ArtWork of Ken Simm
ArtWork of Ken Simm

Unsuitable for readers under the age of 18.

Unsuitable for readers under the age of 18.  

This last week up a mountain.

The experimental jet screamed into the clouds across the mountains. I painted you into the landscape from memory from on high I watched the ghost of a friend walk across the end of the silvered loch I climbed the black corrie in the massacre glen and I did not feel like coming down. I lay in the sculpted snow on the crag summit and found it so easy to fall asleep, saying no more is useful the strings of an orchestra played through my ears in technology concerned with losing the sound of aircraft booming.

The clouds gathered like ominous periwigs colluding in a court of old men The hundred year old snow snapped beneath the weight of my stalking slowly as rocking I peregrinated across a knife edge a thousand feet from anywhere It darkened and began to snow. My friends ghost walked with me for a while before giving in to temptation and shouted murder the thousand foot drop to nowhere. Cloud water fell down the mountain and an orgy of blackbirds with red bills surf rode the edges liquid choughing their chuckling sounds of high delight There was a rock up there that belonged to me and it is immortal if it changes then so do I. Morphing into something else. It is still up there. You can see it from here usually. I talked to your memory image and worked out why you do not wish to speak of love any more. Because you have not been given permission by the feelings that rule. But still I painted. And still I wondered from summit to foot. Wind froze and carpet snow swirled, displaying and lifting its skirts for all to see. I sweated beneath my waterproof. Eating was a hand full of cold snow mushed with dead flowers.
Drinking was the same. Ten year old mature single snow. One booted footprint that could be today or Arctic man Friday weeks ago but is not mine. Drawing across the virgin on to the flat surface of the ridiculous and laughing at the stupid, suspect, play on words. Phone beeped as jet returned and I could not hear the conversation. Wondered if it was you. Then decided it was not. I scree jumped down. All the way down careless and unconcerned. Nothing that I wanted to happened. Even your landscape painting remained safe. The music in my ears roared louder until I stopped it.

Yesterday then was a criticism of Mountains




I hid in a drawing I had done in my latest sketchbook I made it so complex to infuriate and tease you. I then put it to the wall because I still have a problem with the criticism of mountains and talent that takes the place of all practise.. I then got a clicking message asking if I would like to review a board made of light. You can draw with anything. From your toe in wet sand to a laser on the side of a mountain. Which is more devils honest? I wonder slightly terrified.. The sky is uninterrupted in its singing and the slopes have cloudy versions of themselves curtain opening onto a proscenium.

The exhibition I intend having on my sleeve is coming on. I was told I needed to retire. Teach only by example This was another message just before I missed my horse and walked the dogs along the glen to the Bothie. Streams thundered snow melt and new flowers yawned. I imagined playing imaginary Pooh sticks with bones under a fallen log on the upper falls as I did when before. Part of the hundred. Ah yes, the past is another country and its population is regret. It goes where the stickbone goes, tumbling along time cataracts and falling white into memories.. I was asked what I wanted on my tombstone when talking about the ghost. I thought for a moment and then said, He Forgot, thankfully.



I felt like going up into the snow melt Sunday sunshine as the valley and my drawing became evening darker. The sun hid behind the hills more than a little concerned. But if you move your position by even a hairsbreadth the whole concept of the drawing changes. So stay, I said to the dogs. Draw what you see. Not what you think you see. This is the whole of the law. You must understand it to ignore it. Drawing is thinking in another language that is the opposite of temporal. There is and was an arch of light above me and an eagle clasping a cliff side rock eyrie. A steel blue flashing rescue crossed the bridge far, far below, where I cannot go and I clasped my drawing book to me as it got wet with large snow. Wild goat and Stag bounded and I wished I could to, with you.

Last year was halcyon perhaps.



It was first of all a kingfisher, halcyon fishing bird from my foot. The bird that left the ark second and flew upwards to take the colour of the sky before turning and the sun burning breast feathers, russet. Last year was painting again in the dark when you came and went, came and went, like the seventh wave. Painted mountains were giants shouting in the distance as I drove towards them and looked forward to being lonely. Skies were lidless and shiny. Eyes were bright and places were wet.


Cantering on my chestnut missing the tide was everyday last year and I was happy to give up whisky and I finally let the dog dreams of chasing on my favourite chair whilst I planned paintings. Last year I saw the Isle of the Silver Otter and smelled instinctively the memory brine on the rockward side of the loch. Collected stones were kept in medicine jars along with small thoughts of dominance. Sunrise was filled with gulls crying and clamouring like children for wistfulness, followed by sandwich short days of nothing much as bladderwrack popped and crabs scuttled clack.

And last was sunset brush stroked, feathered and intended. Last time, last year was heartbeat running through the grove of large pines whilst listening to baroque counter beat. My new running shoes hurt my feet for a while. Just as my old thinking warned and warmed me. Lonely can be in a crowd and crowded can be all alone with oneself. Several people said this to me. Progressive rock and fantasy were still favourites and work began selling. Last year the dog otter cracked his food on a rock below my watercolour and I showed him first of all to a new interest .



Gorgeous was painted from you and entered in an eye competition and I sailed around the islands to the sound of you loving. Don't go away, you said and how will I know, you questioned? But you did and so did I, last year.

Long Ago and far away in a room of glass.




I remembered this as I watched the workmen fitting in a fibre glass mountain. Cutting the parts to intricate fit. I am intrigued beyond measure at these and the fey pine tree telephones that glow. The old fuel pump down the road from where I sit today, thinking these things, is covered in spiders. Attracted by the colour? Or the excretions? You were the first and the last and the same one in the cities and fields and up the mountains. Cities do tire more than several thousand feet into the crags. I wanted to show you so much. Walking slowly where I said and wrote, as a heron, a red heron, she walked past the city dead cenotaph, refusing politely. A minute in the life of the world is going by, said Cezanne, paint it as it is. Just yesterday morning Cezanne they let me know you were gone.

Giants stalked the land then in my wishes and the dark was like treacle. Loneliness that later I came to accept or even betimes, seek; was a small room with orange walls and a green wicker cabinet. Looking out across a clay pit and into a 15th Century farmhouse with a moat, horse hair plaster walls and a chill civil war ghost cavalryman. I found his pistols in a priest hole. I heard his spurs on the stairs. We found a maze carved into a rock face in the south and you read that the same one had been found in ancient Mesopotamia by a Victorian archaeologist. We read Scheherazade and Schopenhauer and synchronicity was because of that.

You came to brief grief visit and you left my album of Celtic harp music on the doorstep and left without speaking. It was 28 years before I saw you again. You criticised constantly. I was diagnosed as suffering from your criticism. Now you are thousands and seven criticisms away and I don't know what to say.

