Halloween story

The cabinet-maker sat in the old wooden chair his grandfather had made. He could remember him, grey whisked, bent with age and work working away on the chair. He rubbed his hands on the armrests, thinking he too was now old, weathered and wrinkled. The lines in his face had been beaten by time, worry, work and wear. He was half dozing in front of the fire. The fire was licking the logs, not raging but cosy, even snug. Hearts and hearths warmed, the chill kept at bay. Albert had been a carpenter and a cabinet maker for many years. He felt old and tired, almost nodding off in front of the fire after a hard days work

The flames danced, almost floated into his kind. They spoke to him, their fiery tongues told him they still had work for him to do.

Heaving himself up from the old worm ridden chair, Albert steadied himself before unhooking the.lantern from its peg. He put on his oiled jacked and boots, his warm bat and scarf, lit his pipe and, with the same taper, the lantern, which he had sloshed before to see if the oils would see him through his journey.

The flames had spoken before, telling him whom to woo, whom to hire, where and what to sell. The flames had shown design and fashion, a wife.wise enough to challenge his stubborn stupidity, apprentices worth helping and now probably the last to.pass on his torch.

Trembling, he unhooked the latch on the door, stepped out into the frosty night and clicked the door shut behind. He hung the lantern on his staff and trudged out of the yard. No light left in the day to hitch the horse to the cart, and the flames had pressed him . A solo silent trip wouldn’t raise any whispers.Hiddles into his clothes he trudged into the night, across the village green, down wooded lanes. A walk in the starry night, the village streets had long since petered out. The evening gave way to night, with hoots and screeches.

Far away from the snug workshop Albert came at last to where the flames had whispered the farmstead was.

Not a sound , except the couch of his feet on frost and dead leaves, Albert crossed the cobbled yard and headed to the farmhouse. He pushed open the door and stooped through the door. Once inside, he blew out the lantern and let his eyes get used to the glow of the embers in the fireplace. There inside was the smell of green wood smoke, autumn leaves and soup. The shadows seemed scorched onto the walls, branded by fear. In the kitchen soup slowly bubbled on the stove, but all around life had been pinched out.

The bodies of a man and women were on the kitchen floor, sucked to dry husks. The shock made him shudder when suddenly he saw the girl. She was terrified, so Albert scooped her up into his arms and comforted her. They sat, and ate the soup. The warmth would comfort her and Albert needed the strength to get back home.

Albert lit the lantern, wrapped up the girl in warm clothes and glanced around. It was best to take nothing.

Back into the cloud frosty night they headed, a long lonely walk back to his workshop. This time Albert headed back a different way, edging through the hedges and past the headstones in the cemetery. He bowed to the vampires waiting there tipping his hat. For he had served them well , as had his father and his grandfather, and back through the ages. His son would carry on, soon Albert new, soon he would meet the vampires for the last time. The girl was a gift, a young friend for his son, a fiancée decided by the flames. Vampires never gave a choice.

Coffins and crypts had been made, wooden sculptures and objects of all kinds turned and whittled . When the vampires wanted something they spoke through the flames of they flew through the night to visit. When they did, Albert as he would tomorrow, would start on coffins and crucifixes. The folk of the village would know soon enough of the tales. Albert headed to the church after tucking in his new step daughter into a worm and cosy bed. Vampires could wait, they were already dead, but they would come for all the village at one time or another. They never let the village die, or suffer famine or war, but the price was in the frozen husks of the farmstead.

Albert found the priest, nodded, turned and headed home. No need to explain. The villagers new that on the frosty lanes sometimes invisible footprints would follow and after a new farm would be open for a poor family.

Albert sank back into the old chair. The horror would only end with death,and even that would be either in the graveyard through his own choice , embracing the vampires willingly or not.

Blood was the pact of peace in this place, as the moon slowly rose in the Halloween sky.

Measuring culture

I have talked previously about attempts to measure culture, but considered that though the ideas of others certainly has merit and even truth, perhaps it wasn’t the whole picture. perhaps it never is.

