Cascade along the midnight street
Allow your feet to lead the way
Past shuttered shops and lowered blinds
And let your mind be led astray
Although some time meandering
And wandering bereft of cares
You find you've stopped and there you stand
Beneath a strand of marble stairs
You brush your hand along the rail
As you assail the stony flight
There, at the top a door of brass
And crystal glass reflects the night
A counter cut of fretted oak
Unique, bespoke and petrified
Encroaches on the lobby floor
With doorways on its either side
Within them dwells an ailing stage
All worn with age and polished black
And facing this are rows of seats
With velvet pleats and to the back
Resides a heavy curtained box
With silver locks and tapestry
Scenes of the earth and all above
Of love and whimsicality
Inside the hall, the lights are out
Yet all about an echo bounds
Of lost applause and orchestras
And raucous, energetic sounds
It's here and now, upon the boards
The darkness hoards a pool of light
Where mingling in motes of dust
And arm is thrust from out of site
A quiet amid the hush befalls
Along the stalls, a faceless glare
As set in shades of darkest dim
She glimmers like a solitaire
Her dance describes a careful tone
Each every bone at her command
Her feet tattoo a silent beat
The rhythm meets her open hand
Her features null and desolate
Her lips yet to convey a smile
She draws a story with her grace
With shapeless face and all the while
She skips across the empty floor
A dead score from an vacant pit
And through a haze of burning lime
From distant times her dance is lit
A swan song of a life cut short
A fable wrought in liquid gloom
Lamenting talent never proved
A bud removed before it's bloom
Its loss a crime against the world
A shadow hurled towards the sun
For such a life slip the hands
As dry sands through the fingers run
And now she stands at center stage
A gilded cage she'll never slip
A single tear is seen to leak
about her cheek, across her lip
She stoops a solitary bow
And dips her brow to those unseen
A cacophony of aphony
For her, the girl who's never been
A ghostly veil wavers free
As slowly she dissolves in light
Her sparkle spreads and dissipates
Evaporates from empty sight
She never takes a curtain call
No flowers fall about her toes
But still she dances for the dark
A tiny spark of spirit froze
reposted because I'd forgotten all about it
HITTING ON ALL CYLINDERS!
The car raced up
Went over the cliff!!!
Everyone in the car were GHOSTS!
They couldn't DIE!
They were already DEAD !
(just like we are)
It's very hard to describe
Really going on
Simply wishing you might appear
Your own living
In that telepathy where the tincture of you flows across into me
and two minds are as one
and the linguistics could be any language they please
where we understand everything
amid the teasing of the tone
and where the home I have made
is the bed upon which we laid
there is a playing of games across the Ocean whose name I no longer recall.
but no matter of that, in my mind,in my flat you are here
telepathically speaking until still seeking connect
I elect to a meeting
a fleeting of faces
a mouthful of places come up for a rendezvous.
Do you know where the flowers grow tall by the hot dog seller next to the bandstand in the parkland up at Hampstead hill?
see you at three twenty
and I have got plenty to say.
Later in the day after hot dogs and soda I told her let's move on,the evening has brought on a chill
will you come home with me?
I waited to see what her reply might be,
'that could be good'
and I knew that it would
tootled off scootily
and she tootled quite beautifully
and on this bed that we laid we made
Amid the dense foliage
You’re caught in my lens
Your eyes that me amaze
In them the innocence!
My lens seek not the plumage
Nor their colors in the light
Your eyes that me amaze
Their goodness burning bright!
As they quietly close in
My hungrily probing lens
To shoot you spotless clean
With a laborious patience,
Amid the dense foliage
My senses taut and tense
It’s your eyes that me amaze
Holding a sparkling innocence!
You'll know who I am,
I'll be wearing a Rolling Stones T-shirt, Lucky Jeans.
I am 6'-2", 205lb slim build, with light brown hair.
At a distance you see me and think, this guy can't be 61,
but as you get closer the lines begin to show.
I give you a hug that says thank you for being a friend and it is all OK now.
It may be a bit awkward at first,
but being a master of making small talk I make us feel at home.
