Loving, Depending

Loving,
Depending.
Caving in,
Fumbling,
Burying.
Blinding, in long lines
of bluebells.
Misplaced commas,
She can't touch.
And full-stops
And false starts
Ring red bells
that end everything.
Feelings
I long for,
Loving,
Depending.

I Crave Venus

I'm an astronaut,
And I'm back on planet Earth.
I have a family I love,
and I provide for them.
They're my solar system and my orbit,
And yet I crave Venus.

Christmas Is Universal

They're all sat around,
In snowflake jumpers,
in Islamabad,
Celebrating Christmas
And they're all beckoning it in,
In Galaxy 925 -
And they're saying,
The spaceship can wait,
It's Christmas they care about.
It's universal.
There's not a single place in infinty
that concept can't touch.

Dying Of Old Age

Those orange flowers in the grass by the river in the sun gave way to the boats and the waves and the ducks and the lapping, and it was so warm to the face, and we thought to ourselves that perfect day, "let's lap up summer, while it's here."

And we played. And then we played. The amber bees that borrowed the nectar from the flowers that swayed in the slowly breaking breeze. And it was so calm to the face, and we thought, "let's lap up the summer, while we're here."

Sooner or later, the snow began to fall, and we played, and played like we loved it,
with the laughter and the blizzard and the freeze, so hard on memories.
And I said to myself that day, "Goodbye everything".

I Love Your Pulse

I love your pulse.
It keeps me breathing,
And reckons on bad moves
and free-form regrets,
when the world's a worry.
And my heart is a mess.
I love your pulse.
It keeps me believing,
Establishes good things,
Like a metronome.
That keeps me moving.
I love your pulse.
It's all I'm receiving.

Coal Miner

I'm a coal miner,
I'm a hard-timer,
I'm an undergrounder,
I'm a major-minor divider,
I'm a piano player,
I'm a pitch-black lover,
I'm a bluebird cover,
I'm a black-and-white dove,
I'm a coal miner.

Yours For Keeps

Flames caught the bluebirds' wings,
But she was satisfied,
Flapping through the perfect air,
Yellow when the sun came came down with her.
Pretty as she burned,
And fell to the lake,
Soothing in the drowning.
She's yours. She's
Yours For Keeps.

I Feel Rescued

I feel rescued,
From a cliff face,
With wind howling
in my face,
As the rope I clung too,
Swung me to you,
I feel rescued,
From a mountain,
I couldn't climb,
Wind easing,
But the hope I clung too
Took me to you.
I feel rescued,
From a sea bed,
And wind worthless,
in that place,
You're the boat that came in,
I feel rescued.

Your Pulse Is My Currency

I'll lie here and feel the air turn cold,
I'll lie and watch the night come down, too -
Like a blanket on snow
that covers the pavement
that the beggar sleeps on.

And I'm a beggar for love,
But as long as I can watch you breathe
as you sleep
I'll be happy.

Your pulse is my currency.

Blog In Reverse

Golb

The Lost Unknown

The blog has two names, no real names, two names you see, these two yes these TWO, a name to help you find it and a name by which to call it. If we take away a name you will not be able to find it, but if we take another name you will not be able to know it, which is worse, never finding or never knowing. Perhaps the knowing isn't meant for us, in which case what is the point of the finding. If we find something we do not know do we leave it alone or do we need to know. Does Graham Pronk know about his Tumbleweed Memories has he found them? Or do the known memories of a Tumbleweed in Cyberspace find you? Think on that when you are downloading your X-Factor song you curiously unmoving air breathers

Birth To Realisation

Sky Sweeps Up The Breathing Things And Lemon Trees And Grows When Sunflowers Give Way To Rain In A Rainbow Dream Of Spiral Circles, Battleship Death, And Endless Pain.

Title

Empty

It's Not You, It's ME

This time it really is, though.
After all, look at that title:
See the thing I'm saying there?
See the cliche I'm using for a title?
See the capitals accentuating the point
about who's fault this whole thing is?
I.A.M.L.I.T.E.R.A.L.L.Y.S.P.E.L.L.I.N.G.T.H.I.S.O.U.T.

I'll Leave Flowers

I'll leave flowers for you,
In a trail,
And not because I think they'll make you come to me,
But more that they'll remind me what I should have been.

I'll sleep regrets for you,
In a wail,
And not because I think they'll help me reconcile,
But more that they'll remind me who I could have been.

I'll send lovenotes to you,
In the mail,
And not because I think they'll make you take me back,
But more that they'll remind me how I came to this,

I'll fire bullets for you,
In a hail,
And not because I'm sending out some cry for help,
But more that they can help me through your misery.