I offer an addition to the giants, standing as I am, on their shoulders.

I am going to examine the idea of cultural entropy and cultural inertia.

Cultural Inertia is when the culture has dissapeared yet we see it has an influence on our every day world

Take for example the names of the days of the week in English. They are named after Viking Gods or Roman Gods . But the Babylonians started it all, naming the days of a “week” after the 5 planets known to them. Emperor Constantine declared that the week had 7 days in AD 321 and the same man said that Christianity should be the religion or the Romans.

Cultures change, evolve, dissapear or are even destroyed. Claims that there is a fight to preserve certain cultural norms from being replaced are just nonsense as eventually all cultures change. The far right are trying to install a fear that European culture is at risk from immigration or shifts in moral attitudes but if we listen to the howling sirens we will surely end up on the rocks. Cultural inertia and cultural entropy should not prevent us from creating a new culture,new art,poems ,songs and dance. We have the right to change our culture but not to use culture as an excuse to embrace darkness

Hard times for us all

Ukraine was invaded 12 days ago. ( When I wrote this)

Some things to note

1. As in every war, the ‘truth’ is the first victim. And probably the last one too. The media is at best wishful thinking and at worst propaganda.
2. Russia invaded Ukraine to try to keep its huge mass together. Russia is enormous and it has no economy, only oligarchs. Putin will be seeing them for some funding. Russia is trying to show it has influence and Ukraine is easy pickings for them. (or so Putin thinks)
3. Russia keep Ukraine out of Nato and the Eu whilst making the EU and Nato and EURO currency neighbors nervous as well as ensuring supply route to both Kalingrad and the warm Mediterranean waters. Its the prisoner of geography as the only other port it has is Vladisvostok. This explains Syria (Russia has a naval base ) and Cyprus (Russia wants a base)
4. Putin knows know one will use nuclear weapons first so as long as he leaves NATO alone for now he can do what he wants and NATO wont do anything and Biden has said the US won’t get involved with boots on the ground. So as usual no US presence in Europe until the US think they can ‘win’
5. Plucky Ukraine has help off Russia for 12 days but that won’t continue as Russian troops cut water and power and destroy civilian targets. However, European countries are sending arms and cash, but it remains to be seen if these end up in Russian hands.
6. China will play the long game. If Russia implodes they will help themselves to what they want from the carcass like hungry jackals. They’ll sit on the fence with one leg in Russia’s garden.
7. European countries will now spend a whole load more on defense. But they forget logistics at their peril. Russia had 50 kilometers of tanks ready to go into Kiev but no petrol.
8. Russia’s secret weapon, its hard winter that has defeated army after army from Napolean to Hitler will soon be over and global warming means its possibly a losing battle for Russian defensive troops on the ground
9. Raw materials will all increase in price, as Ukraine is a huge producer of cobalt, nickel, grain and maize. Its one of the biggest international traders. Its a huge tech power , exporting tech all over Europe. Europe is dependent on Ukraine for lots of stuff, but also India, China, and the US. That’s why Russia want it so bad.Its the end of the Covid financial bounce back and inflation, shortages and civil disobendience will all increase. Wages will have to rise and that squeezes employers and employment. After world war 1 Spanish flu killed more than the war, after Covid (killed 6 million and counting) perhaps this European war will kill as many.
10. This is war. War is hell. Putin probably won’t stop at Ukraine. He is trying to keep Kalingrad from joining the other Baltic states in independence and also sending messages to Siberia, Kamtchatka , Karelia, Yamkutchia and the list goes on. Chechnya found out that Russia will trample you, and Ukraine seem to be on this same path. Mess with the Mafia of the Kremlin and you die.
11. Putin is 70. There have been rumors about his health and a possible retirement. His face was ‘puffy’ and he sat at enormous tables as far away from people as possible.