Apologies are for the initiated and the landscape of sorry is Bosch bedevilled and sealed hermetic written. Once long ago and far away in the north, we watched people escaping a fire in Woolworths. We knew that some had died and we held hands closely because you were married. You had auburn hair and you became a model and I a teacher. And then you were a teacher and I made films. Then I sold trees and you looked after a gallery. Where we met and you asked for failure.

This is about, you and the myriad you, finger pointing and shaking, not me. Only my reaction When we met and fought and eventually fell. Long ago and far away, yesterday and here. We have platonic covers over however old our souls are. Leave me messages in spaces and say good morning with after image traces. Leave me notes and occasional kisses. Say goodnight longingly as we go to our separate beds in our wondered wandered rooms of glass.




So consider learning about the birds in the winding gear of Lancashire.

Me walking through the tall grass of childhood with wet feet. Considering this. Two short eared owls flying low out of the snow mist across the brick making clay pit. Double barbed feathered wings silent. This is no accident. The Steppes of Central Asia, Borodin was favourite for dreaming and conjuring on a mono radio. Listening to myself when jumping down the grey canal embankment was pleasure enough. Large barges drawn dragging by large horses silent too except for whip crack cold, calling feathered feet dragging from the pit head. Coal shining contrasting snow. Rides into town with barges on his back and back again with one friend dog on Saturday. Other friend left when he fell into a mud pit and drowned with his snot nose. Watching finally black and white wrestling and old men and boxes with small flickering. Next door Mr Lawrenson was deaf and next door Mr Barker was bedridden and dead. He will not harm you even if his mouth opened his eyes and grave noises came gurgling up throat tunnels. Dad drunken spitting, sprawling and bleeding heart attack eyes and rough whiskers against skin. Peeing forever into the outside wall pipe tin bath clanging below my window. Never stopping and coughing and beating. because I heard what my Father was. Mothering dropped half a crown on the floor and it hit her on the back of the neck. Mother and sisters did not spend money except on themselves. All clan eight. So around the coal pit slag heaps with an old bath pram squeaking collecting and running away from Uncle Bill who saved it . Working in the greengrocers, for the witch bitch getting mice in my mouth and rats on my legs. And you don't know you are born for a pound a week. Stolen by Mother always. But seeing the small tits of the girls in the boxes of cabbage.
Not down the pit or up to the mill. Education is a talisman. Why work with your hands when your brain will do better? Why work with your hand when you can draw it, playing with yourself? Dialect donkey work all that was left for all the others. And the winding gear is gone so we cannot see our way home. But learning is better done alone.

Look, there's a town called misery and of that we'll have none.

So sang the Bonzo's at Dog banned University. Words from this bloody bailiwick, ha, ha.

Pink elephants on a Dalek and two tone ghost music in the studios of the city. Friends that stoned died and of that we will have none. Its always lots of fun. But we did and it did not work. Ah, someone said, but is it art? It is if I say so said Duchamp amongst others. L.H.O.O.Q.E.D.




Now Bohemians were 19 weeks in a small packed television and love paint making was in an equally small, smelling of stale piss studio behind an Irish pub just before the centre city blew up and took them with it.

Policeman waking me in the small hours in a shop corner doorway. Told him I was waiting for the Christmas sale.




Famous Lovers Do, Party Art you see through do. A completely transparent three piece complete with extra under what were you wearing. Wiping up her vomit with a twenty pound note. Two from conscience in a single bed. The only thing worse than a drunken woman.

Showing playing happening we did, festivals we had, did we not? reviews from the Fine Art Rescue Team. Who played drawing darts and had legends on shirts. With the Ballet James Bond and someone put no pondering at any time on all the street signs.




We really like your painting, said the German tutor on his own. You can draw, he said. Not many can nowadays. Draw me a copy. I am here to be taught. So where have all the teachers gone? Sounds like a folk song Love studentship. Fail and fail again to see the pointed question.




Sights from this balls up bailiwick. Contained stupid men and semen. Blow jobs and blow up was fashionable. Loved and lost along the river run and not at all in their right minds.

Beautiful went missing for three years, Hah. Art went missing for a lot longer, oh. Pity kitsch did not what it could to should not allow. Ars longa bloody vita blessed brevis and not just putting rock back on the map. Avoiding pushing peeling plural pills want not forever and winging my way into your confident support, just before you left wearing my denim shirt. And the case he found in your flat could have only held a needle. But it did hold an inked pen and so I hit him on your behalf.

Listening to a very stirring sabre dance whilst missing a visually exciting scene, was the title of a friends portrait of me and mine and what was missing. Do you think?

Sequential Quentin came and went, dear boy, along with other guest speakers. On defining a life style. The band started playing became famous and we painted the murals.

K died after and so did ill badly. In blue je 'taime encore rainbows of soft vowel velvet and long hair shirts. I could tuck mine into my headband you know how it was. Long and thick. The hair.

The thesis, was Apotheosis normally bestowed on younger artists by the higher echelons of the critical establishment. Long and thick, the thesis and meaning nothing according to my niave heroes. Like all those years of nonsense in classroom mushroom training to nonsense working for a living along along oh and from that to nonsense marriages of foolish souls in already foolish study stud stories.

When we all needed calm.

 

Now a loose conglomeration of pictures views in an exhibition.


Words falling away give enough rope to do the dirty and Mussorgsky plays. Picture light shafts in past 2001 and watercolour spills. You know what to do if you spill red wine on a carpet, say I? Draw the shape of a body around it so you have a murder to talk about with friends. Why do people murder relationships? Re done relationships. Re cooked and slitted ox fat roasted into arguments that are never clear streams and never successful cataracts. Cooking is done when the juice runs clear. Dream of my children. Dream as they were not as they are. Dream a little dream of me. Confusion kicks right into the solar plexus and takes the wind out of everybody sailing. The music flashes blue on the new machine and I paint in the conservatory. Being told not to get anything messy. This is the whole of the law according to whom? According to both the incumbents who thought it less important than the curtain material or the new kitchen. Pretty messy, pretty portraits, painting pretty. Leave the second to their own devices. Go away to be alone and cosy in the highlands and this time make a mess like Francis Bacon's studio. He said he always does his women an injury with an axe. A voice out of nowhere said once, read Odyssey. I presumed Homer not Joyce. I was wrong, Stephen Daedalus was the portrait and I was young. I've noticed that we tend to forget what is unexplainable in our present paradigms. I took a girl down an old railway and a monster came out of the dark. It is only now that I realise that the monster was her projecting. A poltergeist of gestalt's, out from the woods. I listed all my intangibles. What a bore. What a stroke of sympathy. She hates art now in favour of the new technology fatted calf. She hates mine in particular. You are not earning enough sweat to waste painting writing time she says. And don't write that down. Married and hungry. Not a good combination competition. As I said give him enough rope and she will say the famous thing to regret. He will then use the rope to climb his own paranoia. Just because you are does not mean they are not out to get you. Sly isn't it? Wash the whatever on a weekend morning to make sure time is not wasted. Walk the dry DIY and find a guillotine. Use it fashionably. Cut the money and have none. Bring elements together of a periodic dinner table and use the relative values to purchase a new one. Then ignore the relative whoremonger who does not visit and you probably would not recognise anyway. Be confounded and realise too late that art is the only way out. But there is no door to this picture.

