Another Unfinished Thought on an Unfinished Afternoon

Barking dog blight.

HJM, the old fan-motor, flutters the air and
ruffles the peacock feathers by her bed.
Crumpled bedcover foretells the next Dick.

Hermanos Julián, her next dick
Stumbles through the door,
already ejaculating.

“Pardon my intrusion.”
he guffaws, upon
on her thigh.

Regretting what she ate an hour ago,
she plies her filth as she always does,
With steely stealth,
her fingers reach for the spot,
that coins the sixpence
and gets her home in time for Eastenders.


Up The Anti …

… A friend of mine likes to Ruffle Feathers;
he hit the niall on the head.

Too many remain compliant –
of course they dowse their heads in ice water
because they are bullied to it.
Bullying takes many forms
but sit-on-my-face-book has to be the worst.

I find my blood boil
when I am at that dreadful site.
Despairing at my contacts with rising anger,
“These are my friends?!?”
Of all sadnesses to see my own family
succumbing to the bullies;
the workplace, the social crew, flesh and blood.

Society expects you to do your duty in the name of Charity.
You don’t care about that charity.
I know you and I just don’t believe you.
You were motivated only to conform.

In this world, standing out as different and refusing the mainstream path,
means you are just too fucking weird.
I am sorry for you.

The Cycle

Failing truth seekers
and sickened wounded healers,
watch booted eagles

gather overhead.
Hag Yntall stirs sub terra
and eagles will leave.

She must do her work.
Rotting flesh and foul work bids
Her from the shadow.

Innocence has blazed.
Her last glare of summer spent,
yields fruit for the rot.

Quantum processes
of ancient alchemy,
split and meld and split.

Without foreboding,
death comes to all who wait.
Witness the absurdity –

Recycle bids resurgence.
It was always thus.

New Political Map

It’s harder to mix
with people who chomp
on muscle and blood and bone.

It’s tough being kind
when it’s my choice to be
free of that meat shit, thanks very much.

When my dog sniffs my mouth
she know instantly
her keeper prefers to be dead meat free.

I rescued a goat from a barbed wire fence
and divined in her, trust,
that she was safe.

Experiencing that
as a spiritual gift
changes one irrevocably.

To spout publicly
I have no right and
gives you the right of reply.

“Hypocrite!”, because I eat fish.
Sea life, see life,
see food and I eat it.

“You’re fat anyway,
so what right have you,
pick on my dietary habits?”

None … none, no right at all.
Just leave me to be.
And if I don’t want to watch

you at the trough,
understand, you make too much fuss
about what I do or don’t do.

A Lot of a little

It’s a feeding frenzy
Life is not like that
Facebook addled your mind
Limit, moderate
Don’t waste your time, back and forth with people
You don’t even like
It’s a phase, grow out of it
Newspeak, big brother, fuckin hell.

“Big Brother ain’t watching you mate
You’re fuckin watching him.”

Hanging on and Letting Go

It was a strange full moon,
Cranking up the heat in more ways than one.
I feel so edgy. “Is it me?”

There are expectations.

I cannot. Will not deliver.
How much more must I wear that smile?
The one that tells you everything is alright.

Fundamentally flawed, yet ….

I smell something so sweet, it cannot be possessed. Humans alter their consciousness all the time, in order to understand the most basic. Play with words, why not? Just when did Fundamental become fundamentalist? Fundo – deep, depth in Portuguese. Innocuous… yet fundamentalism is far from innocuous in my book.



You’ve done the unthinkable when you neglect people.
It forces them to forgive you and they hate it.
Have you ever noticed just how ‘nice’ a person gets once you’ve neglected them?
“You were never like this before,” you say.
“Before what,” they say.
“Before I neglected you. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh really, you think so? I never noticed,” they spit.

Hesitantly, here comes Self-Indulgence

Smoking a bowl or two occasionally can either spark or dampen my creativity.  Sometimes, it will lead to a prolific phase of art journaling, or plain old journaling without the art part.  Often, it fuels an evening of tracing links on the net, finding everything extraordinarily interesting and taking me deeper and deeper into rabbit holes as one new link randomly refers to stuff I already know about and am interested in.  This is the great appeal of the internet for me but also the reason I need to get away from it once in a while.

When I feel the quickening pace of interesting input, I find it helps to have a tool in my hand to process it all into my own assemblage of the world around me.  By tool, I generally mean a pen and paper, my minimum recording device, or my ipad (which I have a love-hate relationship with incidentally).

At this point  I feel I should add a favourite quote, one that became the tagline on my now defunct blog, Way Past 13 Moons:

“Sometimes I write drunk and revise sober, and sometimes I write sober and revise drunk. But you have to have both elements in creation — the Apollonian and the Dionysian, or spontaneity and restraint, emotion and discipline.”

― Peter De VriesReuben, Reuben

This is just how I operate, if you substitute stoned for drunk (I am seldom drunk these days, it upsets my stomach and makes me crotchety).  I love to be free to write to whatever voice is loudest in my mind and it is a sublime way to silence it.  Cannabis enables that free flowing of the mind and it just loves the little tangents I take as I try to capture the feeling of the moment.

Editing, as Peter De Vries suggests, is best done in the opposite state to when the work was created.  By work, I mean whatever you create.  Sometimes, the masterpiece created “under the influence”, seems nonsensical or plain dull, when my head clears.  On the contrary, a painting that I’m stuck on, that seems so lacking in potential,  is suddenly full of undeveloped ideas that I am itching to progress, after I’ve had a pipe.

If this all seems like a preamble to my exposing some Dionysian work, then you are right.  After careful consideration, I have decided to post some of the poetry I wrote a few evenings ago.  My internal editor tells me it’s not great work, by which I mean it is not very accessible and has no universal meaning.  It’s self-indulgent stuff and I can’t imagine a readership would get the thoughts that lay behind it.  However, to me it is meaningful and, in particular, it is a signpost to the state of my feelings when I wrote it.  As I blog for myself anyway, I feel completely free to post what I like here but if somebody else gets something from, that is an excellent bonus.


Grace Brothers

It’s hard to ignore the unpalatable truth,
One needs silence from demands of input, input, input.
The first draft is always the best
And cum is not a dish best served cold.
I will escape,
Sitting in stillness,
Breathing in the woods of pine and eucalyptus.

A coruja watches with deception in her eyes.
Why do we continuously upgrade our lives?
We have forgotten gratitude in our clamour for glamour.


A Mixture of Dogma and Indecision



Nostalgia for What Never Happened is the Worst

Please keep me on the net.
I’m hooked and must get my shot.
Overpaid and under worked,
Get your divi,
A bob, a tanner and a half a crown.

How about that,
You necrophile?