Bubbles

Days are where we measure time

Waking up from bramble beds

Look in mirror at the lines

Shed a tear for those now dead

They bubble up into our minds

Make us laugh or cry instead

Special friends are golden finds

We regret what we never said

Speak of love and other signs

Love is always better fed

With soft spoken words intertwined

Days are where we measure time

Loire

The sunlight spangled on the rolling ripples of the last wild river in the region, The Loire. its summer, nd I’ve stopped here to appreciate the shady glades, the summer breeze, a haven from the blazing broiling sun. Just over there are the sandbanks , the pools of water fast disappearing under the summer sun. Here and there are waterfowl, dipping in the river, flying around, terns nesting, cormorants fishing.on the horizon is the bridge at Ancenis and the river braids into many sections, leaving dry beds and islands.

Its been flowing through this region for centuries, millennium even. There are castles dotted all along its course, showing the power of the energy, the power of the communication. Just near where i’m standing are Neolithic stones, and about half a kilometer away archaeologists dug up a neolithic settlement on land to sold for a football club training grounds.

The branches hover over our heads, swaying in the wind, a green fringe to our vision. We will spend all day here, looking at the beach, watching the animals. A summer’s day . The fluffy clouds float away, evaporated by the heat and nothing is moving on the dust roads away from the Loire. But here, down in the valley, a breeze still wisps its way over us, as we sit on our picnic blanket.

Our hamper is full of goodies, chilled drinks, a fine spread. Little by little we nibble through the fresh salad, the cold ham and chicken, the crunchy cucumber and radishes. A swig of cold lemonade and even a sip of ginger beer. We’d cooked a cake to finish our lunch, with a thermos of coffee.

The day druged to the twilight close. Dust settled and the heat started to leave the air. We’d gathered some rocks and built a circle, some flotsam and jetsam and we’d placed a hearth on the sand. We knew it was not permitted to set a fire on the beach, but we set up in a shady place over the dunes and we’d keep the fire low. A warm fire soon warmed us, the flames reflecting in the sweat of our bodies.

Suzie looked at me and smiled. The night was pulling in. No-one was around. She help two of my fingers, then my hand. She showed me she loved me, kissing me. She slipped off her top, I slipped of my clothes and we came close, breathing each others skins. Making love on the sandy beach was a risky business. There may be people walking their dog, or even perverts watching. We didn’t care.

I stroked her hair, her shoulder, her breasts. Her eyes were on me, I smiled with my soul. She caressed my chest and my thighs. I slipped off her briefs and we we were naked under the stark starry sky. I could feel our hearts beating, throbbing in my moth. She showed me were to move my hands, my arms, my body.

Our night of passion was true, we really loved each other. We slept on the beach under the bivowak we’d build earlier, a flimsy canopy of leaves. We’d waited for this night.

It was in the early morning, the hush of dawn. There was an eerie summer haze over the Loire. That was when we saw the body floating down stream. Suzie stifled a scream, grabbing clothing from the piles around. We ran up the beach, towards the town, phones in hand. Garbling messages to the authorities, to families, to friends.

The gendarmes came and dragged out the corpse, and we had to explain what we’d been up to on the beach. After we wandered down to the beach, gathered all our things, hamper, leftover food and bottles and slowly walked to the top of the banks. A kiss, and a walk back to our homes. I didn’t know if the gendarmes would tell our families but we were both adults. I didn’t care anyway. I was more concerned about the corpse.

Was it another victim to the killer? there had been 6 bodies found in the last 4 months. Or a drowning? A suicide? A murder? The questions flashed through my mind like lights. I texted Suzie. What a great night but what a weird event. We’d meet later, that keenness of lovers. but the corpse left a bitter aftertaste to the outing and now we’d have to go public. Anyway, who wants to be in a relationship you can’t share with anyone? We’d agreed. People would be happy for us, and those that weren’t didn’t count.

English Irregular Verbs

Most verbs in English are not irregular. And those that are irregular are irregular in the simple past tense with a few exceptions

The verb to be doesn’ follow the logic of other verbs.

An example is the verb to play

If we compare the two verbs, we can wee that in the indicative, there is an S on the third person singular of the form but that the root remains .

I play

You play

She plays

We play

They play

One plays

To be is rather different!

