Hello to all of my faithful and attentive readers...

Thank you for your dignity and silent irony ...

and polilite distance.

it's good not be alone ...Hello... hello...

hellooooo...

Got a song for you... no tune ...are you listening?

Ding Dong
Pussy’s…
Well…
Streets are empty
Streets are wet
And what’s the bet
When I get home
She’s in bed
…somewhere
I can’t write music
I can’t sing
Can’t hold a note
Although I’ve been told
That I really do hum
Very well
But
It’s not enough
It doesn’t cut the mustard
So
I wrote a song
Folksy and blue
About
A bloke like me
A girl like you
Not exactly breaking
New ground
With sound
Anyway
Even if she is
Very young
I am very old
But
You didn’t know
Until you were told
So
This is her song
what’s Wrong
With that?

Song

Nothing moving
Nothing changing
J’est disapproving
j’est rearranging
Everything’s going to stay the same
and we’ll go on playin’ the same …..
Old game
Nothing blowin’
Nothing shakin’
Can’t help knowing just can’t help takin’
Everything’s going to stay the same
and we’ll go on playin’ the same…..
Old game

Nothing doing
Nothing shaping
Words keep spewin’ reels keep tapin’
We all know it just the same
yeah we all know it’s just the same
yeah we all know it’s just the same
yeah we all know it’s just the same
Cos’ everything’s going to stay the same
and we’ll go on playin’ the same…..Old game

Writer's Block

WRITER'S BLOCK

Waiting for wise words to come
Rigor mortis numbs my brain
I'm waiting for that sugarplum
To ease my mind, release the pain
Enrich me with a poets wit
Rewarding this empty page
Send me endless amounts of it
Blow away my tedious rage

Let sun set take this day
Oh! night, spare me, let me sleep
Condemned, in endless night to lay
Killing time with ten thousand sheep.

THE ROOM

Books and discoloured prints laid scattered all about the library's floor and furniture. Small dusty feathers web strands and tangled spanned the stacked books like delicate bridges. The air in the room hung motionless thick and musted by time it smelt richly pungent liken to that of winter stored apples.

A glazed light streaming soft diffused shafts of afternoon down into the centre of the library lit the scene. The bound volumes, which lined the walls on every side, formed antique coloured colonnades reaching from floor to ceiling.

John had no idea how he'd come to be at the portal of this room, only fleeting blurred images. He faintly recollected climbing a wide staircase aware of a smooth polished handrail, and deep sumptuous carpeting beneath his feet. Ornate gilt-framed oil paintings hung on dark panelled walls that echoed with distant faraway voices.

John felt unsteady, floating as he entered the room the atmosphere surrounded and smothered him as tiny bells rang and chimed all about him. The next moment he was at a table turning the gilt edged leaves of an opened volume. Vivid illustrations that passed before him were clearly pornographic and yet somehow he approved even admired.

The ancient penned copy which accompanied this prurient splendour detailed in most unusual narrative accounts of himself and others which left him shaking and breathless with desire.

Spellbound the book and others like it opened and fluttered, they began flying through the air spinning and falling heavily against the furniture. He felt a myriad of touches against his skin enveloping his body like warm wet mouths, while cool fingers, and sweet perfumed hair guided sweet caresses and him into oblivion.

Missionary Position

Livingstone was a missionary pig
He taught the words of our Lord
Well, he just ‘up sticks’ one day
He jumped a ship, and sailed away
Do you think perhaps he was bored?
He married a black African princess
A lovely delicate bloom
Who was happy indeed
To stay home and crossbreed
As was Livingstone

I presume...

Kate is a barmaid

She’s over there
I’m over here
Drinking in wishes
Swimming in beer
She’s
Heard all the stories
Made all the moves
Smokes in banality
Nothing improves

She’s over there
I’m over here
Topping up dreams
Still drinking beer
She’s
Heard all the sad songs
With only one tune
Foul four lettered clockwork
Be over soon

She's over there
I’m over here
Bottling frustration
Drowning in beer
She’s
Heard the drink talking
Articulates each slur
Same again tomorrow
Life’s just a blur

Jean is Such a Busy Lady

She spends most days
Doing things
Golden rings
Her undoing things
Yes
Doing things and doing things
Oh!
What joy it brings
Listen how her heart
It sings
Now she’s busy
.Doing things
She spends most days
Doing things
Pulling strings
Her undoing things
Yes
Doing things and doing things
Oh!
What joy it brings
When she’s busy doing things

Blueberry and Bangledown

Blue

Blueberry and Bangledown blew into Main Street through thin wisps of dawn.
Whirling colour and light spinning in their wake, yesterday was behind them as they flew through the crisp new morning in the rustiest dustiest automobile you would ever wish to lay eyes upon.

Bright eyed and bushytailed, eager beavers both, they swallowed up each others words, whisky and beer with an all consuming passion as they drove through the small town.

“Do you think you killed him Blue?” shrilled Bangledown. “Mind and hope I just know you did”.
“Ooh yes", answered old Blue, blowing out his cheeks.”
“For sure, did you catch the expression he was wearing? he excelled in that moment", oh yeah, I watched him, looked right down into his face as he went dancing into the white light.”

“Shoot Diddly Pick… the white light?”. Gushed Bangledown.

Despite the outward appearance of the ancient Plymouth Pontiac sedan the powerful engine purred sweetly on through the early morning and on out of town after a couple of miles they hung a left and bumped down a dusty side track.
“Do you think she’ll be out of her bed yet?” said Bangledown.
“Well if she’s still in her pit, you can be sure she ain’t sleeping”, replied Blueberry with a knowing wink. Both men exploded with laughter and were still laughing when they parked up outside the small, shaky flakey painted cabin that was the home of Miss Chocaloulou Valdere.

Kingsley - The Friendly Gourmet

Kingsley was a fairy cake
A cherry sugar pie
And when he saw a pig go past
One that took his eye
He’d invite that pig to lunch
And when ever he was able
He’d be sure to choose a table
By a window where they’d munch
On Weetabix and acorn soup
And all kinds of fancy stuff
Then Stilton cheese
If you please
And as if that were not enough
They’d partake of fine French wines
And black coffee from Brazil
They’d finish with a lager
It’s small wonder they weren’t ill
They’d lunch and crunch
Until the day was gone
Replaced by a thousand stars
C'est la vie pour un porc
As they puffed on long cigars
Kingsley invites his friend
Pour une boisson
And once back at his flat
They dispensed with the chat
They snorted and cavorted
And sold them selves short
Kingsley begged him to stay
To spend the night grunting and shunting
And practicing safe sex
You know

In the old fashioned
Piggy way!

Three stones

When the sea, silver and shining
Gently kissed the long shore
Running quickly back shy from straying too long,
Scattering warm breezes that tousled my hair.

I thought of you.

Crooked driftwood covered in seaweed
Scribed out your name in the shell bound sand
It brought you closer until all too fleeting the sea.
I called out your name upon the tide changed wind
Your voice was soft and light
Locked in a tiny silver shell
The beach was lonely and growing cold
Salt lashed, my eyes smart and sting
Starlight came

Fire dancing to blue liquid music
I could taste the sea on my tongue
Ancient as time

I stooped to pick up three small stones.