Serpentine Spectacle

(source)

restless and seething

scales strip scales

quivering rustlers

in befuddled coitus

interruped onanistic

serpentine spectacle

heads lost, tails lost

in the sloughing

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Pillowcase Presence

Memory in the touch that calls to reason,

Abstraction just a place where stars collide,

Disjointed dreams, some fraught with lesions,

Others merely shelter deep inside.

Some there are as pivot, giving warning,

Advancing cause, regulating mood,

Semblance of the real restored in morning,

Sonorous with wonder at all good.

Sleep adrift, in darkness, searching moonlight,

Inner eye to sky bestowed, in reach,

Rested in the present, gifted new sight,

How dreams in darkness touch, to lovers teach.

Elegance purveyed amid the chaos,

Confusion unconfessed so sweet absolved,

Bartered dreams, reality with no loss,

Unravelled theories, string unwound, life solved

On pillowcase near perfumed by your presence,

A touch to mind, to heart, to memories,

Kaleidoscope of visions void by essence

Of you beside, inside all drowned out tears.

‘Divided By A Common Language’

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.

 

 

Bearings

Magnetic north betrays;

Directional delusion.

Needle spinning wildly;

Charted course confusion.

Dizzying view; no guidance.

Abstract points of compass.

Polarity perplexing;

Divergent path encumbers.

The Gatekeeper

The door is ajar, oh so slightly,

But the gatekeeper guards it well.

Is it push or pull to gain access?

Only the gatekeeper can tell.

 

Are there treasures within to be defended?

Do these riches belong to himself? or

Secured for another, what lies inside?

Only the gatekeeper can tell.

 

Will pushing reveal his story?

Hidden, a story of self? or

Teasing with tempting persuasion?

Only the gatekeeper can tell.

 

Is pulling at door the answer?

In effort to see so much wealth?

Perhaps it’s revolving, a spinning collusion?

Only the gatekeeper can tell.

 

Connections within and without there,

A maze that leads to deep well,

A thread to return to safe haven,

Only the gatekeeper can tell

 

If sentinel shields with fierce fury,

Custodial protection against peril.

Is guarding the gate the price of his fate?

Only the gatekeeper can tell.

There Are Those

There are those who get

You’re giving

Who understand your gain

There are those

Whose comprehending

Comfort

Releases

All the pain.

There are those whose love

Encompasses

All mankind as one

And woman

As another source

Of solace and of some

Desire and wonder

So imbued with

Heartfelt

Understanding

There are those

Who simply

Get it

And there are those……

Who don’t.

Who Knows?

Who cares

To renew

A good man?

Who shares

A point of view?

Who wonders at

Right

Or woeful deceit?

Who knows

What

Right

From the wrong?

Who knows what heart lies

Needing?

Who knows where

Urgency

Is met?

Who knows why

Souls

Are confounded

Or why

One look

Makes

The wet

Of desire

And fulfilment

A goal

To achieve,

A

Something

Unexplained

 

That no one believes?

 

Who knows

These things?

Not I.

Market Forces Confuse

A galaxy of chocolate

And sweets displayed to catch the eye,

A Marathon now Snickers

At my attempts to pass them by.

Opal Fruits, so once called, add to the confusion,

Call me Starbust, they now say,

Your memories are illusion.

And not just sweets or chocolate bars,

Household products too.

I remember Cif was Jif,

It used to clean my loo.

Markets dictate, me confuse.

Fusion

Some are entrenched in immutable mode

And keep their eyes blinkered ahead on the road.

Others decry all depths of matter

And throw the baby out with bath water.

Superseding notions are all very well

And ideas, progressive, can find places to dwell.

If old marries new and blesses the union

Some harmony exists in this grafted fusion.

But crushing the past causes greatest confusion,

Beliefs left bereft for a newer delusion.

No secretive, unwritten code.