I Am

you are

he is

we are

they are

one is

You wouldn’t know that this is the verb to be from its indicative form

Be in is past form is also difficult to discern (I was, You were, he was, they were one was) and compared to play ( i played, you played, he played we played, they played) I start to wonder WHY we have irregular verbs at all.

Well about 80 are used everyday (sleep, wake, drive,drink, go, run, dream, burn, buy, think, know, etc) and

Carrots for Elvis

Rufus Wainwright wrote “I am so tired of America” in his song ” Going to a town”.

American justice has decided to let the states decide whether abortion is legal or not.

Its a step back for women’s rights. America may pretend to have avoided a coup d’etat on the 6 the of January but the truth is that tolerance is burning on the bonfires of dogma. Some conservatives think that everyone must agree and think as they , forgetting to respect the views of others, only listening to the bubble of partisan politics.I read warnings that a civil war is coming, especially after Buffalo. The truth is that it is already here. Violence and anger are rife, just as in the days of Dr King. This time, however, there are no American voices calling for calm. No peaceful, meaningful protests. Bipartisanship now means nothing, as some conservatives now seek to take away the fundamental rights of women. These people will come for anyone and anything that doesn’t think , look or act as they. They have taken women’s rights. They will come for same sex marriage and slavery. Contraception and religious freedom. The right to vote and representation. Boiling it down to the fundamental beliefs in a black Bible.

Biden has been a huge disappointment. It is HIS watch all this happens under, even if Trump sowed the seeds. But the alternative was Trump. However, in the end Trump has poisoned the future of America for decades. In the end, Trump really did win. Voices who say ” This isn’t over” are fooling themselves and the only escape now is to leave America, once the haven for those running from oppression. The irony. Brexit can’t be undone, and nor will this .

The worst is that some conservatives will now say that any reactions to their dogma just proves that they are correct and America needs a voice to heal, or face irreversible and permanent division. States will secede to avoid responsibility and no amount of ink will stop this now. America is over.

America is at war with itself, through the lens of a smartphone. Consumers had a choice, it was better than communism. Now effective monopolies mean your choice is limited and you won’t choose whatever is good for your country or even planet, but whatever you are told to by big lobby groups. Guns to kill kids in schools. Drugs to keep us numb. Loss of voting rights, sexual health rights, human rights.

Elvis was great, I saw the film, it’s wonderful, tragic. It’s the American story. Wonderful opportunities to come from nowhere, success fame , fortune. Loneliness, entourage, addiction and death. American values are now going the same way.

Carrots for Elvis.

The supreme court has people nominated for the posts for life , something that has no place in modern democratic movements. We now see the dangers. All my life I was told “Checks and Balances” but in face it’s “Cheques and balances”. My American friends beg me not to judge them by the politicians, but in the end, in the very end , it is the population that chooses.

I am so tired of America , such a sick place. American democracy is over and the war has begun. Rufus Wainwright sang ” going to a town” and now people will leave the town. It’s only now that I realize what happened in January.

European countries now seek to put things in their constitutions but it isn’t a solution.

Carrots for Elvis.

I am so tired of America.

block

type to choose a block

any one you’ve made

ready on my lips

smoke in our thoughts

smoke in our throats

songs for Luciani

Songs for Armanet

you may point and mock

And laugh at those who fade

Too poor for any tips

Salaries with lots of noughts

And those with threadbare coats

Songs for Luciani

Songs for Armanet

Flickering democracies

In the USA, the UK and France, as well as other European countries such as Hungary politics has forgotten it is the art of the possible and how it has become the art of deception and denial. Candidates choose the journalists who can interact with them and spin lies or disinformation. Every political party wants power but none want responsiblity.

The average voter has lost faith. They won’t read the program anymore and will just vote for a candidate who they can relate to, forgetting the needs of the country or the world.

For too long extreme parties have tried to ease there way into the mainstream and now in France, for the second time in a decade we have a mainstream party against the extreme right wing in the presidential election.

Facists always promise the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and have an easy way to solve hard problems. The reality is that no-one has all the answers and that those extremely injust policies would cause severe problems.

