D is for Pain

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What trust do you have for me? What piece of mind to share and discuss? Idle lust and a place to sit and think, or a cell to sit and weep, what mind do you have to placate me? A finer choice to make, a pair of withered hands, of hair so fine, spread over the pillow as you sleep and dream. A stark cry against the blackness outside the Hospital. That gap between the stars where we lament and tear our hair, stand around with awkward smiles and shift our feet in a dance to avoid the frosted floor. Instil the sense of dread perhaps, lay a hand on the Butchers block or the lusted and fed.
We tangle up our lives in a sense of order but lie and our hearts fly sometimes to the edge of things and look upon the wastes of things we left behind to bitter hearts yearned for heartless turns instilled anger and pushed violence, of punches and little pinch. It take a brave heart to turn arrows but we seek and look we cannot find the places we go to rest and gather our thoughts. Inside the layers of stitches our spirit falls with the rest wings tangled in the beating breast and the tubes that keep me alive. The clouds scatter and will not touch me in here, it looks like it’s raining and cold. The falling man the bidden unjust, I feel these things now inside me. The air it screams to touch my flesh, and the land falls up to do the rest and deep I plough into the earth and rend its bones with my fall.
When all is done and the covenant held I ask why the fall from high? I hear the spirits cry and my judgement my bitter lies cast out and broken free. In the end the proclamation means nothing to at all. In my ignorance I am confused and wonder whether I ever had a chance or were the odds always stacked like a losers race three legged handicap. I am seeking before I start. For fucks sake they are speaking to me but I cant hear them, I cannot let them know the pain I am in. End me please.
At the point I lost my heart, I slept. My mind was lost among the shock and the pain, my confusion at everything yet, inside I knew. I knew they had me, I knew them so well. They are to torture me, they are to squeeze me like a tube of Toothpaste as ‘they’ suspect me of something and have made a play for me to act. They want to know who I am and in all their nearly infinite power they don’t have a fucking clue. Who are they? A Nurse hurries past her hands full with plastic bags full of dressings. “I know you!!” I laughed out loud and she stopped. “I fucking know you! You were the Cleaner yesterday and a Nurse today! You have changed your roles! Actors!!” I screamed at her as she hurried away. They injected the tubes in my wrist.

Fix!Fix!Fix! The Number Of The Least.

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She knew he was looking and didn’t care
super slut without a care or a hair out of place
she leaned over the desk like a ton of sex
like a good fucking honk of coke red lipstick
kush baby stone cold ice queen her buttons tight
she knew tonight a lovers fight harsh overhead light
lips moist as she speaks so clipped unzipped aroma
those eyes fuck me up shower the senses in pure filth
you fucking slut obey and serve but my hands are light
‘I’m a fucking poet’ i say to her and she laughs
too many scars for young hands to touch I suppose
a heel ground in to aching flesh but listen
so I throw the book down again and smile, you see
blessings always come to those who wait a while
and time as a searchlight wanders the wave forms
I fucking let you go for your sake you know

Fingers Deep Within The Brick

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Woman standing in dooorway – March 1, 2010 – Original Oil Painting Blog by American Oil Painter Daryl Urig

They have been talking again and amplifying
and it maybe the deceiving that gave us time
we talked of the signs and what they mean
as it happened it was simple lies that wanted to be
but we look to the heavens above and clap loudly
smile at the things you have made and are to be
pick the thread of the cushion and stare
for the things within you are here nor there
the net curtain blows a little, like a ghost
let the dogs bark roll breathless outside the window
inside the outside the smell of a cars exhaust
give a thought, through your eyes, the triangle of blue
at the window corner, through the dust, a fashionable ease
for the children cry outside and I fade
and there’s always something else to drink
or faith, something under your hands
underneath the overhang the air is fresh
look to the sky and see nothing at all
that truth is long gone and shadows fly again
your hair looks like a mess but it’s a given thing
for the love and the hate the needle brings
fly straight and enter forbidden lives of them
home i suppose in a little pink pill
a remembrance just a little rattle in the throat
lay out your arms and I will stand on that doorstep forever
your new red shoes sparkle in the cold
it eats through me straight to the bone again
but I open your dressing gown and you are fire in my hands
tight flesh in cold air
I’m not what you wanted but I’m here for you
stars bitter things above biting harder than pain
that frost that click of a heel on the sandstone step
turn, to the right and feel the spiral turn and me burn
we are one and are hopeless

