Fridayam's BlogI have no idea where “Love” is in my
record collection, though I
know it’s in there
somewhere.
Sick on the ill-digested
emotions of others I
ponder words and their
unexpected plosions, the
way words kick back at your
expectations, won’t mean
what you want them to
mean, defy you, brazen and
bold, but bugger them just
provoke thought
invoke memory
evoke emotion.
The brown hill of boredom
stretches into the unknown evening,
and the rain beats the paths
towards its slippery, dull calvary.
Up on the blasted Heath
the rich keep fit for Armageddon,
while darkness falls over London
and wetness on the world.
Again in April I append:
“A year is gone and gain is none.
Alight with hope I’m often found,
but Jack O’Lantern’s skills abound.
The night’s a hearth,
the Moon its fire, and we,
poor feral creatures,
merely kindling”.
It’s an English sensibility,
summoned by rain,
taking me up the hill to
look out over London.
Its ancient imprecations lie before me,
from Harrow and Wealdstone
via Gospel Oak to Gravesend, which
Dictionary of English Place Names makes me see
what castles and cathedrals cannot hide:
the ghost is a Lord until we lay it.
With the first hint of sun, the
girls with pre-tanned bodies
parade in as little as possible, their
tattoos looking ill-advised
long before they regret being
advertising hoardings for men already
making other plans, their names just
tags on dilapidated trains or
abandoned buildings, whilst
strutting through the streets, they
brush past un-inked people with
hearts on their sleeves and
never notice.
A curlicue of smoke from my cigarette
rises towards dense low clouds
backlit against the cloudbase
rent here and there to show
vapour trails crosshatching
cirrocumulous hiding a
haze of asteroids and their occasional
visitors from the Oort Cloud which
bull through the interstellar gas,
itself invisible until some
random explosion of a star
lights it up as nebulae or it is
whipped by immense events into
horseheads, eagles, furnaces of
stars which will in turn
spew their gaseous hearts into the
galaxy’s great cartwheel around the
local cloud of galaxies within the
Universe’s expansive chaos, full of
clouds of bizarre matter that from afar might look like a
curlicue of smoke from a
cigarette.
Matins
In the ghost world the
ghost girl dances her
ghost whirls enlacing me in
veils so seductive I
sometimes pray the
dawn won’t come.
Lauds
But dawn does come with the
prayer my feet will
find the floor and that the
floor will bear my weight so I
will not start the day
flat on my face.
Prime
If there is a God it is coffee-coloured,
coffee-flavoured, dark-roasted,
perking like heavy breathing, its
consort sizzling in the pan, the
toaster popping its prize with a
sigh like a prayer.
Tierce
In the mad rush of the studio I
see something, take my chance,
get the set rebuilt and
knowing it will take time
slip out to light my
prayer to creativity.
Sext
Shall I make this poem a pun on Sex? But
lunch is when I have a moment to
lust over those who, at work,
I respect, would…
View original post 121 more words
Do you see us as
dogs learning new tricks,
desperate to please
new masters?
Was your new world
designed to exclude the
grey-haired masters and
mistresses of
old-world thought, those who
solved a problem before you could
develop an algorithm?
Your biggest mistake?
Making it too easy for us
old, clever folk, so we
slip into the booth
beside you and smile and you
can’t escape.
There’s this invisible
iron rod between us
ten feet long so
when I move you
move too in a
perverted mirror of
how we danced once on
empty dancefloors.
I don’t mean to scare you,
just want to touch something
warm and alive, blood
pulsing like distant thunder,
cause a shiver like
cold calls of air, chilling but
fleeting so you don’t suspect
it was me, I,
who was touching you.
A very old poem of mine, whcih just struck a chord tonight.
Not a pilgrim, I, but I walked out to Walsingham,
along the brown beslippered road towards the Wash.
I went in search of love and a sort of faith.
But the wind, like a whippet unleashed from the hand,
took the tatters of my hopes, dried leaves,
and I huddled in my clothes, caught beneath the weather-edge.
The road echoed faith in a woman, which I sought,
but the puddles, glassy with late ice, reflected bleak life.
The entrance to Hell lay through such a grey hole, and I,
embalmed in the open, felt already entombed.
What hope could one Woman offer me in spite of another?
What faith could be found beyond the charity of friends?
Arriving, I found sanctuary in the pub,
before an ancient grate ablaze.
I drank my beer and lit a cigarette and felt
my body relax besides itself,
as though each exhalation of smoke
View original post 67 more words
Love is a great tumulus,
at its heart buried the
moment of meeting, the
first fire, perhaps sulphurous,
perhaps a fizzle that needed
breath to make it catch, perhaps now
just charcoal and dust, but
still surrounded by
life’s offerings.
Sexy Times ~ Warm Feelings ~ Hot Flashes ~ All That
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