France has a choice between two candidates without a project. The mainstream party just wants us to vote against the extreme right but hasn’t really a solid vision , rather a hotchpotch of borrowed, tired out plans that will never see the light of day. The extreme right have a vision, but it’s of racists and solutions that cause conflicts and place populations against each other.

I have to vote, for philosophy rather than for violence and hate. We need a better choice.

I have seen Brexit and it’s broken dreams, Trump and his march on Washington, and now Europe is all but at war and could slide into chaos and in African countries famine is coming as Ukraine cannot feed the world anymore.

Strange times. The flickering light of democracy is still enchanting but I fear the darkness of dictatorship.

When dictators don’t deliver, they kill their opponents.

L’œil de celui qui regarde

L’œil de celui qui regarde

Y a-t-il de la beauté dans ces ruelles ?

Ces zones pleines de poussière et de détritus ?

Des orties à moitié drapées sur des tas de déchets.

Des mégots et des préservatifs jetés.

Dans ces ruelles boueuses et ces chemins aux murs de briques,

Adossés à des cieux impitoyables gris ardoise ?

L’EMPRISE DE L’HIVER

Y a-t-il de la beauté dans ces paquets croustillants ?

Dans les croûtes de vers et la merde de chien ?

Y a-t-il de la joie dans ces pissenlits, à moitié périmés ?

Leurs graines soufflées par le vent humide des pots d’échappement.

Les brumes des mégots de cigarette qui s’élèvent,

Ces mauvaises herbes qui chancellent dans ces coins humides ?

Les cages d’escalier miteuses où les enfants jouaient ?

JOIE

La joie des voix d’enfants

Y a-t-il de l’espoir dans ces paysages ?

Où la pauvreté douloureuse fait grincer les os ?

Des toiles d’araignée perlées de gouttes de rosée.

Des traces de pneus dans les ruelles détrempées.

Des portes de garage couvertes de graffitis, suspendues ouvertes.

L’espoir des maisons en terrasse et les vitres brisées.

DRUDGERIE , LA GROS BESOIGNE

Y a-t-il une chance dans ces seringues vides ?

Une douleur aiguisée et sale

Y a-t-il des messages laissés dans les bombes aérosol ?

Ou dans les sacs à moitié remplis de colle ?

Y avait-il de l’amour dans ces préservatifs ?

Le flux et le reflux rapides contre le mur.

Y avait-il de la beauté dans ces respirations

Tirée d’un joint deja roulé

TIRÉE

Cette bravade aux yeux sombres

Le haussement d’épaule de niquer et en s’en fou

Ce visage honteux, ce sourire de chien battu et de chien écrasé

Se faufilant dans ces ruelles

La brume matinale de novembre, obsédante

Y a-t-il donc de la beauté dans ces coins poussiéreux ?

Oubliés ou abandonnés dans les malheurs de la vie quotidienne ?

Et d’espoir, d’amour ou de beauté ?

Avons-nous besoin de ces chemins de campagne ?

Leur boîte de chocolat, et leur beauté statique

Les majestueux et inspirants Downs ouverts

LES DOWNS LE NORD, LE SUD

Je passerai ma vie dans ces ruelles.

Elles ne mènent nulle part, mais donnent accès.

Négligées et sous-utilisées.

Leur utilité quotidienne, plutôt banale.

Leur beauté vous brûle les yeux.

Des coquilles brûlées dans des ruelles brûlées.

RELEVEZ VOTRE ESPIRIT

Alors, y a-t-il de la beauté dans ces ruelles ?

Pas de champs de maïs ou de cieux de corbeaux.

Pas d’acres récoltés ou de coteaux fraîchement labourés.

Pas de pignons ou de salles sacrées.

Pas de collines ondulantes ou de chemins de campagne.

Pas de miel à l’heure du thé, pas d’horloge à trois heures moins dix.

A qui étaient ces lilas, à Eliot ou à Brooke ?

Abandonnés là, dans ces terrains vagues.

Seulement bons pour les papillons ?