So she turns to get undressed and a window opens.

This time and forever was an instant experienced, naked.

We stood under trees in the rain when the air it was green. And we looked for a sun dog at the end of the rainbow, contemplating this romantically for a while. This was your legend. You have still to see what I can do with a class of wonders and that is remarkable but stubborn. When I find the learning listening styles from the children and come at them learning to learn. Look, draw what you see, not what you think you see and then speak the language you have learned in order to say what you have learned to learn Although you did not see me ever doing this, you were absolved involved as each contributed contemplation ethics. If you allow unprotected discipline then they have won and thirty years of not allowing was enough to retire on. The head of the Templar Knight and Bacon were one and the same, brazen and clanging harsh. Speaking in tongues. The code is in the first five books. The idea comes from the royal DNA. throughout the centuries diaspora. Thinking laterally about your tea-I-ching and complete the ceremony with a certain compliance complexity. A man rides in on Friday, three days later he rides out on Friday, how? Educate your thoughts in secret and let me read them. Don't interrupt when I am reading about them secret history hidden in esoteric thought police. It is accepted that physicians cannot cure their own; in the same way teachers cannot teach themselves. I could not teach you yourself after thirty years of inner experience because you knew better from instant experienced now. This teaching is part of my learning. Everyone can draw, if only with words. An artist learns to be artistic but not creative. We learn to use our eyes and in doing so we develop a sense of drawn perception. Nothing complex couples with this standing under the light filled tree and drawing with the smoke that comes out of my mouth. With the seedling that sticks to you when it drops. Sticking to your spiral. Sticky Bob. There is only one place to trace a spiral on a woman and the single flower spear stands upright in its vase. What the flower is depends on you. The nicest thing is when you pull you towards you and stand naked behind me.

We sip the flood that drowns us, inevitably.

Stepping on stones that are no longer there. The choice creations we have actively creatively compared. I first drew a duck on the back of an brylcreemed primary school photograph with a thick pencil.
I remember sitting locked in the bathroom reading Robinson Crusoe all day. One of the few presents I got. All with thorns. I remember Walter De la Mare and quinqurimes from Nineveh in an old maids classroom. We have all the time in the world. To caress cross our bravery and meet our makers. Locked tight in huge families of cotton and cold coal.
And onward to study the remains of this year of days locked again repeating as parrots with no understanding. To education that no one could see the value of but me and the old man down the road. Getting a world of trouble because I could not cut a straight line. And later...
Loving too much to break down for ever with a syringe in the base of a spineless spine. Only one moment in forever. Please my helplessness hit me so I may focus. The Doctor, I don't want to feel this way forever. A lost month of wishes not wanting to cry any more. Don't, continued the Doctor, read that, read this. A choice between Joyce and the x-ray specs in the back of Superman.
And everybody has got to learn this in this way as the mellotron played. Strike the chords and wonder if you will get home from self imposed exile in your France.
The green woodpeckers of the gypsies and the black potatoes and mint they fed us. A single chord on a church organ shines frosted coloured through the window dedicated to St Michael. A Gauguin Christ lowered in yellow fields. Straw hat drunk in the marshes of the south. The crows of San Remy in homage painted later in loved colours. A woman singing in a bedroom above the street.
The same one in a Loire scullery stripped and asking if I liked in flawless English. Of course I did. Oh I did, it was forgetting that was the problem. Yes was way and Ampereheure bien, je vous connais maintenant, was all you said at the end.

Now this orchard and spirit kept me as quiet as dead thirty years ago

Considering hermeticism and all its ramifications rapidly expanding above and below. Given the reading matter I was courting. Returning from home thoughts from Browning foreign weather it was coldly indifferent to any of my plights. Nothing could be done and nothing to stop him beating until I experienced this by measured consideration. So I returned to the street in the middle of nowhere and the wild wood, the light less valley and the dirty rotten railway mine. It was interesting that I cried for the loss of jobs when all the coal slag had done was kill. I made a film of it, now lost. No one understood the aesthetic ether on celluloid and you had married someone else according to diaries. So I cut my hair and my fashion statements, such as they were and studied once more. I studied and considered and cuddled with Robert Graves, with his white goddess. I found out that there was Beelzebub had a grandson and there was a Confederate General at Big Sur. That Fowles had the same Magus and The Glass Bead game was playing. I discovered that the body sang electric, and Caligostro had ideas. It was then that I burned all the diaries on the highest hilltop I could find with a large degree of pagan pleasure. Writing and painting were out and a certain succubus called Alexion visited most evenings. So I wrote about her before she died, like some others I loved. She sank into the bed behind me and I felt her spoon herself against me. They took me in ringing tones small birds on the pits of sewage and showed me dead bodies in the same morgue. Two old men with a penchant for pornography, hot scalding tea and a lyrical longing turn of phrase. The bodies were kept under wrapping in the back of the sewage farm, dust to dust, shit to shit, slit to slit and dead to doornail. The farm was at the end of a long double row of poplar trees and an orchard that was as incongruous as a.....and the bakery and laundry in the mine. Alexion lisped when she cried, orgasm and I loved what she taught me.

If I told you once, I told you a million times, don't exaggerate.

 
So you tell me, so you say as if you knew what it is like. As a story begins it never ends. As a line without a beginning or an end. A circle you may think. The ideas are not the new without spiralled culture. Culture shocking is wrong with winging but why then say the one thing you know will hurt the artist? The person who does at least try, he said whining weakly. When we threw our joints into the black hole light well, or when we made love in an electric storm. Do I really remember that? Let things lie about themselves. Let me live in the warm stupor of my lack of criticism exorcism without telling me that I'm wrong. Let me lie in this conciousness bath of extremes with battles between art and technology a million miles away, but don't take it too far. Let me write a story without and within my story. It does not have to make sensitivity or serrated feelings in your conditions are all you ever want. You dreamt of your dreams but you will all despicably destroy some one else's to make yours come true. Why do you do that? Putting all those adverbs in the way. All men and women, who you say are a separate species, have the righteous, inalienable right to be a right person and you cannot be wrong because you are you. There is no need to create your visions until what you produce as artwork is the same as your dreams because your games will be given to you without price. Again because you are you. There then becomes no such thing as education because what is the point? They will give you everything you need. Your conception of paradise involves no movement. No creation and the word is Om or is found only in plural pent up Pentatuach. Or in a criticism of the holy word of old Nick. I watch a roadside of grass with attendant dryad's detritus and I wonder from whose livery lives? I watch lighted windows from my train dusk drama and I wonder who has my painting tucked up cosy in their head.