There is gray and silver, entwined amid the subtle hints that I am from a totally different era.
I am like a time traveler.
I flit from topic to topic, and you strain to understand me.
You think this guy is either high, or he's..... High.
I'll talk incessantly about me until I realize that I am doing so,
then I'll shift it on you.
I'll watch as the poetess weaves her words like sandalwood incense curling through the air.
She'll take me on her rides and rhymes, reading to me her latest poems.
Time will fly as it has never done before.
I never wear a watch, so I'll fumble with my phone to see what time it is.
Shit, and I was just getting to know you.
But wait it is Friday. No, work tomorrow...........
.......as the last of the Spring rain falls, two old bikes lean against the bricks of the old pub.
Behold a most gracious host,
carmine and perse with an eburnean ringed hue,
yielding a formidable specter from a Waxing Gibbous.
In the umbra of an ominous shadow,
discerning a medley of nefarious burdens,
the flux of paranoia surging is boundless.
A burlap satchel clutched tight and hitched;
inside, a trephine, alms, scalpel, and an old umber stethoscope
accompanies a wayworn tosspot on this audacious saunter.
Ten toes claw the vitreous strand and jetsam near a firth
where squeak the cries of Junco, Osprey, and Skua fraught with mirth
in the sun's gloaming tincture of indigo, and bilious luster.
Dost not covet the charade of my transient liberty,
wherein a caddish guise feigns the propensity of a dotard
fraught with wayward bouts of coprophagy and garroted rape.
Fortnight, in the throe and rue of my brutal dolor,
the vapid torpor of my abject existence
morphed me to thole a choleric umbrage,
heeding the volition of my demons to leave my faculties agape?
The cresting salty crashes of the hematic-toned perigean tide
kissed the servile rainbow of tumbling polished sea glass.
How fortunate the timing to view such a heavenly lull?
The ochre whitlow of my decaying digits
make a laborious task to turn up my cravat and russet shawl collar,
limiting agile function to torment, plague or meddle!
I heard the caws from a murder of nineteen devilish crows
mocking the gallows's smother of my departing snicker,
to come hither, breaking free of my nightmare's architect.
Aptly, I rest many a wearied bone down
within the harbor of a dank mossy dingle,
wroth with emotion, despising an empathy shipwrecked.
Mine eyes drown in a copious gore of crimsoned cruors,
becoming lost in the brew of surf and coral,
whilst an arresting glare kindles the expanse from a Luciferian moon.
My disheveled locks lay and lean upon a batholith leeward,
quenching my barren lips with moonshine by an ewer
in the presence of a phantasm on the strand shaded puccoon.
I bid a jealous farewell in a somber gesture of brow and feral self.
Wherein does the weregild serve me mindful menace?
Wherein dost I abjure the rascal and nevermore suffer woe?
Bordering the strand, farm posts bear the burden of my weight;
feet shuffling, throat tender, these hands are scorched
upon the stinging pricks of the barb-wired hedgerow.
With a savvy wariness and an eerily daunting instinct,
I lose hold my newly procured Budapester shoes
pirated from the lifeless heels of an august costermonger!
Flashes of me hung constricting, cultivating my end attrition
in the gibbet with a barrage of fired sparklers,
that recalls the memory of my mate's torture, now stronger.
Disrobed and chained to iron ringlets fused to a crag,
he screamed for his kin who turned him in;
he unburdened his broken skull in a humbled bow.
Dentigerous hounds drew taut the ropes that bound his ankles,
lifting, stretching his skeleton lateral to the loam.
He wished, tearing at air, he now reached the day of Eschaton
………. not in the morrow!
Branding, burning, two days on a crude Judas cradle,
prior to his gauntly sallow frame being dragged to neap tide,
they keelhauled him four fathoms down, rode belayed on two rusty tholes.
My soul grieved, unhinged and shot into earthen clay;
I embraced in a free soliloquy and a ruing barter
with a throng of wishes soaring on the song of distant souls.
His fragmented corpse, ravaged, broken asunder in unkempt bedlam,
exists stained and caustic affixed to a broad puce vile rock.
