What is a Butterboy?
They are as hard as butter in Winter.
A human scale hardness
They feel themselves to be creative
Title not known
Night mist
Stone ruins bleak
Darkening heather
Dashes of white then a harbour of snow
A glib horizon
Or is it me that makes it so
Or do I just happen to like the word?
Splash wet foot
Splash, mind soaked
Arriving again with the moor
From Moor to River
Have been served smears of snow
On the leeside of the snaking walls
Or in pathside snatches
Or in a sheltered gap
Sunken low and still prominent
My feet stepping and landing
Between eternal darkness and blinding white
A stark choice that only
Movement can make sense of
When will I have time to regenerate
Who will guide me?
I notice the roots that lace the swollen river
The heron watching
The catkin, birch and beech
Heart center outwardly pulses
And meets the waiting world.
Sunken low and still prominent
was the broken nose of Owen Wilson.
Who in a bid to escape the wrath of John’s horse
Had been thwaked right on the sniffer
But class is permanent and he flourished even more
With acting possibilities enhanced a hundred fold.
This gives rise to a cheeky proposal
Somehow, might it be good if all politicians were bloody nosed.
Regularly
Not given them, but spontaneously bleeding out of their nostrils at random.
Unbidden, often and mysteriously so
In the house of commons gently bleeding
Giving a speech, sometimes stopped by blood, uninvited.
This really could be good for the human psyche
A focus on bodily fluids increasing relatability
Something shared shown.
Gouged spine, mole glove splayed
Sealed fate at the river
I take my breath and tell it slow
Sealed fate as the suns gone
I make my bed and it is so
Forgotten again the dreams of the night
Vivid hopes emerging from the dark recesses of my mind
A bag I drag behind me as I walk
Where treasure also hides
There is no light without electricity
Or am I mistaken?
I hope so.
I hope so
Uncle marge mistook the title for
‘I hope fifty’
This happened to be her least favourite number
So she flipped out
I tried to say my esses are naturally fivey
But she wouldn’t listen
By which time my tuna needed a stir or so
You decide
Pampered who?
Some stillness is
Ceaselessly so, dark moving
Deep oranges rush the rocks
White crests the pathway, central mohawk guiding
in the dim light towards a shooting hall
One year, with no stags spotted
and too early for grouse
The host permitted a slaughter of a ram
I am in the candy store
But everything I buy
turns to grit in my mouth
The host permitted a slaughter of a ram
“Why did you just say that Kim?”
“Oh no! What have I gone and said this time?”
“Well you are talking about slaughtering rams when we are here
At the beauty parlor
Getting our nails done”
“Oh no! What am I like babes?
I guess
We will have to
Put up with me even if i do sometimes go off on a tangent babes”
Unable to find a title
Out the city
Walking into a wild horizon
Be in
Be with
Bell the end
Of the ego
If you had to, what would you write in the dirt?
Or instead
Would you cut off your ear
And tread it in
Softly
The truly new is sometimes an echo of the really old: timeless
The slushy track went on for what seemed
Many took to the side heathers as twas easier deemed
Darkening sky meant trackk to be stuck
At last ebb to see the two halls
What luck
Lighten my tunnel not my load
Oh great Lordship
But give weight to my dreams
Not my load
Oh great Lordship
Lift my brain to its potential
Not my literal head you thicko
Who will do the remembering?
A smoken liquid
Delivers me breath
What breath
has filled these stone
walls before us?
Only the stones know
Once mountains
Drowning in salt water
They keep on crumbling
Smaller, as everything expands
Lost into grit, silt, salt on your tongue
All saying earth
doesn’t speak, does
But can’t listen
Can
But won’t hear
Will
But has not learned a thing from
the photo’s.
These lessons are hard won
And easily lost
To look at photo’s is all:
Closetted Wilderness
Browned iron, lock, spat car fume
Owl, bird flight, sunken of rushing water
Metal stud, black snow, yacht club
Chicken wire thatch , hollow yawning barn hole
Warping slate, grass tuft
Later, and I fall in love again with dusk
Birds change their tune, alive with gentle chatter
It is a different song for lights fade
They bounce stories from the day between them
And we all settle in for the night
A night full of curiosity
Like all nights
Something to celebrated
Although we each protect our inner truth
from the wider focus of yorkshire and world beyond
Going in
Liquid metal spilling into the river
In time becoming a
precious formed thing
A sacred thing.
That what is held, until taken
Exchange is flow
Is upwelling
A spring fills a pool
The pool empties
Never empty
I strip bare
Beside its widest hiss
Jumbled light and water rushing
A pink white fuss
From the iron red rock leaching
I’m tense and I’m in
Likely never titled
Gaze whilst pausing
Wet path, seam of light
Leading somewhere connected
Still with this place we dance over glacial drifts
Undulating in mood with the acid peat
A rocky ascent onto wet moorland soil
All of us steeped in ancient ordinary
Heather bound we are betwixed in this place
Twix
Bounty, Mars
Double Decker
A whisper that one day
Our granular knowledge of the inside of a chocolate bar
Might extend to the ground we tread
It seems life is carrying on
Love in the time of early death
Frozen slabs of once alive meat
When winter closed in hard and early
All the lambs died and so did I
Swollen with guilt
The only mercy I have is for the land
That has witnessed it.
There are very few things
that make sense forever
It is forever and we see the length of that
As one instant refusing
to reticulate
Any thought, utterance, moment, instinct
Into past, present, future
(then) > (now) > (then)
And see it as one
Whole
Elastic
Breath
Diary of a Butterboy
Smells and stains cover me
There is a great mystery to some of them
Others are familiar
Most though are harder to rememememember
Even with a
Googoogoogoood wind behind ya’ll
That’s mess
That’s hardship
That’s indifference
Fun though should stop on the other hand when the gambling lambs stop
Tuesday always needs a cheeky mint in othering news
Wednesday skins its knee but huffs the ouch inwards
Like an old child
Thursday is a downwards sloping path off the hillside
Into the Time Cafe
Clocks adorn, all large above the stalactites
Like treacle stuck teeth
A closing mouth above the remains of wolverines.
Friday is a ball ache again
Despite the width of vision I was blessed with last weekend
You just can’t change some things like…
It is not all about winning
… it is the taking part.