I'll leave flowers for you,
By your grave.
I'll leave flowers.

Small Canvases

Small canvases,
Of computer screens,
Using words as paints,
And lines getting longer,
To give the feel of a wave,
That reaches high tide, and lasts just a little too long,
That I have to rein in,
So the tide goes out,
Computer screens,
Small canvases.

End Of A Film

Call A Vulture A Dove - Final Scene (edit)

...and that was the last time I would see her; those hazel eyes I'd grown to love as the affair took hold, sparkling as the mist descended, airbrushing the browns, golds and greens from the park. And that smile, that smile that just spoke more loudly than any cliches I'd crapped from my mouth that summer just gone.

I held her hand one, final time that afternoon, and something in me (well, something in me always did) wanted to make some hollow gesture that, in the circumstances, I couldn't hope to come through with. And so I just said, "Mary, would you reconsider?".

But I knew the answer before the meet-up began, if the truth be told. And, of course, typical of her and so classy, she sipped the remainder of her coffee, winked in that, "You'll-be-OK-but-I-may-mean-something-else" way she has, picked up her cherry-red handbag, slung it over her winter-grey coat, turned and left.

I sat and watched the afternoon give way to the evening, of course I did. What's a man to do? And so I had another coffee and watched the browns, golds and greens disappear into grey, then night, and swirled my milk, and stared into my swirling cup. And then I called some friends.

But some, well some, it seems, I lost along the way, and all the rest were either too lost in love, or too lost in locating that body, from the robbery. Glad I never had a part of that.

And so I traced those steps I took when I met her that first time. And everything came rolling back like a meet-up with an old school friend, but in black and white. The fairground, the lights, the shopping trip, the circus we hated, the shopping trips I hated (but actually, secretly loved), the mid-life crisis coffee that morning, by the harbour, the tears. Oh...

Tomorrow, I'll delete her number, but for tonight, while I sleep, I'll keep it. Call me a fool - call a vulture a dove. But, well, a night's a long time when you're tragically in love.

The End

Hope For Lonely

You can hear the whirring of the electrics when you're lonely,
And passing through the wires that hold your lives apart.
You can hear the needle click as it stops at the end of the song.
You can hear the beat of your breaking heart.
You can hear the rain rolling down the windows when you're lonely,
And seeping through the walls you built for protection,
You can hear the creaking as the ghosts drift across your floorboards,
You can hear your body's dejection.
You can hear the wind whistle where her laughter was, when you're lonely.
And haunting the bones that can't keep out the cold.
You can hear the chime of the clock, telling you the time's run down, finally
(well, it had to, of course... eventually).
And you can feel her,
And you can hold her.
And if you do - who knows? -
She may love you again,
If only for a second.

Couldabeans

Couldabeans,
Aren't good to taste,
They repeat on you,
if you're not careful
And leave a bitter aftertaste.
And they can kill,
if you're not careful,
Don't dine out for long on
Couldabeens.

Japanese Doll

I, I won’t forget the night we shared each other’s heat,
And equally, however you protest,
And laughed, and laughed at the situation that Saturday had us meet.
When the freezing flames of the fire had us beat,
Do you remember that one, Japanese Doll?

I, I remember you, breathing in and out,
Lashes like miniature works of modern art, left for a gallery.
Lips like watercolour moon-crescents, in the sunset
And the freezing flames of the fire.
Do you talk about that one, to your friends, Japanese Doll?

And you, you, you still burn behind my words,
And into my brain, do you think I’d forget you?
Not from here, it’s gone too far, and nowhere far enough,
I pray we won’t shatter like china, I pray.
Like I pray for forgiveness, Japanese Doll.

You are my heat, you are my memory,
The fire will waste its flicker, the flames can burn away.
I’m wasted like a painter with Parkinson’s disease,
Or a homeless man with a blanket and a drag to help him feel.
Reassure me that you are real, Japanese Doll.

My Rain

Rain, there you are again,
Remember the last time,
when you let yourself in?
And I promised I'd not let you drown me again?
But oh, Rain, here you are again,
I suppose you could call me your fairweather friend.

Last time, you fell from my windows
and rolled down my walls,
And I lay there and lied to myself,
And dreamed you meant nothing at all.
I mopped up the mess in the mornings,
But I never could see the storm warnings.

See, last time, you broke my defences,
And I ended up digging down trenches,
And I lay there and cried till the dawn,
And I lied to myself she meant nothing at all.
But still, Rain, you fell from my windows,
and rolled down my walls.

And now, my Rain, here you are again,
I suppose I could call you my fairweather friend.
Do you remember the last time,
when you let yourself in?