Nuke Chicago

You were a new Sun for a moment, terrible offspring that writhe

Eat well and suck the bones great Dragon, you are magnificent and spare

Turn the taps on full and settle back, let the blood flow out again

fire the hearts to bend and crack, riders alone on the cloud

Chicago brighter than one million Suns, your blessed light

over, when all is said and done, sundered and lost again

I watched from above and it smoked a little, and there were no screams

before the air rushed back in you dark horse, you liar

you know we have to shed a little blood, you knew you would

but the world wasn’t lost, you just thought it was

For Blonde Haired Cops (Love Song For Mary Millington)

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As a kid back in 1976 or so, i found a faded copy of ‘Fiesta’ a best selling porn mag of that era. Most of it was that dreamy ‘bushy’ soft core porn that at least made my own eyes open a little. Fuck it, i’m not talking about that shit, it’s private. Suffice to say I fell in love with a small selection of photos of Mary Millington in a variety of poses dressed as a Policewoman. A woman I fell totally in love with. Now Blondes and Cops are a major problem for me. See ‘Songs For Eris’ on Amazon somewhere.

Was it worth it? You were so fair, and us just heathens

Still you fell and probably still are, on your golden wings

through the stars again, inside, pure silk

Inside and around the leather seat, I won’t be here

Frost the glass with passioned breath, in a Lilac night

Lens the sleepers awake and fear, don’t look at the camera

You don’t fade but lift the glass again, it’s hard to bite

soak up the marks on the cold floor, what can I say

I hear you under the rumble of fate, bad tracked videotape

It was you under those eyes, you changed

that kept the stranger tuned, what a lie

and glisten never turn to dust, writhe and twist

I watch your wild ways, the still fingers

stand and wonder why in those days i could dream

HeadsquadFuckMusic (Part 1)

When he awoke it was 11pm and his clock a cheap Japanese LCD thing looked back at him in the light reflected from the busy street outside his window. He swung his feet from beneath his Duvet and ran his hands over his face, he needed to piss. Half bent over he staggered to the toilet and pulled the light cord, the tube flickered, he needed to change it, he needed to concentrate on his piss which was splashing on the floor a little. It was quiet, he enjoyed the quiet. His need was fulfilled and he walked to the window of his bedroom to look outside. It was quiet, but this was a busy High street, his small flat above a Skateboard shop, cheap. What the fuck.

Outside he would see Buses and cars as they honked, stunk, and choked the street. People would be crowding the pavement, pushing, shoving, stinking. He cold see them unmoving now, the same with the traffic lights, they had been green for the twenty or so seconds he had looked out of the window. The Buses, one opposite him, he normally scared them by walking around naked in his flat unaware that a Bus had stopped right outside the window, double decker bus, level with his window, and him.

Quickly he gathered up a pair of jeans, a hoody, tshirt, socks, shoes crammed on, he ran to the flat door his mind still half asleep and grasping for meaning. ‘What the fuck’ he said, he repeated it ‘what the fuck’. Not a question but a statement. He walked down the stairs, they were unlit, the bulb had gone weeks ago and he hadn’t got round to fixing it. He adapted instead, he walked, he aimed for the square of light at the bottom, lit from outside. He counted each step, twenty three. Outside, the door swung open. A woman an arms length away was still, shopping bag, nice brown knee length boots with a heel, brown cord trousers tight, face of a busy Mom but one….he was inches from her face, her eyes fixed ahead and through him. He touched her face, it was warm. Behind her a Youth head down, hood up, hands in pockets. He was looking to the left at the Bus door, half open the drivers eyes half open reaching for the gear selector.

He walked further, they were all like it, drivers open mouthed. The cars, all switched off not running but frozen. He ran into a shop doorway and into the store, a TV shop, all the TV stations paused, frozen, mid action. Panic stations, he gasped a little and slapped himself in the face, he leaned against the counter, somebody was handing money over to the Assistant. The customer was a shaven headed middle aged, work trousers, boots. There were two twenty pound notes in his hand. He reached out with his own hand and took them from the seemingly lifeless fingers and he laughed. The noise was loud in the shop, He slapped the customers head softly and shoved the money in his pocket. He walked outside, so quiet. He laughed again and it echoed down the silent street.

