Friday, 21 August 2009
byroads littered, leaves in twisted repose.
they meet the sky and aggressively, they compete to win your eye-line exclusive.
shards of light revealing the foregrounds weaknesses.
a visual display of the common and the rare most stupendous.
my heels, sank Southly now, move with no haste, nor sloth...
i am returning now, returning to my home.
where the animals die.
where i die.
Thursday, 13 August 2009
Saturday, 13 June 2009
A single route, tried and tested, rehearsed until sunshine falls from the eyes of the burning giant.
Her 'clips' and 'clops', akin to that of a soft-toed horse, are heard through sleep muted ears.
Her eyes, as wide and dark as pools of immeasurable oil-spill, stare and scan for signs of life..."none but the slow moving, sleep-bound silhouettes", she continues the run through.
Up, up, pause, up and after a time down.
Then across and back again.
A moving carousel lulling to a stop before a disembarking pounce.
As only a semi-sleeper I witness this strange and intriguing ritual daily.
In response I offer greetings and words which may as well be spoken in Gibbon tongue, for they are useless, futile, alien...un-understood.
Our communication is through other, more unusual means.
...I jog, she runs. She hides, I find.
Small squeaks; ambiguous, yet tended to.
Island In Distance
Deep Ocean Death
-flagstaff survey exception 1
my only hand is loose
-flagstaff survey exception 2
without outdoor space
-flagstaff survey exception 3
> SYNTAX ERROR
A Goat orders, for his pastures, a gold green grass carpet.
The Eagle puts recently delivered chain-mail to good use, reinforcing her nest.
Holes and burrows are being spring cleaned and painted with emulsions & mattes. The Vole opts for belly-laugh brown.
The Rabbit, at the foot of the ancient stone mound, depicts a scene from Fantasia using 256 colours.
The Bighorn Sheep, bleeping and baa'ing, is spending quality time with the family by filling the flock-sized paddling pool he installed in the midst of winter.
The Cougar, having explained in a recent 1000 word correspondence, enjoys his new Council fitted Aquability walk-in bathing unit.
The self-conscious Snake, sporting a new multi-coloured Muumuu, frets not about the length of time it takes for her meals to digest and the wrong-doing it does to her figure.
Yep, life is good for the mountain dwellers.
So good in fact that they have took no notice whatsoever of the slow-moving paper chain of people making their way to the summit.
16 hands shaking.
8 heads nodding.
8 mouths speaking.
8 patting shoulders.
Thousands of single hair strands all flailing about.
Two Hundred And Twenty Four teeth being lied through (and none with skin on)
What of the mountaineers on their return?
What of the words they spoke?
What of the coverage and the voice of those they represent?
What of the animals and their 'keep yourself quiet' pay-offs?
Monday, 4 May 2009
High upon the dry-land, oxen.
Friday, 24 April 2009
d e fjord
g h itinerary
j k lumberjack
m n over-turned motorway vehicle
p q rest results
s t union of hands
v w xenoclan
last night i dreamt i was being pursued by the KKK in Lurgan...i remember them chasing me over fields.
i had to hop over hedges and lay flat beneath them.
i got away but, not without some small panic stations being alerted.
the police came and arrested them.
i was safe.
BEYOND...to the aggregator! As everyones pulses race rabid, i think in a run amok format.
Details lend themselves to unrelated objects, to stories unexperienced, to images unseen. 'If we keep ourselves to ourselves we can't be accused of integration'...Our summoner is our keeper, his thoughts overpower ours in terms of public opinion. It is he who stands, vis-en-vis, converses; debates and toils with them and their en-masse views. I for one am glad the role was filled, and by such a levelled chap. His mask wearing face is ferocious and intense. His voice cut from the same stone as dragon's roar and air-turret output. It's only now that our people get regarded, get messages of support. He has become a Demi-God of stratospheric proportions...my keeper, my life-line. As corrupt a man as he is, he has spoon-fed us hope whilst we lay in our womb-like positions.
He thinks in luck. Our borders can no longer be crossed.
yours, A FF
They land on ears and lips, bounce from one head to another.
They are swapped and shared.
They are put together and arranged.
They mean nothing, bowing under the weight of expression.
They are sang and shouted.
They are small and priceless.
They are thrown and spewed.
Acting as both weapon and shield to those who yield, before and after.
Formed from small elements 26.
animals and giants make the greatest of friends.
under a woe, we agasp at sightly humours.
talking with voles and riders about happenings two villages across.
i listen with a venomous reprise...touting and towing.
waving and bowing.
our canals are overflowing.
our boats overturning.
i, bouncing from subject to subject, forget about unhappiness.
holding hands, our hearts entwine and we start to believe in colour.
at the days end the wind brings us home to the laps of our loved ones.
hair shining like silky weaves.
mouths open and closing with comforts we, carfeul not to tread on their sleeves, that is where their hearts lay you see, sing string sounds and bell tones.
skipping skipping skipping underneath a garden.
The pessimism of night turned into an orange optimism, laden with pink thoughts and red hope undertones.
The silence fell and as if by magic turned us from our positions, threw us from our soft-palettes into hardened balance. The squeaks of slumber become steam-trains and slippered foot-steps.
Rushing aimlessness and laughing quarters.
Today brought a tickle, lack the bubble-pot cauldron her throat once was.
Mud pool skies observe.
Blues omitting disapproval.
like flying cars with rusted hinges.
'are there any peaks left to roam?', my fellow speaks in earthly tones of terracotta and gold.
i understand but, with my deafened tongue i cannot reply.
i know that there are not.
if i speak his heart will break...
cared for by dwellers and their assistants they guard and parade in unison.
their small faces and larger than life heads clap out rough rhythms at march-band tempos.
t r u m p * * speaks their snare-drum * b a n g * shouts their Bassoon.
a job vacancy description reading '...must be a better Wolf' hangs from a broken branch.
a giant plough formation is the centre of the carnival they paint, depicted by twigs and ferns.
s n a p * * goes their foot-steps * c r a s h * their whispers.
as the sunlight fades they make merry their time and vacate.
'one more day over' is heard being said through damp curtains.
T H E N
- a silence that erupts upon faces like a mute volcano.
the light-lamps grow dim now...
A route akin to what we are familiar with.
We lend each other words and syllables, finishing off our sentences with descriptions of pictures seen and imagined.
The sun lay between us as we slept.
Awake now the moon hums to us, we know not each other anymore...
Our songs are in dialects differed.
Our hands rivers and seas apart.
At least we had that one moment.
At least, we can ...
can we build upon broken stems?