Writing

The seeds of suffering

Forced beat boxing
poor feet poxing
panther panting
tensing taxing
peanut butter
broken banter
tangled wire
some tiny clatter
beauty branded
Berlin battered
tempest tempted
tattered standards
flip it backwards
send it forwards
bounty baked but
nothing matters
prolog foreword
index ending
time false start
a new beginning.

Alliteration
annihilation
no two feet stepping
a provocation
swing a futon back
to a new location
seventeen degrees
of separation
all of us depart
from the chains we’re making
a momentary shuffle
a risk worth taking
seeds of suffering
shelve the covering
sort yourself out
persist in vanishing
it’s just a glimpse
of what’s unseen
the hidden agenda
of every thing
we’ve slayed our illusions
our demons too
the truth is not what’s out there
it’s what we do.

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photos, Writing

Being and Thyme

  
I too was young like you

Once

Now I’m only good for barbecue

I was

Weathered by the winds of time

World weary

The glow of youth has gone

But

A pepper is a pepper is a pepper

Now

Skin leathery or crisp

I

Bring flavour with equal satisfaction 

See

When we’re all in the same pot

Life itself.

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Writing

It is

Blessed are those who seek 

what they can’t see

Some mumbling bumbling 

category.

 
Jewelled demons claw at you

They speak without voice

Only need a few dollars

Employer of choice.

  

If it hides, light its darkness

If it fights, set it free

No actor can act 

what a being can’t be.

  

The dancers deceive us

Sweet night set us free

This turbid green liquor 

Herein lies the sea

  

Open the window

Take in the air

Bathe in the lamplight

Reject every care

  

Concrete and fences

All guide your way home

But it’s too late

And it feels late

Because it is late

And we commiserate that

In the end

We’re all

on 

  

our 

  

  

own

  

 

 

But that’s ok. 

  

Sensate 

Annihilate

Gate, gate, paragate

 

Infinite

Devoid of hate

Or was it something that I ate?

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photos, Writing

Golden Man

Little golden man,
where are you running?
There’s nowhere to be,
up on your shelf.
Your wicker basket
weighs no more than you
And is just as precious,
not precious at all.
Little golden man,
with a hat for a head
Tell me your treasure,
“No treasure at all”.
Ah, now I see,
So very precious,
Not a dead insect,
The moth deserved more.
Thwarted by glass,
And forgotten by sunshine,
The flowers of spring,
Mean nothing at all.
Dust in the morning,
Disrupted by black birds,
The garden is dirty
(Not dirty at all)
Electricity’s out
A solar light charges
Anticipate nighttime
Compete with the moon.
No work can be done
No internet blinking
No wisdom forthcoming
The moth died to soon.
Little gold man
Gilded in nothing
We’ll empty your basket,
This verse is for you.

20150830_151341

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Writing

Prophetic Desolation

When the world is stripped of uses
tomorrow wake and find
a fate with no excuses
a past you can’t rewind.

Forget those lapping waters
that island in your mind
for ignorance is golden
(but resale value is unkind).

Breathe in dust
Skin, nails, rust
stagger on
remember us.

You did just what
you had to do
you could do no other
you you you.

And nothing
More
And nothing
Less
And silence in the wilderness.

Is this the end?
(this is the start)
this act’s unwritten
live your part.

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Writing

An Unstable Tale

I regret to retell an abhorrent tale that I experienced only last week,
I was brought by a clatter, to a house and the matter that forced two once strangers to meet…

I beg your pardon but we hear you are harbouring an arborist.

Who, I? Forsooth, I fear you are mistaken.

I understand you’re making to save your bacon but we see your tree is free of leaves and needs to please be leased overseas for woodchipping and clipping and maybe furniture shipping. So where is the tree lopper?

What? Are you a copper?

Is treason the reason you keep on displeasing this innocent man of the law?

I refuse to reuse my excuses, it’s useless, but you’d back me if you’d seen what I saw.

Is that a pun? We don’t take kindly to that kind of thing, now bring out the felon. Chop chop.

Your wit is a sharp as his axe, but before you take him I should tell you the facts of the matter so you will see it’s a matter of fact that he works to preserve not destroy and, my boy, he could take you down quick as a trap.

The policeman looked stressed and addressed not the logger but the man who stood in the door – I must confess I’m impressed though it was this address that our records directed me for. I feel, in the light of this newly opened canopy, that I should give you a warning, just this once, and no more.

The man looked pleased and with well greased knees took a step out the doorway but slipped on the leaves that had once littered the eaves but now covered the pavement below. Oh heck, as he fell, he considered it well, the space where the great tree had stood, now he observed, somersaulting, that his house, sans door vaulting, had been crushed by the arborist’s wood.

Just sit tight, sang the cop, all this wood that was chopped will need to be cleaned up post haste. I’ll locate the wood chopper if you give me his number and insurance will pick up the waste.

The man groaned and he turned and he kissed the concrete – there never was an arborist. I did it, and I’m proud of this.

But why?

The bees they displeased me and the birds they would mock me and the monkeys…
The monkeys?
There are monkeys no more! I have ended their madness and it is with immense gladness that I find this huge mess around us on the floor.

But your home is destroyed…
But my life is now full!
But you have no insurance…
But I know someone who will!

He then flashed a grin revealing his sin as a second huge pine tree collapsed on the road. On a car. A police car. All white with blue lights and blue trim and shattered glass and crumpled steel and crushed rims.

The officer was not amused, nor was he confused – I’ve changed my mind, since you’re out of yours, I’m taking you in… though we’ll be taking your car.

Fine. But no monkey business. Don’t think I didn’t notice, from the start – your tail!

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Writing

Noel

‘Twas the week before Christmas
And all through the city
All the people were shopping
And it was not pretty.

All bargains were bought up
The sidewalks a rush
The cafes all bursting
In this Yuletide crush

There was not a moment
Or space left unplastered
By red and green trimming
Which merchants had mastered

The buskers all busking
The trams were all packed
But I must get to working
Before I get sacked.

(Ho ho ho, Santa pun)

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Writing

Whimper

I have seen the last minds of my generation
Lost to mediocrity
Normalised
Stabilised
Fiscally rationalised
Mere echoes of humanity
The creatives of accounting
Gut busting
Soul rusting
Calorie counting
Silently shouting
And plugged in
Logged on
Drunk and fucked up
Diversely lucked out
And royally won over
Unbent to the common good
Unresolved to fight a fight
Not good, or bad or plain irreverant
Potentially potent
Oppressively opportunistic
Absurdity absolute
These have never been Beings but broad bent bullies of the intellect
Lamenting every attempt
Afraid to try less they fail
Too scared to dream less they fly
And never land
And stare straight into the grand ugly void of the newly conscious
The sign of life which bemoans the density of bouyant self-destructive transformation
Adrift in the wheel of the real
The whirled world
Spiralling ever farther from that heavenly host
Smashed like concrete
Twisted like steel
Filtered like dust
Into the gaping maw of the less of the less of the less of the less obvious
Like leopard print zebras
Drinking lemonade
From a clarinet
Melting like a sunday
Enduring like a Thursday
Backfilling the dock of ages
Flipping like the last high-wire trapese-man
Flat out like the rebellious tap dancer
Crumpled like a two-for-one voucher
Empty as a first generation ipod dock
Filtered like dust
Falling like an angel
Playing on light and shadow
Unseen and revealed
Lost and brilliant
Mediocre

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