Excerpt from a lighted lighting. Ah Alexion what did you do to me? I can smell my sea in briny becalmed sheets. I can hear my gull rocking on the wind and I can see my distances to the islands of Hy Brassil. That is why we like the west. Because there is heaven. Little dreams, do you savour the taste. Are these inventions? Do you invent your dreams? Do you create mystical systems? Films from a dream factory, games, interactive. Are your dreams compositions? Does mind submerged below talk to mind above in weird collision course empathy? Look at the beast, consider Hermetic thought. As above so below. Is it redundant, as you will probably find, to dream when all around is strange, new redolent and vivid with sight and sound? Of course dreams are evocative. But are they now also the by-products of boredom? We could suspect that vivid dreaming is one way of perhaps gaining some answers. Producing the unexpected from the consciously uncreative mundane. This would imply external force. Is this necessarily the case? Do the Gods have dreams? But then you cannot blame them.

It begins and ends with an acoustic melody that I have some sympathy with.












 

The most orgasmic/organic coloured piece of music is the second movement of Rodrigo's blind Concerto de Aranjuez. You hoped your excellent hopes throughout the rightness of courtships and safety. It was a wishing for pieces taken from our little drama's that began with a line of words caught in our imagination, or an image. Perhaps a blue motorcycle flying slowly down the nave of a Cathedral in the snow. Or an armchair resting in a field of poppies with a strange flags. Coloured with pencil crayons.

As if you understood. I understood.

Lots of things that perhaps others did not get. Films and eclectic erotic novels. We have a problem Dave. Atsa no feesh, Seen things you would never dream, an air that kills. Being the mote in God's eye. Soft machines. If not, not by the Kings of Aragon. There was some remonstrating against the continuity of indolence. So I end up painting dogs and horses so as not to go stir crazy in these manifold minefields.. Not that anyone sees anything wrong in that.

Didn't someone say that art and home life is oil skimming on water. Andre with his celtic surname would like that. Put it in the manly manifesto he would say and we would oblige, taking it in the slides during the endless history lectures. Finding our days are defined by fifty five and then ignoring our lesion lessons. Cutting up the pieces. Unless we are observed by the five criteria. Five Sufi  masters for five jokes. Standing in our sunlit mote classrooms up to our armpits in closed questions. You sonny, answer questions four, five and twelve on pages.... Now who are you? Learn how to spell antidisestablishmentarienism.

It seems obvious now but you need to learn to learn. Your belly is like a heap of chaff floating on the biblical breeze. Your thighs are alike as two pieces of dough to make the unleavened bread and wickedness is women. This you believe fully on occasion when you say it after the many endings.

Love nor lust never lasts. So burning notebooks is justified. Then you suddenly remember trying to catch a crow with your coat and impressing with your sensitivity local knowledge.

Wet and I am laughing.

Within darkness, books, into small rooms and fantastic shadows…

The sticky dogma of newness in linen beds of hoping.

Memories fade as new follows old.

 

 

 

Concerns that were once apocalyptic, or so we thought. Ideas, ventures of a new kind to lead us on beyond the meagre benefits of our existence, blighted by what has been lost through foolhardy passions. Coming too soon or too late. What does it matter if chances are not taken when feelings consume beyond our understanding.


We are fools, that at least is evident. Talk not of our foolishness and remember.

The nostalgic black pigs that haunted every sensitive childhood down there.

It upset me to find that the bear/bull/boar legend had not been born. Born to be Mithras legions. In the west or anywhere else. That was my site for pig ghosts, the pestering sun. The ghosts of black pigs fed on cardboard running through the houses late on certain nights of time.

With post mortems of everything and everyone's voices given full salute when depression sets in like a dull storm of slanted pig raining.

Depression education was and is important because only when you discover can you dismiss with impunity. With that being what we did. All the unexplained monsters under the bed and down the dark lanes. Regretting nothing, gaining nothing, achieving and understanding, but still wondering when it comes around again.


 

Carbon tree ferns found on slag heaps and burning the carpet in front of the open fire used to dry the washing. Why were they called maidens? Keeping the petrified trees in a pill bottle that was never used for anything else. Collections of pyrites fools polished and shelved. A magazine book of birds. Collecting nature as a school prize to applaud an essay on loneliness. Why don't you draw it? They said. Why don't I understand it? That was the start of wanting. That was the end of really hoping.

Find the cycle of legend and make its sense in visual terms. Paint the true round table, silver shadow across the water. Fish every Summer when they were long lifetimes of light and timelessness, with big head and plate face.

Add the light of reasonableness to the things that are red read ahead of all the others. March with half a million to continue what you detested. Hide while you read. Always keep them secret from those who refuse and want only to give strange names to their children.

Kingfisher sat on your toe. Weasel ran along your fishing line on a simple raft in a clay brick pit. Grebe and damselfly mated under your acid eye. These are the moments of tranquillity. Given your choice of course, of course. Using ammunition boxes nailed together as a boat whilst others sank it in spite

Find a plastic bag full of Healthy and Efficient playing of volleyball and hide it for future reference under the floor boards of next door's Saturday. Take them to the bathroom or under the hawthorn edge hedge with lots of pricks.

Walking with a wet cane through wet grass, down tight trousers to beat up the bloody sorry bullies meeting in a club under the trees. Oh, how we cried when the eccentric built his car from hardboard and that was the only reason he was your friend. Oh, how we cried when father beat for beating the bloody bullies. Bloody. He cried and I cried and we both moved away from friendship into distrust and ambition. Later into what we hoped was creativity or the uncertainty of new belief and a kind of happy clapping..

Brass bands played and milk tables held metal churns. Shops sold Spanish and Kaleidoscope powder in the corner of a paper bag for half a coin. No one would understand the highest pleasure of this nostalgia, now would they?

Near the Island of the Saint and the Illuminated Manuscript.

I was told I like blondes but I've never been with one. But you were. Sitting, striking the arm of my armchair reading by the light of my very old lamplight and listening to the wind as it cried across the Viking Dun above the beach of the dead whales. Wondering about these islands that I've come to in latter times. The small one is Inch with my name. You were like the islands, blonde when I first knew you but not later. Perhaps you were elder races later, remember the red heron?

The red hill fox Tod comes down from beyond the wrecks this time in the evening and the grey ghost lady watches through reflections in the screen of this machine. Now there are enough clues to find this imrich should you wish to. The rabbits scream their death scream and good riddance to the too healthy heathen invaders. After visiting who would have thought of living here, except the rabbits. Cull when it is dark and when it is light it is always light.

The ancient still was still up in the rocks away from the revenue and the song of the isles. Not used now because the church car parks are much more full and skua sift amongst the town rubbish. The beach of Whiskey galore.

A Basking shark took the skin from my legs as the old man drank his poteen kept under the box in the stern of that other country. The blood seeped in pin pricks turning blue in the Erin green cold over the deeps. Towels for blood that was monks monthly girlish, they said and I did not believe them.

