hadn’t invented Fridays,
I’d have had to run away,
or I’d go crazy,
hadn’t invented Fridays,
I’d have had to run away,
or I’d go crazy,
strip colour from his whipped soul,
to tensioned skin and beyond.
His haloed aura
shooting sulphorous, searing flares,
purpled haze of rage, a scarlet maze,
nothing muted in violent
whippet thin lips
twsting, ‘fuck you’s’, to all,
his sundry, motley enemy
of stunned football laughter and giggling girls.
Absent abundant charm,
gone with his glorious smile.
in the shortest of longest moments
before the tears,
blind, burning anguish
of a silent voice,
forbidden to reveal
the cost no child will willingly pay.
Souls warping nicely for future
Blessed, burnt souls –
the child sacrificed –
on the altar of adult
the same reasonable rage.
All our sins.
…and we drift
off into oblivion,
sheltering sanity and cost to trust,
reposed breaths taken to ease,
soughing breezes without,
chantilly draped eyes cease to view,
seeing only treasure scapes unfolding within,
cream-coated tendrils woven in dreams…
I’m a wuss….and I know it. Some people just do darkness so well. When I read or watch certain things I always keep a cushion close by. I’ll read this one again…..right after I’ve found a cushion to cower behind. Why is fear so deliciously frightful? No answers to me. I already know why. We wusses have analysed this stuff.
Born on a wild night
Wicked and black
I appear in your mirror
Just as you turn your back.
Eyes that transfix
As you cry burning tears
Staring too long
Reveals deepest held fears.
The shadow that passes
The sound in the night
The breath on your pillow
To cause nightmares in flight.
From what darkened hollow
Does this creature appear
When then moon is in waning
And the sky pure and clear.
What horror awaits
When you’re left all alone
And the king of your terror
Appears on his throne.
So sleep with a light on
And fear the dark night
For I will be watching
Until dawns saving light.
A few humorous language ‘difficulties’ on WP prompted this ditty from me. A conversation about kilts and pants. And it wasn’t for the first time that comments with a fellow blogger took on a whole other meaning. Google doesn’t translate English to American or vice versa. Not that I know of.
Take a stroll on your sidewalk, my pavement,
Watch your ass or my arse on the kerb
Mind out for your trash and my rubbish
Our differences should not perturb
The fact that your fanny’s a bottom
While ours is a word I can’t say
And a name of a female or eejit
Irn Bru captured in ad for some days.
Your diapers are nappies, our trousers your pants,
Our pants are your underwear,
Your shit is our shite, but fuck is still fuck,
Good lord, it’s confusing, I swear!
You might wear a rubber, while I’d just erase,
And your fag’s not my cigarette,
Your sneakers are trainers, my randy your horny
Your buns are not iced/frosted as yet.
Your shag’s not my shag, cos ours copulates
While yours is a dance, I believe.
Your fries are my chips, your chips are my crisps
One language? Who would conceive?
I’ve been wasted; so touched by the pleasure,
Of words kindly said by a blogger.
On telling this truth she thought I was pished/pissed
Or high. It’s becoming a bugger
That words that I say with a smile and a nod
May be viewed with a frown or with glee,
While my reading here still guesses at some
Expressions not heard on TV.
I love it. It’s charming. It’s funny.
Like a joke that no one has used,
Except when we’re chatting and we each say a phrase
That leaves the other aghast, flummoxed/confused.
I’m thinking that we might need translations
To pass off the comments so jolly
A dictionary perhaps, in my boot or your trunk
Or maybe your cart or my trolley.
So before slagging off my sayings
Or I laugh at your craziest of phrase,
It might just be that like you, like me,
There are differences in all of our ways.
So Slainte to the Irish, the English,
Canadians, Scots, Aussies, the Welsh,
To the US of A and whose other Anglais
Is confused by our distinct vocal cords.
I’m all for the accents, the flavour,
The taste of a word said in prose
Or poesy fine, straight or in rhyme,
Though it helps if we sort out our codes. (zip or post)
Bear in mind when watching this that for us, well for me and my crew, this is not a word we would use in common parlance unless in the unlikely event that we met some female by this name. Or maybe, occasionally, if we were humorously calling someone an eejit/idiot/tosser.
On first hearing it in my living room, with some of my kids there, I was speechless. As were they. Then we fell about laughing. It was the talk of the place afterwards, everyone asking everyone else if they’d seen the new Irn Bru advert. Doesn’t take much to make us laugh! And Irn Bru’s very tasty too. Although it still wouldn’t persuade me to call any wean Fanny.
Whose shadow-darkened thoughts encroach and question,
Diminish dawn’s cockrow, dispel the day,
Worming into loam and taking root there,
Nightshade weed, asphyxiating prey?
Invasive views, punitive to thinkers,
Banks of clouds eclipsing all sun’s beams,
Unsummoned guests disabling reason,
Recurrent words, distorted earthly themes.
Florid-faced to grey on one perusal,
Ashen breath obstructing air, extinguish torch.
Whose mind a firmament of pyrotechnic danger
Erupting in the sentinel’s night watch?
Where dreams are blessed with skies of bluest sunlight
Whose nightmares purge my soul with caustic fright?
ridged firmly in place,
soft cells peek out between,
rebuild the case,
strengthened enclosure, split screen.