Vultures feed there at the fringe of a seraphic moonbow.
In lieu of my heretic dogma to natural law,
recorded in the defunct masks of brats and bitches,
citizens plagued betwixt states of Cholera and hate contend to play hero.
An evident tone of a distant horse's canter
reverberates and startles a most guilty reproach,
suspending my facile tenure amid a truant absconding!
Chiming bangs of metal hames and whirling spurs
close in, sounding off in ascending levels of intonation,
a huntsman's ride on this dusty trail to an ambling.
The blunders of my past arrest and botched trip to gallows,
one that sent me to a rickety upright-jerker,
minds me thrice, since youth, this world's mad with bestial rage!
A sad reflection, the sight of my mom in chains,
takes me back to a miser's filthy life sustained.
End this, huntsman in mine eyes forlorn …… never to be upstaged!
My resin-greased necktie composed of fetid hemp rope,
bore the load of jolting deadweight, one furlong through pasture,
adorned with sparse bramble, bucolic beasts, and two avid vultures.
Three figures of crazed stoicism wielding tools for the tillage,
low in rank like their guest to be,
stood imposing in a vesture of ordure, pitiful in stature.
Thrown in a heap of flies, swath and pig feces,
my left ear severed expelling Mazarine colored blood,
with a frayed lariat used to enthrall the squalid hellions.
Was it for the madness my heart reached out
onto the strand with toes clutching at sea glass
that relished the freedom of a Dark-eyed Junco's minions?
Propped and posed erect in a hollowed post,
I'm fed honey and milk with my limbs exposed,
whilst insects graze inside my anus.
Slip surely and thirsty; shed the illusion of life's rapport,
dressing down the native's loathsome frowns,
whereupon, with my own scalpel, I'm rendered toeless.
Almost one day passed in the dizzy hissing shell of my head.
A voice creeping, soothing pain whilst I tread in absentia;
the imp punctures my fleshy canvas, tapping thick blood from all bruises.
This torture, unnatural, undeserving of such the wrath,
dreaming, spinning as the fiends prepare my bath
in a copper apple kettle pot possessing many uses!
My mottled mask pressed into bent blades of grass,
nails ripping muddied dirt as devils favor their cuts of meat,
showing no pity in chaos to a groveling main course!
Savages of Hell, Alas!
Amateur cuts to my joints with knives and chipped cleavers,
searing slices and torn tendons from bones………..
for the weak, there's the wicked that never fairs remorse!
Time lost in
treading Dali mosaics
among gaggles I gazed
Gaudis gnarled forms
and sinuous lines
where about, above and beside
the gothic and gargoyle
peruse from fairy-tale architecture.
Heavenly the vibrant
draping shuttered balconies
that hug the cobbled, narrow
calle carretas of the old town.
Beautiful, balmy Barcelona by day
bled into bars by evening
as political passions played out
amid ale and pinchos
where Catalonian cuisine quells even the hungriest hearts.
'calle carretas' narrow streets used by merchants with horse and carts.
'pinchos' delicious snacks similar to tapas, held with cocktail sticks.
He'd been 'conceived' in Flamborough, so his sister assured him, some eleven summers ago, which was a tad hard for Rocky to swallow, she was a whole twelve months his junior... and then some... and at that age, well... what did she know, she was only a kid... "on this very rock" she insisted, a look of certainty plastered her face, "next to this very rock pool" that they were both sitting beside... "one sunny afternoon eleven years ago..." and that was how he came by the name of Rocky, she taunted as the rest of the lurid story unfolded... and that she had it all on the best possible authority... although the more she thought about it, had she meant 'concealed...' she wasn't quite sure now, it was all so very confusing at her tender age but thought it sounded near enough not to matter too much and that she would just wait and see which way the wind blew.