It has a collective strength to all but these but only if you do not take them too seriously. I've never been able to complete S because he is boring, or J's Memory, Dreaming and Reflecting on it even though he is an archetypal hero. Although I have tried since I've been here and been there.

I walked down a jetty on the west coast of another country a lot like this and found Wittgenstein's house living there and of all the surprises that was one that lived a loved along the riverun from swerve of bend to curve of shore. Nearby the whales made sausages for the Congo. Blood on the water of the Minch.

Distant times and relative pleasant times watching the seal life. Being able to identify most and record the drawings that I still have. Stinking in the Gannets. Screaming with the ghost shearwater that frightened others who did not know. It was like a murder. Standing on the cliff watching the breakers and smoking a young boy perched in the rock chimney hundreds above the waves. Life was light and thinking was straight. The spiral was a symbol of humour and joy and you put leaves on it to show it growing. There was a spiral carved in a cave and hidden. We watched it and followed the lines with our pencils. It is still hidden and we were still following.

 Humming the song in a feather throught the mists of time.

Mountains belonging to the sea. This could be a concept to consider once I get up there panting and wheezing white in the single malt air.

Near, down from here is a fiord and a whaling station, blood on the sea. A slip way and a chimney that flourished because of Lord Soap Man and no one seems ready to demolish.

Mountains above the sea, each reflected and sinking into deep sleep. The whiskey beach is shell skeleton white and the waves are the colour of that old car on the beach. A tennis court is green on the hillside with a mountain hare trapped inside decalcomanie fencing. A small island of rocket letters and natural asbestos.

Black Cock on little bonsai mountain leks attracting females; for the life of me I cannot think why they would be temptation impressed. Stag antler rutting and digging the mud, hanging like suicide from a bullish roaring rough chestnut neck. Mist and mellow nonsense red with fly agaric poison and other wonderful words that sting to the lips and deaden in the mouth.

Mountains expecting the sea. Scooping out blue and grey multiple, whales and Ariel, perspectives. Down to fields and trees of gold. Giving what they have in storms, to get it taken away anyway. A beach is a retired mountain wheezy whispering softly of its youth. Breeching and scrimshaw carving into doubt and spindrift on waves of heather and bells.

The higher I go when whether weather depressions set in, the wetter I get. Now is that not something? Go higher to feel lower. My feet are wet in my old boots but I could care less. I'm still looking for old ghosts now on the knife edge and precipice. Go higher and bag all the top Monroes you can. Do not come down.

Pewter lake mirrors below and steaming mist rising from the streaming morning. A hags glen of peat that becomes difficult and then impossible causing a turn around of the subtle senses much like some fated women. Saying one thing to the world, or at least this small part of it, and meaning another. The three fated crone, woman, and virgin. Becoming which witch, you know not what? Fated three. Graceless but graceful to my eyes.

I would like to go/give up but I cannot. If I remember all this with clarity then I can draw when I am rested. In black pen so make no mistake, I will make no mistakes.

The Ptarmigan are churring and winging low in fearful flight. You can hear the wind through eagle pinion. A strange hind, not native, barks at me in disgust. Whatever am I to do with you? she says, you come to these mountain islands and get as far away from the sea, upwards as you can. As if that made sense. I thought getting high meant some other things from the past. The Seal Silkie rises out to sea and you see me at least and at last.

The last of the Summerisle insects call from out the heather and the butterfly dies above allowing its powdered coloured power to settle gracefully upon your stretched out mind. Eerie eyrie's sit on clefts covered in painted white marks that advertise death before winter. A fire in the delicate distance disturbs the cause, because it is not alone and that is really how this works. The act of climbing a mountain is changed succinctly and dramatically by the act of observing the climb and making route root choices.

She left me and I left you and they are now all come together on this rather crowded emotional peak on a lie detector line. What shall we do if not hum the ending song said Sandy in my ears.

The Lovers at the Chemical Wedding of Christian Rosencrantz. A Reverie

This thought has weight you said as you lifted my head between your landscape breasts.

A softer view than the hills that waved blue into the distance between us.

My hand searched in the dark blind wet between and Mozart night music flattered my ears. I stood as tall as all the soldiers and listen to nothings gossiped amongst the universal insects. I could feel the warmth that came, calming palpable from the gasping between your legs. Anointing liquid shone slid over my fingers like spiders dew. The gorse web grass pearled with this and the burial mound glowed with sweat thoughts. Cheese cloth light and flowered pattern Dorelia insights matching the meadow.

Distance equals time and thoughts exist in time. Ergo, thoughts have distance and distance has substance. So thoughts have weight. The red rose pinnacle rose, from under the cloth, out of my focus to this, pushing back my lip. A pendulum swung as a growing sex from the shadows in the tree above, getting longer. That, I would pay anything to draw with all the learnt skill I can

The tree in outline stood alone along the riverun. The distance hazy heat like netting caught at the edges of sight. The sky a dome and the green a valley with copses of pubic growth where sheep walked the same tracks, every day. High and low mist strata burnt off with the coming of time. Dry walls with small birds tuck tutting long tails and chirruping sauce to the neighbours. Cloven cattle with chestnut hair and curling horn. Ornamental mud hanging down as a festival highlight of natural lives




.

Given the symptoms of crying, you said I am wet and wonderful. I wondered briefly was this of where you were lying. A wren scolded from a bramble. Don't, shouldn't, not to, it said from under a wing scratching for parasites that crossed it like critics writing of what they don't know.

This was exploring a female valley instead of a male mountain and I wondered about being too old and how long this stiff one would last. A stiff one that you sipped from with a tonic. Slowly letting your eyes wander through the hills to the skies complete. Mackerel and scuff driven blue.




It rain melted grey off to the sacred west across the hills and I thought of wet drawing you in the sylvan landscape. You would take me, you said, as I drew drawing me in. The waves of seven hitting the shore and the crumpled ideas that were listless like slow old love in their movements. You cannot be there where you are any more and I understand the weight that ideas put on your wilt white shoulders. The stagnant mud of lower opinion smells a lot sweeter than when standing still. Mud and mutability produce life but not in this and that. Chaos produces evil instead and what do they know of the symmetry inherent in loving long? The equation is simple. The theory is complete. The abstract is hard like me, still.

I wrote this down with a drawing of your lips in my sketchbook. You wanted to look but I could not let you lose it. Not when it was so close to knowing what the correspondences were. The theory of connections as the sun shone through the rain and the dog licked your feet. Giving you a flower to start and end this cycle.

After the Chemical wedding the Physical honeymoon.

I can feel you here. Clasping my finger like a warm wet slide slip. The end of my finger is glossed with clear slip shine. Just one finger digit. The longest finger digit. The probe, the fire poker. I let it lie in the mouth just between the lips for the longest time. Not moving or twitching, just lying relaxed as if spent. Liquid runs down the inside of my hand and under the cuff of my shirt.

