ABASE PEOPLES SPIRITS, CLIP AND STICK OIL THICK


Abase people’s spirits, try to clip, then stick oil thick tar onto far reaching feathers. Try to demean and dull simple aspirations, by slicing and hacking at the high vibrating senses; and you will witness that negative black thermal rise aloft, you will view a majestic feathered wing hasten on its draft and swirling gust, you’ll wonder at its graceful effortless stretch towards the bright sky Apollo heights.
Abhor and hate a religious slant, emasculate the margin wards, hound and hush at a dream state narcotic, and you will face a strident strong, grit nailed fist, a well-trodden hobnailed boot, and a weathered wise skin wearing a cook splattered apron with histories blood spilt.
Admonish and oppress free seeking thought, blind deny widening lids of open minds eye, pick and pull at oral bones, and you will hear the rat-tat-tat of a printing press repeat, and the bull horns static, followed by the clip clop sounds of many marching feet.
Alienate and nullify peoples, then meddle with boarder’s joint sown crop, ostracise then chemical spray your neighbours hard worked organic plot; and you will witness diligent worn meats, with chore sweating heat that honest toil only seeps, you will smell fresh baked sharing bread, and taste all provincial wines from well-worn supping cups.
Abnegate and abolish choices on sovereign taxes paid, try and hinder imagination with an impassive thrill, like a fairground ride where precious coins are lost, and you will only illuminate action style paints on a ****** white canvas or mould some sculptures odyssey path, and then finally read red blood ink articles in a bold, strident thought-out font print.
Always deny, always see the black and low, a force misunderstood will be born from high aloft, spirits grow where weeds grow strong, muscles pulse and flex when faced with the downing speak. Internal juices which blood only boils, Adrenalin spikes the fighting tooth pick, watch chest rise and free imagination thoughts think.

An inner intensive ward groan, a rumble in the jungle without any immediate fame, cramps pulse without any soothing from the dull lamp glow, hurt stamps your thoughts every minute’s worth. Ache now with a persistent frown, misery skin is taught tight on your thin over stretched aching hide, organs begin to sigh their repetitive beats, as early symptoms seem misunderstood by fresh faced, be speckled groomed locums.
Appointments seem a distant hope, just sit among the frantic self-diagnosed, with their constant mind-numbing tricks: can’t see beyond the distant inner itch, the colon stitch, or stomach strain and heads weighted ton. Stumble sky-ward now to realise wild blurred visions, but met instantly by a narrowing dark lane, with its spit filled pit consuming your distant bleak horizons peak.
Medications prescribed miss match your inner strain, dull muscle pick then pull on the constant strain, pain goes south then west all over drain, a tired lessening glow consumes your former fighting bull. The worn-out hue, damp-soaked view, revisit the old closet hung with its earlier inch cloth, skinny moist bones only wets your futures consumers trough.
Scratch inward stroke, rub strain away with an aggressive pink poke, stretch sinew straight, ghost pains reach aloft with upward prayer, no answer to be found up there. Bone on bone, spurs reach out to nerve shredding tingles, rough diamond cuts on wet stomachs pumice stone soft. Waterboarding would be less intrusive, plier pulled finger nails would be unresponsive.

Depression, a dog stink fur, wet in your stomachs gutter, ***** washed-out all-over feel, no chance of movement from this desolate damp dominion. Heavy, unseen weights pin me down low, no go or muster; no aquatic flow, just prosaic and deaf, unheard, that cracking tick and strike of your inner tormented thunder.

The numbing dull hammer cracks, upon your concrete wet skull; a waste of clock and sun, a lonely moonless turtle touched sand, with tides falsely conjuring done.
A sloth that moves in super glue, a sticking plaster stuck askew on sliced off limb.
Thoughts unable to shift, blinded and hidden behind desperate foggy faraway cliffs.
Black futures call, your blurred vision only mocks the moon.