It was conceivably 'an ill wind that blew no one any good' that day, especially if you were a boy and just happened to be sat by a rock pool next to your little sister... Having just taken a well deserved drink from a neighbouring rock-pool, Sockeye, the floppiest springer spaniel this side of the Pecos, decided that he was going to dig a hole and that he would be digging it deep, then changed his mind mid-dig and decided to have a more down to earth back scratching session instead and promptly rolled over... life was sweet. Now covered from nose to tail with several interesting varieties of smelly seaweed and peppered with shards of deceased shell-life normally found hanging around the high water mark, Sockeye, in a moment of blinding inspiration of canine proportions, thought it would be a splendid idea and in everyone's best interests, were he to have a good shakedown, which always seemed to go down well about this time... and give all concerned a generous helping, just so they could see what exactly it was that they'd been missing all this time.
"A rock" of all places, "for goodness sakes..." and what's more, it was this rock, "Yuk..." he wiped the palms of his hands on the back of his jeans in disgust, then onto his tee-shirt, then explored his left nostril in quiet contemplation... before jambing his hands back into his pockets... what in Heaven's name had his parents been thinking of..? what on earth was his little sister talking about..? and more to the point, what in fact did conceived mean..? these were the questions that were uppermost in Rocky's mind as he poked an exploratory stick into the rock pool... a baby crab, marooned by the tide, scampered sideways beneath a large pebble and stuck one beady eye out at him... Rocky's sister, seemingly in a world of her own, much like the baby crab, sat on the edge of the noteworthy rock kicking her heels, an innocent smile curled the corners of her mouth as she quietly hummed a little song of tuneful bliss, chewing over what further mischief she could possibly pass her brothers way.
Rocky tossed a lump of driftwood over his sisters shoulder at a nearby colony of seagulls, squabbling over what appeared to be an abandoned bag of fish and chips... Sockeye, simply knowing that his little master wanted to play a game of fetch, gambolled after the stick, his ears blowing courageously in the wind and bounded, amid a melee of feathers into their midst, only to romp back moments later, the stick all but forgotten in the excitement, but now proudly sporting the derelict bag of leftovers... and the odd splash of guano, his tail lolloping about from side to side... and for the moment at least, leaving the poor seagulls wheeling noisily overhead and to go about their business without further interruption... as for Sockeye, it had been a no contest situation.
After fourteen years of valiant endeavour, his father... Red, so named for his vivid shock of wiry hair, was still engaged in man's eternal struggle to win his significant other half's approbation with the manful art of deck-chair construction, beach barbeque and other significant gentlemanly pursuits, all while strutting his manly stuff, sporting top of the range beach wear in accordance with the social etiquette of the previous decade... his masculine paunch slumped gallantly atop the waistband...
After the same fourteen terms of domestic servitude and the same thirteen identically forgotten anniversary cards, a certain someone had no intention of allowing another certain someone to forget so much as one of them... His better half, so she insisted, would administer her own daily brand of rough justice at every given opportunity, in much the same way that you'd brandish a royal-flush on poker night... or better still, a loaded gun... and that she personally carried the burden of every ill-fated card that Lady Luck had dealt, strung about her neck like Adam's original sin on Judgement Day.
Red much preferred the shorter, more condensed name of Rock for his son, rather than the longer, more protracted Rocky, as he struggled with the wood and canvas lounger, badly trapping the fleshier part of his thumb in the process "Aaargh...!!!" and plunged his throbbing hand deep into the cold, soothing rockpool, "aaah...!!!" Still marooned by the tide, the little crab stood poised and ready for action as it considered giving this latest intrusion a good nip, then hang on for dear life as it gave Red the final withering once over with the same baleful eye it had successfully wielded earlier.
Meanwhile, his long suffering wife went along with the ritual of giving him the perfunctory grunt of clinical compassion as she rummaged for the thermos-flask. She wasn't too fussed one way or the other about anybody's thumb right now, especially his... no matter how you sliced the cake, it was always just as messy... whilst Tina, was just plain worn-out... but still rejoiced in telling anyone who cared to lend a sympathetic ear in that direction... and who in turn was quite prepared to listen to all the woes of others, which went somewhere along the lines of... 'and had she heard any more gossip about poor Mrs. Dorey's lingering martyrdom recently, you know, the downtrodden lady who lives in the next street but one... and how they would all miss her when she was gone and how she couldn't wait... and as rumour would have it, neither could her husband...'