COMPOSITION

Le chariot de supermarché, qui rouille lentement

N’est qu’un touriste de l’autre monde

Comme une hirondelle migratrice exotique

Ici aujourd’hui, puis plus du tout

Maison des ronces et du lierre,

Maison des scarabées et des puces

Seuls les écoliers marchent sur ces chemins,

Seulement les chercheurs ou les malades,

Les feuilles mortes et les mouchetures des chemins de traverse.

Par un chemin cassé et pierreux.

DÉCOMPOSITION

Il y a de la vie dans ces feuilles mortes

Tout comme l’espoir et la joie

Tout comme la beauté est là, brillante

Sur les coquilles des morts et dans les os des vivants.

Jeté et oublié, ne dis rien à maman.

Des ailes brillantes ou des feuilles mouchetées,

Le sac en papier danse dans le vent

Bien sûr, nous enterrons les morts ou brûlons le passé.

Sa douleur est trop fraîche pour nous retenir

Sa folie est pleine de nouvelles erreurs

Ses désirs vides et ses poings qui tremblent

LA MORT PAR L’ATTENTE

Assieds-toi donc près du feu et regarde

Sa main tremble, mouchetée par l’âge

Flétrie et rétrécie, comme une vieille relique.

Lancée d’un chantier qui ne vit plus.

Ses os et ses poutres sont usés et ouverts.

Nous pouvons voir la structure du bois.

Le grain, gravé, érodé

Même flétri, à moitié détruit.

Considérez Phlebas maintenant,

Regardez sa lassitude

Pas encore noyé ni mort

Ces ressources seront recyclées.

Dans les ruelles de son imagination

Atome à Atome, poussière à poussière.

L’INÉLUCTABILITÉ DE LA MORT

La mort nous arrache, mais nos coquilles

Gisent dans les ruelles, chez les autres

Comme un matelas humide, mis au rebut.

Ou des chiffons vissés et jetés dans la haie.

La haie qui délimite

Ces autoroutes étirées

Des ruelles qui mènent partout

À MOITIÉ LUES À MOITIÉ COMPRISES

Ceux qu’on lit à moitié, qu’on comprend à moitié

A moitié étudiés, bientôt oubliés

Des aperçus du soleil à travers les nuages,

Occupé comme un scarabée, ou sage comme un ver.

Déchirées, à moitié connues, à moitié apprises par cœur.

Récité souvent en mots chuchotés

Marmonné au mur et ensuite

Premier à sortir de la porte quand la cloche sonne

Souvenirs mais pas compris

Qui avait le meilleur stylo, dont les mots nous faisaient froncer les sourcils, rire ou soupirer,

Comparant le bleu au vert, ou la merde ou la merde,

Quelle chanson était la meilleure, ou la pire, ou pas du tout ?

Quand tout le monde a un mot à dire.

BEAUTÉ PANACHÉ

La beauté rôde dans ces ruelles sans issue,

Chuchotant dans les cordes à linge

Flottant comme un fantôme, espérant, gémissant, maudissant,

Tenant le passé comme une tête coupée

Sous les feuilles froissées, la vie bruisse.

Sous un ciel couvert et des yeux sombres

Frapper ces feuilles mortes dans la joie de l’enfance.

Comme Petronius, parti rejoindre la majorité

Bousculant le chemin de la connaissance

Cachant sa vérité, une telle vanité.

LE MOIS LE PLUS CRUEL

Frappe à la porte et laisse-moi entrer

Je ne peux plus supporter ce fardeau

Son poids lourd et brûlant

S’abat sur moi

Le crapaud du travail

Alors que je rejoins les deuxièmes pauvres

N’étant pas assez bon pour rejoindre le premier

Ni sage ou patient pour être riche.

Ni avide, j’ai tout donné

Et j’ai donné et donné et donné

Sans jamais penser à en prendre un peu

Hanté par l’équilibre, l’inclinaison

Les moulins à vent ont tourné et se sont écartés

Comme Walter Mitty, je réside

Au pays des fantasmes, ou des pelotons d’exécution

La Seigneurie, s’il vous plaît, ne retenez pas

Les récompenses et les prix, s’il vous plaît.