A black unlucky restless cat, resting high on a pitched prone ladder, a shattered looking glass, a distant sinister laugh distorts all images held in your past.
Thunder crack, a lighting spike, does little to raise your genetic code, it rather Dowses that inclement weather, with aching winds, ***** snow and iced grit rains of old.
Waters flow, twists then eddy’s, cold and dark like the Christmas month, can't get warm or be responsive, just dwell then nod, seemingly in the right social spaces.

Chains then rope, tethered tight, restrained on restless limbs and concrete filled torso; to lift for life and future strife becomes too much like an astronaut’s dream or a matador’s fame, easier to remain in a state of grey static, between burnt wooden floors and empty memories in an unreachable never touched attic.

Wounded damp dog, retreating to nearest black gutter, let ***** cold water wash over and leave it's grime, rats back black run over hairy raised skin, unable to itch plagues remedy with flowers or gin, can’t touch the ***** strain, or play the piano forte of many a ******’s claim.
Sound is dull, dead like empty lift enclosed, the upper floor above is only white and adorned by minimalist art with no restart or comforting parts.

Fear not the working world, or the wandering screams that quiver and stroke amongst the shiny silt laden streams. my mortal fear lays unmolested on smooth stones of ****** white, my conscience fear not the flat earth rut, the tall imposing temple wall, or the Red roses that ***** and bore.

Splendour instead at the solid ocean with land for waves, which dug of the sea and half-born moon are made. Rebel against the dictatorships glare of the red ringed sun, which only rocks of mind can summit alone, fear not the rays and glare of sunken solitude and burnt worn bone.

Fear not the persistent ivy creep and tangle, resist to hide amongst some starry spires or derelict ruins with cold granite offerings from their formidable shade. Face-front to the internal spectres that haunt your hidden human quilt, where a skins balance crawls true, and yet worldly joys persist to endure.

Watch as the great lunar coil, ***** and silences your inner ebbing tide, see the last sparkle smooth a passage to the realms of day. Then, talk aloud to distant birds, who retort with high-pitched whistle speak, that only charms and warms to a future age.

Fear not the apple or flood, the tyrant worm in your scalp, see beyond the hollow cave of words where only a hopeless lasting flame is drunk on alters fickle, stoked blaze. Protest against the false day to come, where Roman caged lions thirst on scorpion dry sands.

Listen blindly to the waters that putrefy with rest, swallow hole the bread of peace and drink wine of silk, while others succumb to the maddening demeanour of a past demon’s bribe with trick and conjure. Confess to plagues knowledge where rats root free, whilst saints and sages deal cards and prophecies to the meek.

Fear not the ornaments of virtue or slaughter, tread water or drown amongst the rain’s cold extremities, where serpents lay who speak, and sirens sing amongst coral sheets. Rise aloft on fortunes grief, to find a shelter from the nearing locust hum. Now, try to stem the seas with just a golden holy cup, and your vision will finally see the everlasting deceitful disease.

The barren, haunted shade of suspicious work, that devours the triumphant diversity of the day, with its grey tedious persuasion, that makes black avenues of oak appear in the foaming dark seas of condition.
The toils of the day, coupled with the approaching canopy of the light, only increases the wriggling of the worm that is felt but unseen; that sickening ridiculed trick of devouring your sight and heady dreams.
The radiant crowd of the invincible sun is dispersed now by the ****** boil of feasts amongst friends. So, the once wondrous heights of noise and show, are now only composed in wet shade and cold verse.
The sleeping winds provoke your patience with drops of lies that seem to only sing. So, try to harmonise the song of mind with bribes to the boatman from a flattering tongue or shiny rocks once found.
The solitude once found in a puppets string, or the gentle brook with its mighty throng, are first both born and tranquillity touched; but then the scythe of shade sways within, leaving cuts and salty wounds dug deep.