Tina, feigning to be otherwise engaged, as her husband, now blowing frantically on his embarrassment, tripped over the half erected lounger and fell backwards into the hole so recently excavated by Sockeye, his wife, proclaiming complete disassociation, plunged her nose deeper into the library book she'd purposely brought on holiday for just such an occasion, making it perfectly clear to all and sunder, that she was a tourist and furthermore, planned to continue with the same sentiment once they returned home and that while she was here, she did not, under any circumstances wish to be disturbed, the notice was clearly displayed, hanging on the door handle... but that if she were, then whoever it was, did so at their own peril... and she was keeping score... although a trapped thumb she thought, with the same roguish smile curling the corners of her mouth, as the one normally found playing on her daughter's... was equally as heart warming.
All Tina wanted was one week of uninterrupted peace and quiet in Flamborough, preferably with the family 'out' from under her feet, then spend what might pass for several undisturbed hours sitting quietly by the rock-pool, comparing notes on eye makeup and the feminine merits of pedicure with the little crab who, still marooned by the tide, was now sat busily knitting in the rock-pool, but that was only if a certain person... a shrill "AAaargh...!!!" more desperate than the first, thrust itself upon the, as yet unaggressive afternoon as it gyrated to-and-fro across the warm rock and beyond... 'now where was she', twisting her book uppermost 'oh yes..! someone was going to pay... only now it was going to be sooner, rather than later', but only if that certain person couldn't finish the seating arrangements before the Sun disapeared, apparently forever and drifted into some backstreet tea-room before all the lemon cheesecake sold-out, or was that she reflected, just simply too much to ask.
It was his surname that Rock found so objectionable, more appetising were it slapped between two slices of bread and butter and then while no one was looking, passed down to Sockeye, who's solemn duty every mealtime was to gaze beseechingly up from beneath the kitchen table, from the first mouthful to the very last and woof down anything that came his way in just about zip seconds flat, even the postman didn't get diplomatic immunity... especially the postman... Sockeye would just smack his lips and help himself to seconds.
As a matter of interest, for the last fourteen years all Rocky's mum had done was think about seconds... every last one of them, since she'd suffered the unfortunate mental aberration which had deprived her of the use of her maiden name of Chovey, to that of Salmon and how looking back, she should have taken an Aspirin instead, wedlock she asserted, was everything that it claimed to be and was without doubt the worst move she'd ever made... and what's more, was seen as a bad move in whoever's wedding album you just happened to be paying condolences to.
Rocky would never be so fortunate on that score, unlike his sister he was stuck with Salmon for good. His grandma-Ann by all accounts, had been dead set against the union from the word 'go' and always saw his father as someone who would always be out of his depth, thrashing around in the deep end, swimming against the tide, rather than going with the flow... and it appeared that Rock, already eleven years into a life sentence, was about to flounder in the same murky undertow as the rest of the Salmon family, only he couldn't swim.
"There"! her husband exclaimed in dubious delight, "all finished... better late than never, eh, who fancies trying it"? his wife lingered over the words 'better late' and wondered whether her new earrings, her latest acquisition, would complement formal mourning attire. Red dusted off the palms of his hands with the certain knowledge of a job well done and took one step back, looking with justifiable pride at the outcome of his manly exertions of the previous two hours, this is what holidays are all about he thought, one man pitted against all odds... His wife meanwhile was getting to grips with more odds of her own than you could safely expect to shake a stick at... her husband being one of them.