Your belly ripples like sand and your mouth opens with little fish gasps. Ah, ah, ah. Count the beats and later count the stiff slip strokes. You cannot move because you cannot. Red colours your sex and elastic lines parallel flesh.

The graffiti said ‘Leda loves Swans’ outside the window rain grey mists. Until the complimentary paint ran. Paintings were turned against the wall. Canvas shadowed with blue light. Drawing books were closed for the same reasons. We both know. Not many do. How does a shower of gold come?

There is a hissing echoes that counterpoints exactly with your breath. The start of an Asian instrumental perhaps. Bells, there are ding a ling bells. Of course this is romance. A nub glistens in context. Someone enters downstairs. I enter up.

It was fashion that gave us Intricate Tantric and the perfumed pleasured garden in the times of innocence. A time of complimentary.

The plumbing made its wet chest cough and the trains rattled to a beat Leonard Cohen yeah man.

So, I explained what was wanted and you listened for a while before boring yourself with your little reed flute. A little voice was soft and high as you reached the top C. I drew bodies as this landscape bed and once, I explained, had known a girl who had made pictures out of her own pubic hair. Cushioning against the wall and Curly and Soft were their names and the elements were alchemical on this list of elemental choices.

It was Sunday and it was righteous. Lesson began in how to draw. We will push you naked into wet natural made paper and highlight the resulting with candle smoke. You will draw shape extraordinary.

The rain continued on the windows and I pushed through the felt velvet cushions into the reason for being there. With a target hole in the felt that you could be felt through. The shadows of pendulous on the wall tipped so delicately with points to be made at this time and no other. I pushed my finger all the way to the point.

Art is the high priest of communication said the man who called himself the beast. Speak was said as I awoke still hard inside you, our legs wrapped together. You slept on so I drew a rose and a meadow flower. Unmoving so as to stay inside. This is the whole of the law he said and wept he said copious tears the cloth, in half. Where do you think I drew these things?

Who sang La Mer? Charles Trenet sang La Mer. This is what you asked.


 


 

Your name was long for Harry. Which was what I called you. The older woman. Thirty five you were, and your name was Women in Love. Hermione. You loved your Pavane in black skirt and head scarf

Crows that cawed over the impossible yellow fields of the South. Just as he said when he painted his insanity. Wine drunk rainbow headaches in the sunshine of the marsh of the flamingoes and the bulls. We argued insanity consistently, giving and taking talking grey, galling, grief. Wondering when it would end. A painted clay pipe for the drudgery of every night drugging and driving the old car through the crucifix shrines of littered and melted offerings tied to the belief of Gauguin paintings. The sharp straight up sunlight giving the lie to whatever was enjoyed, together and individually righteous. The bright red poppy flower by the side of the road.

Druid mistletoe in the trees by the river in the west. The voices raised in the chorus chorale of a whitewashed shafted sun  burned out cathedral. Asking in the cafe square for a pen to say goodbye. She was older enough. I was younger enough then, but only just. Being less than a man because of no military service, they told me.

The barge trips with a bike, asleep on wet grey green tarpaulin valleys, chugging past vineyard and oak aged château hills. Bridges, Breton exploded in temper. Groucho, Harpo & Chico in Italian with French subtitles in the cabin at the back. A poster of the president election on every lamp. The song of the ill loved man.

Talking you scared, down the steep grey green hill. Watching you and your daughter in the slip sliding mud all of Leonardo graves. Asking for another pen this time to draw the Languedoc hill that was burning martyr safe. She was a Mother and I was someone else's son. The start of the drawing in pen instead of HB pencil. Missing a visually exciting scene whilst listening to a very stirring sabre dance.

Saxophone playing, somewhere. You like sax, don't, did, didn't you?

The aforementioned Gypsy's with their black bread and potatoes.

Camus reading camera and crawling for Roman artefacts in the sandbanks on the river, when you left after writing the arguments down because I could not find the collapsible courage.

Starving in the capital then for four drawing days before killing myself with an apple for dinner. Drawing and writing everything so I could burn them later and watch the little black books crisp and curly in blue and green. Before I came home with my bike and whiskey fountain to find, my mother, a year later. I had not been missed.

The Dog Man speaking from beyond himself to a child who ran away.

So look.

Follow down past the dirty dead prams and rubbers hanging from river trees. The fruit of ages longing, hanging, saddening. Before you discover reading about it is better. Past the rat cut shit up embankment holes to the secret place of coal dust smooth washed with wasted water. The concrete industrial iron bridge and brook, orange damage with iron stain and rippled with rats. Stinking with ripe flood rot and the tunnelled temptation of secret impossible pathways. Breaking new mood with a rusty fence spear weapon for this hunter gatherer.

The canal with grey banking slipping and concrete holding back the oil patterned water. Throw the pebbles high so they hit the with a faint funny fart splat. Sticky sticks in all the cow flap pats, all over the fields when you should not go, through your secret pathways.

Between here and the coal heap, slag heap rooks with carbon stone leaves and fossil bark for collection in old green glass. Sliding danger coal dust stream to dare the friend cross chicken where others had gone forever swallowed young. No more snotty nose. Nickname the Saturday friend Woof to guess his real one. Grandmother next door in the back to back street across the entry tunnel that had holes for all my secrets and copies of naked air brushed out Healthy and Efficient players.

Back, look along the dirt track for four o'clock tea with Grandma and wrestling with the pool results to see if life had changed. Past the rotted stumps that once stopped the horses to pay a toll, and fuel picked sacks of looted coal.

Mother said come next door, I need you, Daddy Barker will not hurt you. I know he won't dying of the black lung rattle coughing. Sitting against his hundred pillows with bottom lip thrust into his opinion of this and that. Friend was not here, strange that Saturday.

“Hold him forward our good lad” said paisley curler mother, “so I can lay him out stretched proper for the Vicar.” “Got to do what's proper.”

“Why don't you talk proper?” she said and “don't eat all those apples they don't grow on trees”. Before Father drunk hit and thumped with belt and spit and slobber before sliding down a wall of protection found in hiding along the river and on the coal heaps. “I'll bloody kill you you little bastard, bastard come here and wake me up when the pubs open or I'll murder you again.”

But Daddy Barker's mouth dropped, thrust lip flopped and the far away sound of old death came out of the pit tunnels that rotted gums and pint glass teeth. Run away from first experience of dead old dog men.

So look.

At the johnnie filled fruit river and the stinking rat prams that are all there is to run to on these Saturday mornings. Away from the dead man speaking and the mother shouting and the Father threats that nowadays mean nothing to anyone but me and you.

Attempting to follow the ' Boke of St Alban's 1610' and a Prize for being right.