The birds who talk to one’s mind seem only to flutter at first, but then in time, speak aloud in tongues and songs as they reach toward their zenith sky places.

Black dots do appear on a never new horizon; slight delicate wings only twist and break, as worn and scarred beaks fight and flight the elements of time and mind.

Feather filled cushion walls seem to harbour some rest and restraint, but then the cuckoo calls from its lofty view to mock you, flock around you and brood some more.

A nest of twigs peck and pull at one’s soft skull, as a caged mind can only nestle within. Your blunted talons scratch for a desperate release, to rise and swoop to fledge and feed.

The birds who talk fills one’s mind with a picture of flight, the vast freedom view, the warming incubate glow of home, with its high-pitched songs of the new and the old.

The writers gimp, disabled with distant broken furrow,
heavy plough, mud stuck rut, unable to flow,
cut down crisply, off-centred and blunt, red-muddied and wet,
deep and stuck, in buried sodden sticky furrow.

Unable to realise minds observations
and signs of collective thought,
strive and struggle to reveal creative rhyme,
prose without obvious tune, a noticed slang or sing along song.

Return to methods ****** taught,
but once which was true, undressed and white,
becomes blood rose pricked;
unwashed, grit stained and just common place.

Try fresh air path, the riverbank, a heathered coloured moor,
a damp well-trodden concrete slab;
cobwebs pleading to be blown, vision needs repair,  
need to be uplifted and clear of despair.

Return to boathouse to probe and ******
with fine black ink, on white woven cloth,  
but heavy flow returns its velvet weight,
and becomes stuck porridge spoon in over-oated mix.

Drink a little, consume a lot,
free that mind of that moth covered cloth,
stained and damp like a babies’ bib,
unwanted truth alongside persistent fear.

Fear rears up to knock you out
In ****** round a flat out cold,
comatose on that cold blood-stained canvas floor,
shut, shut, is that artistic opening door.

Roar… roar then scream, to rise the inner juices and flow,
but placid white cat's whimper returns your lion's roar,
prostrate now, scuff of knee, upwards glance, with fingers crossed while promises are made,
hoping for a golden path, of former converts, who are on a bended knee still.

I will, I will if imagination returns, dogma, dogs my last statement given,
realisation pokes at my weary weak side, aware of pennies spent on boatman's crossing,  
to carry me away, to nirvana places,
where literature is varied, raw and new, criticised and objective.

Beggar man now, no remorse,
I'll face hell gates and flame's black burnt bone,
just lease me, rent me, terms of fluidity
to promote words of the relevant and contemporary

TO THE BEACH

To the beach, fresh foot forward onto unforgiving damp grey screed, dodging chewing gum spots between slippery rusty, golden gust blown leaf’s.
Onward now passing the vinegar whiff, the salted rock and tartan flask tipple.
Senses spike with flashing lights and noise of coin, penny push and children's scowl.

From close behind comes the Lycra plod, new year commitments within tight coloured cloth, squeaky trainers ****** white, leave waffle shapes that are gone by night.
Onto the sands, between the matted breeds, punters push and cajole their furry friends with twisted stick, plastic toy, and boomerang ball.

Aware now of winter's parley, the weather report, then new ideas and shop brought fears with bog off deals. Forward now towards the latte moist, amongst the young, they splash and splosh moving rubbery limbs, while the older nearby, skip shiny jewels with twisted arm on bended knee.

Gulls above take aim on sticky waste, once devoured by the fast food youth,
A distant crow cracks, and the wagtail whips.
Look ahead now past darkening folded waves and Guinness spray's, sneak a peek at horizon's promise, twinkle of light, and dark far away feathers.

Pink candy clouds roll in on the tidal wash, fishing boats retreat, fat and full, netted and tethered, with their slippery silvery bounty.
Resting now amongst the red razor rocks, between the kelp and stick laden wash, thoughts turn to futures clear and bright, and tomorrow's fresh foot forward toward the beach.