Having finally gathered her offspring together, with promises of physical injury if they didn't... and finished packing the beach-bag, Tina finally discovered Sockeye peering out from the shade of an adjacent rock, wisps of seagull feathers cheekily poking out from either corner of his mouth, his tail beating a mischievous tattoo on the ground and who further considered in one more dazzling blaze of inspiration as Tina attempted to slip on his collar, that a game of tag would just about round the day off nicely... and then devoted the next ten minutes pursuing him amid an unrestrained salvo of cheering and clowning about from the rest of the family... then finally bid goodbye to the little crab, who waved a friendly claw in her direction and hoped that it wouldn't have too long to wait for the next rising tide back home, then slid off the rock with a corrosive... "the deck-chair attendant would have assembled them" she snapped, "for an extra sixpence" and "don't forget the deposit when you take them back" then double checking that she landed squarely on his foot, she marched past, her floral sun hat jammed resolutely on her head at what she considered to be a jaunty angle, with her equally jaunty, angular children scrambling in hot pursuit, back in the direction of their lodgings.
"Woof "..? said a confused Sockeye, bringing them all to an abrupt halt... and with four paws the size of place-mats, he wasn't going anywhere he didn't want to... he hunkered down with a look of hurtful accusation upon his face, "oh yes you are my lad"! said his mistress, "I've met your sort before", and knew exactly where to stick her dainty size-5, as Sockeye, digging his heals in for the duration, created swathes of canine furrows up the beach, leaving her husband, the unwitting recipient, and in sole possession of the overlooked guest-house keys... and somewhat resigned in having to clean up his own masculinity and disassemble the freshly erected but recently redundant deck-chairs... she'd had quite enough for one day, thank you very much.
Morning register was always the worst he thought, as they trooped back along the shingle beach, Rock, making surprisingly good furrows of his own... but the rest of the class loved it and saw it as the highlight of each day... Rocky's form teacher, despite forcing a brave face, was always hard pressed to avoid bursting into hysterics every time she worked her way down the register to the letter 'S' and would attempt to bypass it altogether, jumping from 'R' to 'T' and just prayed that no one else had noticed, but it hadn't taken the class very long... somewhat less than a heartbeat in fact... to point out her oversight and... "please Miss, we haven't had Salmon all week", whereupon Rock would elbow the lad sat at the next desk to him, firmly in the ribs... and promptly get one hundred lines for his trouble... thank goodness it was school holidays. Why couldn't they have been given respectable names like Seymour Legge, Rock wondered, who sat over by the window or perhaps the teachers pet, Anna Prentice or even, Robyn Banks at a pinch, but definitely not what they'd been given and certainly not Salmon, they were the most hilariously hideous names he could imagine and if someone was looking down on them right now he thought... then they had a very unique sense of humour indeed and Rock said so... "why" his little sister asked sweetly, "whats wrong with River Salmon".
... ... ...
(A work in progress and definitely subject to alteration.)
A subcutaneous doubt musters and you itch
The shore line depression is here without hitch
A sea of harps instigating an emotive atrophy
You discharge and you dive with certain alacrity
There is a boat afloat out in the briny of spite
Oar-less and holey amid the bark and the fight
You plunge and you quaff as you leave quiet behind
A clamber and a climb and inside you will find
Ruckus and roar as you rock with each crash
Thunder and hail as the waves tempestuously lash
Gladden with the grim elation preserves you
Mirthful and drugged whilst the wet pours through
To the most aphotic of waters that drags you deep
The boat now just wood unto rocks in a heap
Too eager to leap and now too weak to swim
A stoical sink under madness to dim
The seashore despair was a lie to itself
The still and the shielded brimming with wealth
Never attempt to weather a storm
Of a storm as endless as that of that storm
A wish that you stayed a want that you listened
You’d still be where her green eyes glistened
Where love and the good is now once tendered
Most is best left as how it’s remembered.
And thus we bid you
to our home
Finzi-Continis of the new century
we play jeu de paume all day
within our walled gardens
Deuce! Love! Set!
Hear the birds, the automobiles
Sense a world out there
Those we think we care not about
We care not to hear about
would prefer not to know about
Best leave us alone
yet we shall not mind spending our evenings
discussing the politics
of people and places unseen
"Not much else we could have done,
So give us back carefree
For every once in a while,
I wake up, for a moment
back in the Garden,
"There's a bubble!"
"There ~ another!"
Amid the childish laughter
we all watch them float away
happy colors winking at us
happily ever after
a blanket of sunshine