No Time To Question But To Confess

Too much of something always makes you sick in the head a little, and I sense the rolling fear of the acid sick rise up against the back of my throat and I grab some Milk to shove it back, angrily. The simple pills I have are too far away from my hands to fetch, it would mean me sitting up and exhaling a little as i stretch and I cant do that, I don’t have the will, the strength I have in spades, but the act fails again i’m afraid, i feel as I am trapped and swaddled.

Alienated perhaps, dysfunctional certainly, a minor piece of the puzzle is missing I think, but the chair is comfortable at least and if I need the pills they are there or there is somebody to fetch them if I need them. My little living room Nurses.

Sooner a hand to fetch the things you need than a few words that make us bleed

Try again to make sense of it, we eat the forbidden bread and the liquids of secrets, we want truth but don’t even recognise it when it is presented in front of us. These stolen waters lie idle within me and yet we twist the words to our own delight. Seduced and breathed upon and yet still you do not know the real depths of hell and the top steps of Heaven. Fruit are we? Only a bite from a mouth can set the juices free and mercy released, that hand from above to settle on a sweated brow or to batter and hurt me again. Mothers still weep of course in damp churches and secreting the blasphemies or their errors in the tears that fall onto the stone floors.

But they come shining of course through the blur of salted eyes and their rays are as the sun shining through the thickest clouds, and do we not stand at last and throw open our arms to receive them before we see they are just ghosts? This is our final remembrance of the trick, the reality they spin for us is fake and a false thing. For the ghosts that offer us themselves are figments and meanderings of little worth. We hold the stories they tell us with delight and happiness and another faded ticket lies forgotten in a pocket of a Black suit hung at the back of the wardrobe. It stays there forever you know.

That intimate love will entwine, sinuous and holding and that serpent of desire will become a chain in the end that will tighten around the neck. You know we wish it so. So we wrap the garlands happily around each other before it changes and in those brief hours spent looking out over the sea and laughing at the waves we indulge ourselves of the great comedy, the greatest of shows. For are we not proud? Thinking that we are the final act upon the dreaded stage? We scrabble in the dust for answers and wish we could find them in the things we do and the acts we act but…

Vanities pure and simple, the pills just out of reach, the eager faces, the wet sweated bodies that cling to each other after falling from tall spires. Where should we live? What is the answer to it? Without diligence we scramble up the figures and ghosts that move through our lives and think perhaps they are blood sometimes and spirits another. We offer praise to this thing and coddle it tighter as we engage our years to their end. Regard nothing as true and have no sport but the final rope and the tangled end we seek.

Such is the Holy Ghost still a discarnate thing manufactured to allay the fears that spring up in the smaller hours when we despair and wrap ourselves tighter. It jests with us and we see it is still a riddle after greater minds have forked it over endlessly. So what is the truth Black Iron Philosopher? Why are the tears and weeping so attracted and so sweet? These tears turn me asunder and burns upon my forehead the hot Iron word ‘Wretch’. Seeker of nothing, twister of words, greatest liar. We find solace and love in things that will always perish, always be lost.

I dreamed for a sick while as people that I thought I loved moved around the bed with lit candles, as ghosts they were. With me locked within a feeble machine they called the physical body. It stunk and was lost and I looked only to God, on the one left hand to think about the redemptions he may offer me for my sins and on the right to smash my simple machine to pieces upon the anvil of his judgement.

I moved slow within the bed as the time come and watched them make plans and edge upon my finances and estate closer and closer as carrion birds around the gasping corpse of an animal. I choked and gasped as well and clutched the sheets tighter as that last breath fell upon the linen spotted with mine own blood.

Alas I am caught. As we progress our magic the pitfalls and traps become apparent and real, the figures of history would have us kept within this place in order to control the flows of information from the magical to the place they control. They will not countenance any equal, and that is their way. I was dead and now I am alive again and I do not know how they machined the stainless steel realities they have made to imprison me.