So you can only smell one thing at a time. The thing right under your nose, noisesome. So smell it and thus be thankful. The bird and its casting smoke. The candle castings against smoke sack. The meat as it red blood brown blots in its box waiting to be food, waiting to be training meat. The midnight smell of small creatures lusting for a life that eludes, even as they chase each down tunnels and blind web trap root that rustle silently under where you stand with sore wet feet.

Cully candle flickers in an sere stern eye you must not watch, even as it blinkless watches wary as it must forever.

Something is difficult, you wish to draw this falcon bird with your blunt prick thick pencil in its waver of gold light and black sack shadows. This hunter bird child trapped by your frightened willing in stale urine smell wet and white mute cast dark wooden rotted walls. Spades and fork machinery, straw web and chain, trowel and rainbow old oil miasma that is just another smell to you and a death to the bird.

Bate and fall, bate and fall, bate and fall. Is this all there is? Stroke hawk breast with pencil feather to calm. Peck to bring blood at the web of skin between thumb and finger again and again. Must not move. Show no pain. Hold tight with shiny black talon hook sheathed in yellow. Dip the thick anti-sharp pencil and you have drawn with the blood as if this is the ritual rightness of the history instruction book. It is all you have and all you ever will have until this captive royal is regally dead.

Rub the skinned skin rabbit smooth while you wait, with salt and prick on pin board, with white dropping and brown mingled blood.

Find a dead swan not mute singing in the flood of rain forever fields and drag the sodden sweat green slimed white feathered mess back to this small Gothic lean too slanted, farm yard, shed hut, that is yours. Dissect completely and directly in a storm of tickled irritated feather wet white with blunt and hook and needle stolen from those not knowing. Save the skull and collect small bones in pill brown plastic and Gothic green glass that glitters with owl pellet litter and toadstool fermented in purple meths. Each blunt pencil blood labelled, candle lit, shown in size and gallery shelved.

The thumbed curled paperback missing pages that was just another school prize. How to collect nature naturally. Raiding the farmer's crow, mole, stoat and fox gibbet was a way round it. Easy to remove from strangled bailing twine to the shed nearby that you have for your small Frankensteins.

Cully was useless and so were you but don't let that stop you trying forever, bate and lift, bate and lift. Is this all there is? Is this what turns your training collections into art and your drawing into eventual lonely sex? The primary child interest shaped by this one fiery creature of yellow eye and insane nature. Is this what you write about to suture the scars that she gave you because you attempted to train and did not know enough to be wrong? Is it?

The Terrible Time when it all went away and came back, slowly.

So you can hear that, can you? The shouting scream from a dense dry throat that strut stutters its croaked dry way to a brief comfort conclusion. The hanging horror arriving once again throughout that long lonely day and night. After running all the way home. The coming and going after being lost in an owned mind. But you shrink from this, I see, because you are there. No greater terror time than this. Never, ever.

What you hear is a troubled teen tasked to lying on a sweaty by now settee in rough grey and red cheap plastic. Two women, Mother and Grandmother change his dark soddenness during a brief happy hiatus. Otherwise....

Backwards bending comes again. Begin as if you had a choice, choice. With ticking neck, tick, tick, clockwork spine that comes and comes and comes. Whisper the choice, no more making up of strange words to utter in your/his grief. For this cannot be you. This weak whisper of a sick boy strut stuttering his way now quickly to a bow arched back bentwards. Sodden sweat bursting again and flowing not dripping down rough grey plastic wing hard. Changed again. Eyes white and sight no more.

Bite mark an arm, slap mark a face, “Stop it you are doing it to yourself!” Don't you think I know, no that? What do you think I am trying to say? Stop, stop, stop. I am saying because you won't give me the pain I need.

Old Doctor asks, Doctor says, Doctor states unequivocally. Nerves, that is it, nothing more. Doctor asks “What do you read?” What do you mean? Strut stuttering. It was Molly Bloom then and then. Doctor gives a Beano or a Dandy or a Topper. Read to switch off the light instead and then sleep.


 

This sick nerve back bending, once a two or three fit, comes from unrequited girl love known then. Girls who don't and won't ever know until much, much later. When they cease to become important and looking means having. When constant post mortem means thinking about, not shying from.

This fit of nerves goes away with a punch in the back out of single night sight. When the medical voice behind the paisley apron hospital screen shouts about killing him now. He, you, me, hears, heard, just before light and life faded hard bow backing, but briefly for a long time, once again. Coming back from eyes white gone and back bent sweat sodden shuddering, to doing it now, do it now. Otherwise.

So you can hear although you wish not to. You hear the clean, chrome, chlorine of a cart with swinging wheel of drugs. You hear and feel echoing, the busted bubble of a syringe and the cold of sweated back naked exposure. "Straighten him out, I can't do this like that." Strange it is all so crystal both now and in your memory of eventful nights. How your mind is straight throughout.

You need this. You need to go far away for a while, my love, and love don't worry, you will come back. Alone but peaceful pieces will return with you, when you do. Different, no one has the gut, says. Go softly into this dark then you who hate yourself because of your fragile feelings. Go soon so you can come back. As if you have a choice. Blankness.


Intaglio is all in the Subtle Wrist.

Start.

Taste that. Drink your stinking brush brown linseed and wash hogs hit hair brush out of your earthy pallet coffee colour cup. Sit on the pig iron black white dripped stool, placing brown very thin band hand rolled tight on the edge untasted. Number 6 packets make made the best, roaches I mean. Large brush clipping drippings. Fat oiled shiny stroked strokes.

Watch that. Taste that.

Look, I mean, really look. Pain your head with the look. Shouted looking. What you see, not what you think, you see. It all depends on the punctuation. A comma in red, a colon in blue. Puncture hold the largest long pinned stretchers top and bottom. One foot on the easel loose butterfly wooden hinge. Push in brush tempered temper, canvassed for meaning. Brush held by the very tip. Its all in the subtle wrist, this abstract expressionist body pleasure painting.

Walk away and look. Walk away more and look, stool sit, stand and notice, change and changed, erase, roll out and push around, mix and mixed. Almost engage and then hesitate. Squeeze the body tube until the oil separates. Smoke the brush, drop, drip the, chew the fat wash intaglio. Enough is enough, leave that, return to it, come back go. Play your waste pipe. Turn away.

Think, no you never think, you do and doing is enough. How can you tell anyone else what is never understood whilst not thinking, doing? Play windy nonsense on your penny pipe.

Warm comes forward, cool retreats. As in, you know, so below. Do this, do that, light this, suck that, no you stupid bugger, below that . Follow dreaming days with the light before it goes, as it always. Wipe your shirt, your nose with paint, whistle compete with the kettle. Cold coffee painting always as the light does.

Leave that. Singing humming.

Break charcoal, finger tip like edge sex. Push it in too wet fibre. Slip it around. Fold it rather than draw. Create a frightening edge.Consider the word moist and spit on it, twice. Think about a Seurat sweet drawing without lines. Big paper. Big drawing. Leonardo's cartoon.

