Tangled up again
Just a little bit
the evils of the day
have come on a little too thick
the itches and the heated heart
that little boy in the garden
in his little red mini car
and the Fir and the Pine wave
in the wind they make
and my fat little hand waves
back too them
and i laugh as then
they hadn’t shown me
an awful wisdom
and i have a tumbler
of Orange pop
that spills a little
as i watch them fly over me
and a fingertip
brushes a lock of hair
from my eye
The sky was a sight indeed, as I slip on the Heather that wrings wet moisture from its leaves and I wait for a second to see if the day will bring this feeling again. That of disaster and arrogance a fine delight as I sit back and laugh at them from the safety of my little mountain. What a delight it is to be free of the trappings of the filthy world. I am free and yet in a way locked to this outcrop from the earth, this granite lump that pokes its head above the crust of the world and reaches to the sky.
This place is on a borderland between two places, two separate lands where each population in times past went to war. I see the stinking horses now as I sit. Pray for blood you soldiers of old, you sorry things that would think War is an answer to your problems. As it is the gulf between each was a language. A simple thing, a changing of a word or two would sweep these peoples to their deaths in the very valleys below me. I lie back in the soft grass atop the Western side of my mountain. Here of course I may sit and watch the setting of the Sun and the way the clouds break on the higher mountains to the North. Often I am wont to do this, even though the snares are filled with the bucking of frightened Rabbits, I sit.
What would become of this place if I were not here? I care not, you would think me soft and stupid to think this mountain belongs to me but it does not. At times there is a procession of soldiers beneath me, not ghosts of Knights and simple men who wield evil weapons but a more modern version. Those beings have armoured cars that crawl slowly belching from deep within them a fuel spent and turned into blackest smoke that sours the fresh Spring morning. Who they are I do not know, I slide over the wet grass to hide awhile as they travel that road that winds around the mountain to go South and West but I care not.
What eyes have you Soldiery? To see me cast against the sky as I huddle and spin the days events. What trickery you have that flies above and sees all as they float across these valleys. What you seek I have no clue again and you would think me stupid and a little arrogant as I condemn their intelligence. But no, I do not set myself above them and their wars. I just sit and cast my mind to other things. To eat, to listen for the voice of God if it would come to me. I live as always within a small cave I have built on the Western side of it. Hidden by Gorse and Heather the entrance is enough for me to stoop a little and walk within it. The roof is of stone a small place cracked by the forces of the earth millions of years ago. It forms enough for a bed which I stole from a nearby farm many years ago now stuffed with soft Heather.
My time in it passes slowly and I have lost all thought about the day, the year. I know the Months by the seasons that pass although they have changed since the others upon this Earth decided War and Violence were their end. Pass me by gently as you pass the hedgerows and forests, I walk in them unseen but by the creatures that live within them. Sometimes I see packs of stray dogs that escaped the Cities. Feral things of no honour, they rip the Lamb from the green hillside and chase down the errant traveler. Tread softly around me for I am quick to anger, a thing I may not control. As a beast it is this thing that makes me tremble and I keep it away as I can.
I am dressed in coats and trousers I have picked from the corpses of the soldiers that one day fell from the sky. There were boots and I took several pairs. Socks and things I picked from their bodies as they lay smashed across the Hill that blocked the valley end to my East. These Men just boys, they stared open mouthed at nothing at all and I sometimes wondered how they had come to fall. But the greenness of their garments aided my travelling on some days.
Sometimes when it rained hard and I stayed within the cave my home and felt the magic as it coursed through the stone below to the sky above. I was its conductor and I closed my eyes to drink it in and then vomit it out and this is my existence. To see the world is to step aside and look. Stand as a thing cut off from it’s parent and see with new eyes. I stand in the entrance amidst the hanging plants that shield the entrance and my face is upturned to the Sun above on days when it shows its face, and I dream as the Gramophone player winds through Elvis Presley ‘Love Me Tender’ once more. It is the only thing I possess for my pleasure and I think that sometimes the Gods speak to me through it.
What else would you have me do? I pick the countryside clean and avoid the people who enter it although lately they have grown fewer. All that is left is the faces of those who would kill and be killed, and they never smile at the flowers around the Hedges and the woods or run amongst the Heather on the Hills. They are lost things who close the cold nights with a leer or an angry word. They suffer and bleed for the simple need to sit with their families, if they have them. What anger they hold close to themselves, like me I suppose. Although my anger is spent shouting at the clouds above, I swear upon them with mighty magical words to be gone and show me the face of God. But he laughs again at me as he does, and I am content for a while at the idiotic droolings of something in the darkness as it turns and it licks itself clean as it eyes me with a golden eye.
Blessings as I look to the sky and see the fast jets screaming in the places where there is no air, they fly so high and always travel in packs. The Helicopters when they fly above are always low and have angry men deep within them that makes me cover my ears and run into the shadows of the oak until they are gone. I cannot see the sense in that hate yet, but I think I will.
To the East a Village and all are dead within it. A visit at night some years ago as I remember, they cut them from their homes with blades and hung the bodies from the trees that surrounded that once peaceful place, I wept to see them. I sneaked and I hid from the green clad men and saw what they did that night and I may stand as a witness but who to point the finger at? I have no idea, they are all the same these soldiers. They lack identity and what makes them human can also make them demon….
Oil on plywood 2014
Patterns and senses, pretenses and lies
Ball up the snotty tissue in your hand and look
Away for a minute or two and try to forget
Their hands claw at me for something, I don’t know what
The people stagger and the people rot
Your hair was shiny and glistened in the Sun
Unaware I was of what you have become
My hands touch and discover your flesh again
In the riot of this life pushed together and welded by lust
The crowd moves apart no passion and unjust
Peel back the sense we have of this place and weep no less
Just amble to a different aisle and enjoy the rest
Evil things what blessed voices sing somewhere
You like to unbutton your shirt so the employees feel the heat
They devour you as you walk pretending you don’t see
The lust from them and the love from me
To scatter, sow and fall. The love and hate for them all
In the car you use lipstick to scrawl on your tits
The bitch, no finer fuck than this
But I can’t understand it and never will
To be healthy in the body though my mind is ill
I hold my head as I watch the beautiful way you move
I think in the end I will stagger under the weight
Be classy and shove them off allow yourself the ease of display
Know there is no left path no better way
I slip your bra strap over your shoulder and bite your neck
But you don’t care, you laugh over the trailers on the screen
Why would you? You make me want to scream
But I know they listen as we fuck and enjoy the fractured airs
We disappear we always stare
Your lipstick always smudges and your mascara drips
My seed upon your Red lips
Your underwear cast off and kicked
Your thighs eager wet and licked
But the buckles tight defeat the fight
They make marks in your skin
You pick up your phone to text him
He wonders where you are and if you are safe
You write as a lost and tired waif
But I sit and close mine eyes again and feign sleep
Never drop off don’t fall too deep
He thinks you are having an affair
You are too hot to touch or share
Turn and the universe goes on
This lonely and forgotten son seeks an end
Save to archive and then resend
I sit on the floor as you get dressed and roll another cigarette
Next door they play music too loud I feel the intricate bass
The flicker from the TV lights up your face as you flash around in haste
Outside a dog barks, your taxi is here
Have I made this love too hot to bear?
Too lofty that I gasp for air?
Your stilettos squeak on the floor
I have fucked you like Miles Davis plays
In pain filled nights and bitter days