ghost boat before seaford head morning sea fog, whispering of baffle and blurr, doubt and nothingness earlier the world suffused with a warm, washed out apricot glow, now faded to a wraith like clamminess mist, pearl moistening every spiders web a realm fungal furred, rot and cankour, yet gorse flowers still tweet strident yellow, coconut ponged most branches are bare, crenullated with stone green lichen crisps, brittle as undersea coral season for softening, of surrender to the earth, take us down gentle into this, our darkness
ah do love a breakfast poetic blather! on the way home, emerging from the murk, a fishing boat languishing just off mooring, ha, blasting out christmas tunes, hackneyed, but bobbing in the fog suprisingly jaunt joyful
wrote one side of morning pages left handed today, crab scuttle etching… a curious process, feeling that this my alien hand doesn’t belong to ‘me’… to escher mbe? you can almost sense the grapple battle for control twixt ego and whom? mute, secret sharer a twitch, when the ‘usual I’ has the upper hand, it falls apart, hand wrench arches in the wrong direction… d’oh bother blather but allow the process and a curious hypnotic rhythmic flow begins… automatic, we know what to do …and the words, are they any different? dunno, can’t read the illegible ink blot scrawl looking out the window, world appears shimmering, the background to a tarot card, a slight slippage? mythic realm ever at our elbow da vinci the invincible anyway summon daughter from her slumbers, admire the red glow of rolled plasticine clouds.. sizzle mushrooms, pepper, tomatoes, garlic what are words on the page anyway? tongue convolutions to not make a sound, words that crave connection, synapse fire flare, ink deluge i’ve typed all this left handed, sense adandonned, suspect i’m incorrigible bored, ha, doncha know
on this hand aretha, all pink plumage, shimmer irridescence, joyful, stuck on a preposterous 60’s set a voice of such timbre and depth, close your eyes and it rolls over you like the majesty of the ocean, bears us up on the other hand, carole, plinkety plunk at the piano, looking like she’d snap in a gale… yet such strength, squawk of the mauled her song, she lived it, she wrote it, perfectly embodied beautifully squandered half an hour trying to work out which i prefer, a blessing obviously – i love them both the most!
brutal bone gnaw withering cold… i set off on my bike across the tundra twixt b&q and bishopstone… still air, yet brrrr the wind chill from the velocity of my own whizzing, had to slow down to lessen the shriek shatter ice cream head passed a poor little dead shrew on the path (i love the word shrew, none of that Roman flounce, a simple country saxon name befitting the creature) no bigger than a teasel, i could empathise with its last words frozen to lips… ‘unloveable. too small. big cold’ lacking gloves, i’d gone with a stripey sock on each hand, zig and zag, berated by puppets as i pedaled forever sartorially flummoxed by winter! summer it’s sandals, cargo pant shorts, a 10 year old moth eaten t-shirt, what could be better?! nowadays it’s all about layers, chunky knit colourful sweaters… ‘cept i don’t have any… jumble sale strewn, lurid acrylics, something of the dressing up box… widow twanky at the tour de france even the sea can’t be bothered, usually a hurly burly, giving it a ‘bit of this, a bit of that’ but today a half hearted lap, lap, the sound of someone gently closing a patio door dreaming of a giant knicker elastic powered catapult to hurtle me to the tropics rhythm of the seasons, means i can write the same post every year! and not worry about it yet… headed home… thinking of a friend from the prairies each leaf, every bush, frost licked to brittle needle diamonds a tree with arms flung up, fractal, exultant, here midst the whisper beauty light winter