Archive for February, 2013

mad dreams and medicine

i don’t know if either help,

body more a carcass

cast off bedding

allowing chill to bite

soon when a season twists

it will be warm

but till that occurs

sleep evasive

those small bugs of slumber

crawling everywhere

but in my eyes,

quick to become husks

on the breath that creates them

seething mass

leaving me untouched

alcohol can disperse them

fear of naked flame,

if only what i know

seen from the back of my eyes

whats true

those synaptic snapshots

of what was , is, will be

eradicating normal transient thought

more bugs with darker intention

those that bring displeasure

turn night into serrated pain

i want for them

knowing i will be covered

and absorbed

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the phonograph x-rayed my heart

revealing my masks

made transparent,

beyond the rain and taxi’s

i had found her seclusion

in naked objectivity,

plaster pale soft crumble skin

body parts watched

with cigarettes and champagne

i saw concealed secrets

and heard songs clearer

than birds in the aquarium,

her surface

seen with ermine handles

places only i would open

was i allowed,

finding folded letters

written already to me,

without violence

her form held more than torso

expression beneath smoke and satin,

i would unfold these letters

contained with words

i must adhere to

without contradiction,

they would not be replaced

paper too fragile

extracted for only the moment

my skin grease dissolved them

immediately and in sadness
yet no regret

only honesty and strength

Venus de Milo with Drawers, 1936, Salvador Dali

Venus de Milo with Drawers, 1936, Salvador Dali

 

magpie tales statue stamp 185

morning translation,
light has a language
that breathes
it stretches shadows
burns across carpets
bends buicks in shop windows
and lights faye wrays face,
my own portion
a partition of day
comes as townes van sings,
i smoke what i rolled
drink what i poured
fragments glitter skitterish
off the glass,
diamonds to the day
abstract punctuation to my thoughts
i think of voices
carried on this light
marching along on lung feet
into my mind
and everyone sounds like scott,
even james garner in his multicolored
mac concealing all of my yesterdays
and his genuine concern,
i need a buick to drive
to see if i can find
him my morning connector
that friend of early light
who now is silent
yet converses in my mind

scott wannberg

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Remembering Scott Wannberg a brilliant and talented writer who was a part of my world briefly but made an impression today would of his birthday and i remember

Posted: February 20, 2013 in Uncategorized

A lovely day

Spikey Mouse Photography

Last week Chris and I went to Formby to see the Red Squirrels. It was pretty quiet in the woods with only a few people walking around but we decided that the best thing to do would be to go off the path and into the trees. We were really lucky and saw eight of the little critters, they were very fast up in the trees but i managed to capture a couple of squirrels at a feeding station.

We then went down to the beach and walked along the tide line, the sun was shining and the day was warm. We found some lovely shells and got some great shots of the sea.

We enjoyed ourselves that much we vowed to return with our children during half term!

We went home tired, sandy and with a bag full of shells that i hope we can use to decorate something…

View original post 37 more words

i left the amniotic starship

landing on candlewick bedspread

unseen behind lace curtains

a sheltered birth,

dad notched his baseball bat

i was number three,

his way of memory

like folded candy wrappers

that something special,

a silent childhood

passed in grey school solitude

born invisible,

home the only place

colors came into appearance

becoming animation

voices and gestures

of laughter and song,

we breathed from

leonard cohens lungs

songs that filled the complete

with mothers long fingered

touch that was protective,

as a notch on a baseball bat

i would not be whittled away,

looking back

i could only think of the

new colors i had found

in my own home

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does trust come from the sky

or is born in the infancy of fire

bathe in it’s shadow

and let it linger in the eye,

no incident can let it go,

dry coughs

awkward glances,

a long thread no more subtle

than saliva from a bottleneck,

to plume of exhausted breath,

open words

sore like wounds deepen,

as if caught on the ocean’s

roughest coral,

intimacy rare no longer needed,

raw pauses

neglected opening of the mouth

silence fell,

a ball of anger now the abandoned

toy in the corner,

term of arrangement sorted

it could go to court

or be sorted now,

with looks , voices and reaching

fingertips,

solving this was hard,

dissolving would be harder

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Posted: February 12, 2013 in Uncategorized