When I love a song, or a whole album for that matter, I quite often listen to it on repeat. It wouldn’t be the first time that someone has requested, for the love of god, that I change the music. And they’re not talking about me having a moan. Although that happens too.
I kind of sicken myself to songs after I’ve done that and then might not play them again for some time. Twindaddy’s 25th and final question for this music challenge is asking which song I could listen to all day and not tire of. Well, even among my favourites and those that are in recovery from over-exposure, none would fit the category of ‘all day without tiring’.
There is always a limit to how long I can listen to any one piece of music or album. My family might disagree but it’s true.
One such album was ‘Sunny Side Up’ by Paolo Nutini, another Scots singer/songwriter. So Scottish, in fact, that some people from outwith these parts often find it difficult to make out what he’s singing. Obviously, I had no such problem and sang along to this whole album for several weeks – but not all day – and now haven’t listened to it in some time.
Today though, may very well be the day, on unearthing this CD, that I enjoy it all over again.
The video below was captured at an annual charity event, ‘Cash For Kids’, run by Glasgow’s local radio station. The kids involved in this event will no doubt remember it forever – one in particular who got to play acoustic to Paolo’s impromptu performance.
‘Candy’ was the song that made me buy the CD.
Here’s the professional version. In case you can’t make out what he’s singing.
As a parting farewell to this music challenge I want to thank Twindaddy for running it and for inviting participation. It’s been fun to reflect on music that has meant much to me although it’s also been quite emotional – something I didn’t expect at all when I signed up for it. Music does indeed permeate every part of our lives. I’ve never really explored why I favour some songs and choose not to listen to others. Musical preference and tastes obviously play a large part in that but so too do the memories and associations we have with it. One thing it is, though, is universal. It crosses all divides and can touch even where words are not always understood. And it makes us want to dance -sometimes. Some people have even made a lifelong career out of it. Lucky buggers. To music and dancing, Slainte. And cheers to Twindaddy and all the lovely blogging participants I got to meet on the journey.
The seventies were notable for a few trends in music and style that now leave me shaking my head in wonder at what we, as teenagers, must have looked like to the adults of the time.
Twindaddy’s asking for his 24th question which song we remember dancing to with our best friend.
Going to the dancing was a very mixed experience. Some places favoured punk rock and the patrons embraced that with weird and wild piercings and multi-coloured hairdo’s of high jagged proportions.
That wasn’t me.
A few venues catered more to glam rock. ‘Poseurs’ strutted their stuff with every imaginable make-up and clothes combo, hair sprayed into full flamboyancy or left to hang moodily over one eye. Guys too.
Not my thing.
If you wanted soul music you could have that in abundance too at dedicated clubs.
I never did.
Glitz and disco glamour pervaded many places and spangly jumpsuits weaved their work on the dance floor.
Never owned one.
In and around the streets of Glasgow – as so many other places – a veritable Hallowe’en parade of styles could be found wending their ways to rock, pop, mod, punk, glam fests, all sporting the look that best suited their musical tastes.
I just liked dancing. As did my best friend. Weekends were for dancing and we tried out various places before opting for ones that catered to eclectic musical tastes.
With this in mind we could be found dancing to heavy rock, pop, punk or whatever. So long as it had a good bass or drum beat we were on the floor.
As for our style. We favoured a more arty, hippy look – long flowing skirts or dresses to go with the long flowing hair. I cringe now at the scarves or love beads wound around our necks and the scent of patchouli oil still lingers in my olfactory memories.
Our dancing then quite often reflected that look and the song I can see us both letting go to is ‘Wuthering Heights’ by Kate Bush. All wild abandon. When questioned what we were on, our honest answer was Coke – as in Cola. We just didn’t seem to need any stimulants other than music and life.
My passport photo from that time reflected that look and I had to live with it for 10 years – long after I’d abandoned being a pretend hippy. Thank God, though, I hadn’t been a punk.
I haven’t won the lottery
Though I’m hopeful that I might ( so are a few other people)
No holidays are booked yet
But I have one in my sights. ( ferry boats and bookings allowed)
There’s a simple sort of pleasure
In a day that’s dry and fine, (Scottish ‘summer’)
I get to have my washing out and gaze
While sipping on red wine. ( sorta self-explanatory, I’d have thought)
Reason to be happy!
Ok I’m going out. Don’t look at me like that. I’m entitled. I know I’ve got catch-up reading to do. But I’ve done some catch-up, you might have noticed. It’s the first day of my 4 day weekend. Whoot! Reason to be happy.
I got all my washing outside to dry today. RTBH!
I even did some of that thing…you know, housework. Not much. I’m not an idiot. RTBH!
School work’s up to date. RTBH!
Weans are fed and waattered! All had outings! Two reasons to be happy!
Still to do a post for Twindaddy’s 24th day of the music challenge. *sigh* But I know what it is and what I’m gonna write. Whoot! Big reason to be happy.
So, happy weekend, a’body! And remember to smile when the weather lets you air your smalls. 🙂 Not mine, obviously, d’uh! We lassies keep our sexies out of sun glare. 😉 Reason to be happy. Not mine. Just somebody else’s. Well, that’s mine too. RTBH!
P.S. Don’t enhance the laundry. I might fail the Persil challenge. But I’m damn well gonna finish the music one. Happy!
Oh. And one more. I took possession of Rara’s comments book today. So many people supporting and loving this lovely lady and Grayson. Let’s see if we can help make them happy..
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