.
Sun like syrup,
pours into the cracks between buildings.
A break in a passing cloud
illuminates like theatre spotlight,
a ramshackle man,
a hand to mouth drunkard.
He stops and lets sun warm his cheek,
this piercing heat
like the thousand cheek slaps
from women in bars
less drunk than he
and feels nothing but the sensation.
Yet trussed up suit,
stuck in traffic
in stuffy cab
see's only the sun
beating down
and is envious for a moment
of the freedom that comes
from having nothing left to lose.
Master of disguise
I am never sure of which side
will face me tonight.
We sit down in smoke filled rooms
under whiskey coloured half light
This cities loud yell
Still filling our brains-
Communication is stilted,
stifled,
overwrought and intensified
by the sheer enormity of everything to discuss.
A sidelong glance
across this heaving room,
can reveal
a parallel universe
of intricate and myriad meanings.
And yet it's this look which so deceives
for in the pit black of iris
still plays a light- a fire.
This flame can flare or flicker
and to look too hard
is to extinguish.
Your elusive personhood
twists and turns and like a prism
fractures light.
Your splitting self
becomes an untouchable
infinite reflection in the looking glass of life.
In a striptease of revelation,
i am allowed to glimpse
differing selves
that linger in the minds eye
occasionally i can touch your
chameleon skin.
But the hand may linger too long
or the mind will try to retain
this sensation,
this seductive communion.
So the skin will flush crimson red
and fingers will be burnt by poisonous secretions.
You play this game so magnificently,
i wonder at your sanity.
In having millions of facates,
do you still have anything at the core?
Or have you achieved this ultimate goal?
In the obliteration of one true self
is there delicious freedom
in being all things to all men?
Humanity does not desire intimacy.
Brute proximity to visceral reality alone,
Is almost to painful to bear.
So propinquity to another
can in it's desperate realness
become a stranglehold.
The shackles of stasis
are excruciating to you
time to shift and change
and break loose again
The master of disguise.
will face me tonight.
We sit down in smoke filled rooms
under whiskey coloured half light
This cities loud yell
Still filling our brains-
Communication is stilted,
stifled,
overwrought and intensified
by the sheer enormity of everything to discuss.
A sidelong glance
across this heaving room,
can reveal
a parallel universe
of intricate and myriad meanings.
And yet it's this look which so deceives
for in the pit black of iris
still plays a light- a fire.
This flame can flare or flicker
and to look too hard
is to extinguish.
Your elusive personhood
twists and turns and like a prism
fractures light.
Your splitting self
becomes an untouchable
infinite reflection in the looking glass of life.
In a striptease of revelation,
i am allowed to glimpse
differing selves
that linger in the minds eye
occasionally i can touch your
chameleon skin.
But the hand may linger too long
or the mind will try to retain
this sensation,
this seductive communion.
So the skin will flush crimson red
and fingers will be burnt by poisonous secretions.
You play this game so magnificently,
i wonder at your sanity.
In having millions of facates,
do you still have anything at the core?
Or have you achieved this ultimate goal?
In the obliteration of one true self
is there delicious freedom
in being all things to all men?
Humanity does not desire intimacy.
Brute proximity to visceral reality alone,
Is almost to painful to bear.
So propinquity to another
can in it's desperate realness
become a stranglehold.
The shackles of stasis
are excruciating to you
time to shift and change
and break loose again
The master of disguise.
Birthday Verse
In my eyes you are aging
grown shabby, bumbling and benign.
Trousers held up by string,
on our dawn walk to the sea.
Talking about trees and plants
you so wanted to tend in younger years,
yet gifted you were.
Artisan's hands, and a mind
of quivering complexity
pushed and pummeled you forward
to create, to perform.
Even now as we drive
down silent midnight motorways
and you slip through tiredness
into the separate universe
of the sleep deprived,
you mind will whirr and click.
And then in moment of lucidity
grasp and illuminate
an idea.
Just like the blood orange moon
winks through dark car windowpane
and highlights the corners
of your slumped sleeping body.
I cannot help but love you-
in ways old and strange
Time will not erode this i know.
grown shabby, bumbling and benign.
Trousers held up by string,
on our dawn walk to the sea.
Talking about trees and plants
you so wanted to tend in younger years,
yet gifted you were.
Artisan's hands, and a mind
of quivering complexity
pushed and pummeled you forward
to create, to perform.
Even now as we drive
down silent midnight motorways
and you slip through tiredness
into the separate universe
of the sleep deprived,
you mind will whirr and click.
And then in moment of lucidity
grasp and illuminate
an idea.
Just like the blood orange moon
winks through dark car windowpane
and highlights the corners
of your slumped sleeping body.
I cannot help but love you-
in ways old and strange
Time will not erode this i know.
Friday, 21 May 2010
late night conversation
Talking till words have become cumbersome, the tongue furs and slurs round consonants and vowels which are are bitter in the mouth, like grit between teeth. Repetitious situations and conversation frustrate me yet when tiredness overwhelms me i fall prey to this malice also. If i have the pleasure of uncharted territory, unblemished by my cynical intuitive perception, then i can express, however contradictions and ties keep me in a form of stasis. These bonds with each and everyone are alive with the tenuous connection we have, this electricity of intimacy which strobes and crackles amongst us and yet it seems only my fingers are burnt by its lightening forks!
Monday, 17 May 2010
The creative urge
A child will create without any hesitance, the act of creative output as natural and uninhibited as breathing or laughing is. As we age the criticisms of the world will often encroach upon our creative urge. We develop a fear, the weight of experience which stays the hand before it places words to paper or paint to canvas. The fear of the blank page can become overwhelming, our natural impulse to simply create in a naive but true fashion is stifled. The critical implications of being assessed or of being our own critics will stop so many images being painted or written. We need to return to the child likeness, to be naive and open to our own creative urge.... to simply do and make, the criticisms of others will be valid but we should never allow these to stop us from creating in the first place !
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