Confiscate your collapsed contraband and blow that, this sucking hairs out of a fleshy lusting for colour, landscape.

Leave that alone always. Never come back to that one pushed against the wall. The one done alone with a naked woman talking about her hip critic husband. Grunt answers in non erotic rapt taste movements. I've heard of that. I've never heard of that one. Don't think about titled tales until its finished. Smell the shellac cooking. The Glue size stinking like all hell head dead.

The smell of a thousand and one nights buzzing when painting Scheherazade stories that need never be finished.

 The Stunt Tree, the Clay pit and the Cave Club.

Intemperate and intolerant. Inside, in step with the slow Summer sleep. The pit of clay mined building bricks, of weak whistle breeding and large pike fish poked out. Hillocks of grass skin, ditches of rain run off and clay play. Plagues of croaking mating froggy went a'courting. Six spot Burnett Moths in flashing purple and red. Flashes of lightening Summer fishing line, less covered rafts, floating, catching on clay mud banks and sinking. Itself made from rail weight Summer sleepers, tarmac black and melting hot. Involved and not interested. In there, I suppose, is a reed heron hopping to where she showed me hers. Pretend to be a burglar, she said, and hit me sneakingly soft so as not to hurt. So I do. Boringly among the hills of clay so no adult could see in. In there is a bucket full of apple eyed puppies to drown. Adventure ourselves to get them out. Stuck in the rain run off tunnel pipe and crying we were dying. Under the Clay pit.

Stunts in the stunt tree that grew arms just for us and lost all its grown green for feet around, just for us. But retained its prideful glory, simply for us. With its rope and dead earth.

I will be a Nazi, bad, see me fall dead. Down dead when you shoot. No one can drop down dead like me. That is not a gun, there, in the tree, is a gun where we fall and laugh, hang and fall and leg smooth girl bits with tree meeting soft leg. Insensitive and uninvolved then in the time before everything. That is just soft. That is not allowed. What? You show me yours, da de da. Aw, just another five minutes it is sadly school after Summer dark. Insolent and unhappy.

Take me down to the hedgerow tunnelled clubhouse cave. With a careful garden cane hidden. To bully the bullies after bully beating bully enough. Enough! The seventh time. The last beating. Leave him alone. He is careful. He is frightened. Ha! he dark stain wet himself. He still beat you bully. So cry all your way home, little snot nosed arse snigger piggy. To tell your sister who everyone knows is your Mother. That is why.

Innocent and intriguing. This is the start of running and the end of jumping from the stunt tree. This is the filling of the pit small universe. This is the start of thinking and the end of growing. This is the way it used to be. Before it and everything.


A Weather Stripped Mountain and Caves under Trees.

Alexion was music and soft fumbled sex, dreams and real. Forgetting and still. A word of creativity in me and a light shining in the darkness of the sickness I had come to and for, far too early. A weather stripped mountain and caves under trees. She was western islands and mythic, real and not, old and far away. Casting around for her rescue from the rape of her time and hoping to be found while still young.

A whole experience for me, to me, explained in my sickness and the lies of those who said, illness suits you. She was pollution in the rivers of my childhood stamped on the virgin snow crags in my paintings. She was all of them trumpet taunting, laughing, shouting, crying and unwilling to allow me. Separate from reality and close to costly insanity. A girl far dreaming from far away and long ago. She was the saddest thing in my language and the failure to work at the things I must see to succeed. Sucking at what I did not know but tried to.

She came with bells as a sculpture clashing smashing in the wind. This was a start in puberty, in the loss of my certainty when I left the Doctor who said “This won't happen again, will it?”. A question in me that left home and went abroad, growing.

She turned with me inside and was small enough to sit on my beautiful thinking aloud. She stopped my face from breathing with her salty taste and she never, ever, ever spoke.

She sweat and scratched. Licked and held new ball weight in her hand. She pushed her own hand inside herself until it was thin arm and then tasted what dripped, before giving it to me with a kiss and a slap of the removed hand shiny. Leaving the shiny palm print that is still on my chest.

She could squeeze and hold, hold and still, squeezing fresh juice that no longer belonged to me, to dip in and drink together. I think she stopped me from being as freshly green fertile as one of the later one's wanted me.

Silent she was, drifting on her lubricated sex, sliding her place wherever she felt hardness and suckling with both top and bottom.

She was, for want of better, symphonic dreams of night. She wanted both me and not. To say she was pupil was rot because she died a long time ago before I was born, and the teacher also no, because she came to me, not me to her.

Succuba sex, evil and good, very good for one virgin who had not except with the one who he loved most of all of them ever. But could never, ever again until that one later died saying she loved me forever.

Alexion came and went with the time it all went away. She left when it all returned and did not come back.


The Romance Music from The Witchfinder General.

As nightime therapy then, I listed all the happenings I could not explain. Could not account for in the dreadful, dreary, daily, dumb. Fearful scars across a manic mystery country of my own making.


 

First across the Camel river then to Lyonesse; to hear the bells under the waves and finding in ivy, hidden Mesopotamian mystery mazes on a rocky valley, carved, cliff wall. A witch body in an old witched blacked stone museum. A big pig, ghost pig, frightening a boy, in Thomas Hardy's cold boarded, greenwood church. An Adder and a sign Saint under a stone in a river, ending through a fiord. The Once and Future King swimming forever under Tintagel's sea waterfalls. The light of my stone megalith mystery landscape. The one they call paralis in paradise. Before the moor of excellent dreams.


North Grandfather coming into sleep and asking to be aright, all light with his fob and blue Saint golden watch hanging bright.

Othneil, Lion of God, my Norman ancestor uncle, haunting me uncertainly with the sad smell of his pipe tobacco in rooms long emptied of memories. The first time I am in Ireland when he dies, in old England and I did not know.

A hand touches mine in the Irish peat dark from nowhere. It plays and strokes calmly and then unaccountably leaves. Leaving flowers and the smell of pipe tobacco.

A sister asleep with eyes closed at the same time across the widest sea, as Ireland, yet reading aloud and turning pages in an illustrated book..

The Synchronizing of timeless effect and million to one chances happening every tattled tale time I looked around, in and under, in remorseless fogged fear.

Finding this music only when I stopped listening and looking in the hiding place of plain sight.

A caged cap cavalryman in a Priest hole chimney behind the horsehair and plaster of a friend and ancient farm. The walk across a wooden, yet carpeted floor with spurs a jingle. With his long straight pistol and long straight fluted sword all bright, all blood, all right.

The monster sound crashing in the eldrich dark wood of illicit listless love with the girl that ran and ran and ran along the old railway into another woman. The place and line of decapitated Captains of failed industry suicide.


All these, still many more, were list listed in the black books of before bright pagan burning, as always. As Sunshine therapy then. Did it work? Oh yes and strangely enough, no.


© 2009 Ken Simm.

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