Pour une vie de fées et de peluches !

Donnez-les-moi, s’il vous plaît.

Je mentirai sur mon CV

Et être promu alors !

Je prétendrai être intelligent.

Ou un diplôme d’une université de la vie.

La maison d’Archer était autrefois celle de Brook.

Quel stylo était le meilleur, c’est là que le bât blesse.

Lève-toi et prend les choses de la vie

Lève-toi de ces flaques d’eau.

Allongées dans les allées vides à moitié abandonnées

Comme un monstre du marais primitif

Traînant vers l’avant, dérapant, glissant.

Se précipiter, se noyer, mourir, creuser et se droguer,

Ces lilas pleins de parfum ne durent pas si longtemps.

Puis brunissent et s’humidifient, et se transforment en graines.

Écrit par un fantôme et signé par d’autres

Je revendique le prix pour moi-même

LE VIVANT-MORT

Aussi froid que la pierre

Aussi froid qu’une pierre

Qui explose lentement

Dans l’ombre des pierres

Nous gisons, les vivants mourants.

Dans l’ombre des pierres

Démontrant la cruauté d’Avril

Par l’enterrement des morts

Dans ces ruelles oubliées depuis longtemps

Qui mènent à on ne sait quand

Regardant le passé à travers la lentille

De la nostalgie et se demandant

Pourquoi les choses ne sont plus ce qu’elles étaient

Tiré du chronophage du net

Des tâches qui doivent être accomplies

Ecrites, gravées sur le papier

Martelées dans la pierre

Les Beatles ont menti

L’amour pris et fait ne s’équilibrent pas

Je me tiens ici dans le champ

Comme un bécasseau fou

Prenant des photos d’oiseaux rares

Dont personne ne se soucie

Comme si j’essayais de posséder l’introuvable

Capturer des aperçus sur le papier

Prestige ou pathos

Sur le mur

“J’ÉTAIS ICI”

Comme de la pisse de chien

Lavé par la pluie sans fin sans fin

Marquant un territoire perdu depuis longtemps

Abandonné, puis sorti de l’histoire

Raillé et désavoué.

L’argent est la seule chose

Qui ne doit pas être possédée

Transmis, oui, ou donné, ou emprunté,

Comme une mauvaise nouvelle un jour d’hiver.

TROIS VINGT ANS ET DIX ANS

Entrez numéro 9, votre temps est écoulé

L’OBSERVATEUR DE LA BEAUTÉ

Y a-t-il de la beauté dans ces tas de déchets

Dans les terrils du Nord

Dans les tours de refroidissement, mordues par le gel ?

Les lignes de chemin de fer et les usines ?

Le grand OZYMANDIAS d’autrefois

Regarde mes œuvres et désespère

LA REVENDICATION DE LA NATURE

Y a-t-il de la beauté dans les lacets de chaussures ?

Ou des poubelles vides, ou des bouts de ficelle

Ou bien les crumpets au coin du feu

Brûlant rouge et profond de péché

Ce chien aux yeux noirs

Qui me serre le cœur

Écrivant des poèmes

Que personne ne lit

Ni ne s’en soucie

Obsédé par moi-même

Oublié et interdit

Y a-t-il de la beauté dans les plumes, ou dans la fourrure

Dans les rêveries au nez mouillé ?

Dans l’évasion de la réalité dans nos têtes ?

Est-ce si mal alors de marcher sur les sentiers de Mitty ?

A la recherche d’une grandeur qu’on ne trouve jamais.

Dans le court pont pour les vivants

Ces ruelles aigrelettes.

Sont-elles les mêmes ruelles ?

Ah, nous ne sommes que des épis de maïs soufflés par le vent,

Courbés et déformés, récoltés et semés.

Le sang riche de la vie, gaspillé sur ce qui aurait pu être.

Il y a plus qu’à coller

Tack, tack, tack.

Après, on mangent.