S & M Games

I was taking a well-earned rest that extended a bit beyond what I intended. Thoroughly enjoying it too. Been to Spain and back again. Been over the border and back again. Trying desperately not to comment on the farce of British politics…I’ll say this and then I’m going back to R&R. I need it.  Sorry I’ve not been into anyone’s sites – never thought I’d be so long absent from blogland. I daresay once I’ve replenished my oomph I’ll be back. Just had to let you know that we’re not all arses.

Thigh-high boots, leather corset

Whip hand cracks and snaps near ear

Ricochets, reverberations

Dominate, try to measure fear

Public school boys, petted puppies

Petulance, moral poverty

Bankrupt conscience, fixed agendas

Ambitious failures shed no tears

Tricks and lies that colour pages

Carrots, sticks and donkey rides

Asinine with self-absorption

Peek-a-boo, expose then hide

Decisions based on fear and fortunes

Games they play, monopoly

Snakes with ladders, swings and sliders

Risk and run mid jeers and cheers

Children all, without exception

Raised with silver spoons in arse

Rhetoric undemocratic

Bully boys, elected farce

Run the countries like a brothel

Prostitute the populace

Whip to frenzy, S&M games

Governance of world disgrace

Rules we live by

They dismiss

Changed mid-game

Really take the piss

House of cards

With loaded dice

None virtuous

We’re held by vice

Tokens, tickets

Buy your pass

Swallow mouthfuls

While they laugh

Independence, vows they promised

All exposed as project fear

Truth lay shackled, cuffed, spreadeagled

Cats with nine tails cost us dear

Domination detrimental

Determination, never more

Sneering snobs, robotic gargoyles

Time to even up the score

Keep your mind games, carnival

The whole shebang, corrupt cabal

I’ll take freedom with vanilla

Straight talking Scots with evidence

Let the whorehouse knaves all tumble

While they scrap and flaunt and flounce

In disarray and deep division

Casting lots to ferment hate

Queuing up to take the whip hand

Welcome to Westminstergate

Masochists, sadistic pleasures

Name your game, they’re all for sale

Ignore the world that heaves in turmoil

Pimp your ride while people wail

What we’ve come to, what a mess

But, hey ho, folks, it’s all illusion

Games they play while they undress

 

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Paper Stage

In our fiction we have found another meaning,

Persona purified upon the page,

Feeding lines to lovers, deleting where we wish,

Camouflaged emotions, love to rage.

Subterfuge by any other standard,

Masks and costumes donned, let play commence,

Poetry, prose enacted, upon a paper stage,

Imagined intervals to build suspense.

Little drops of us from side to centre,

Courtesies in character full-blown,

Feed the words, imbue them, reality suspend,

Alter-egos populate, seeds sown

From a word or two, our person may be pleasing

Or one dastardly who mocks at every turn,

A subtle slice of sandwich’d, we and he combined,

Embodiment of bits of us, new formed. 

Guddling

Trash! Smash balderdash,

Gibberish, all mish-mash,

Masquerading as the news.

Fiction, facts, we’re owed the truth.

Pish! Posh, all that dosh,

Dishing dirt, a load of tosh,

Captivating, cunning plan,

Doled out fodder for wee man.

Big man runs the well-oiled wheels,

Sleight of hand, we watch, he steals,

Steam, press, turn, depress with force,

One-sided justifies divorce.

Free to question, new release,

Biased brethern, big bro’ pleased.

Watch little man as he cuts chains,

Asking why, alive again.

Hubble, bubble, all this trouble,

Got our countries in a guddle.

Ickle, tickle, brand new hatch,

Easy-peasy, stand by, catch.

Fishy fish, caught with intent, by

Fishermen with hearts well meant.

Then we can fry them with some garlic and a lovely lemon zest. Hmmhmm. Smack!

 

Voyeured Charm

I love connections – might have mentioned that before. 😉 In my blog reading this morning – long overdue – I wrote of a dream on waking, read of a dream then, inspired by Simon’s lovely poem, wrote this.

forgotten times, alternate rhymes,

dreams within the dreams,

suspended reality, sweet illusion,

nothing as it seems.

escapists’ art, all words impart,

dreams returned to dust,

daytime serves frugality

to dreamers, as it must.

but, come the day, the sleep it holds,

serving all our need,

our nightly visions, voyeured charm,

providence will feed.

Plying The Yarn

Only a cotton ball, ephemeral cloud puff,

disjointed droplets of hitched illusion,

vast transient mass of unknowing.

Merely threads drawn, from ether drafted,

teased and twisted, plying the yarn,

distaff to spindle.

Simply the twists manipulated,

skeined slivers

executing and shivering,

separating the strands.

Purely an otherworld undertaking,

commissioned assignment.

Only every fibre pulled and plucked

for purpose.

Just words.

Egrets To Lions

So falter wings in earthly graven state,

Tarred those feathers; glued by base endeavour.

Transcendence beckons still at heaven’s gate,

Lamentations lost beyond forever.

Deny the lie that floats on surface seen,

While sonar echoes muted far below.

Fowl of seas and all living in between

Cast off the nets, surfactant bubbles blow.

Puddled splashes, a permit to enjoy,

Though shallow’d pools hide relinquished ocean.

Submersion energising; to employ

Depth charge in propulsion, an explosion

To electrify Aurora’s ions.

Aerate atmosphere, egrets to lions.

Illusory

Elusive,

Illusory,

Merely

Suggestion.

Absent body,

Facial expression

To know.

Smatterings,

Glimpsed thoughts,

Ideas,

As little

Or much

We choose

To show.

 

Painstakingly

Heartfelt

Revelations,

Profound,

Simplistic,

Unrealised

Observations.

Read,

Reread,

Unread,

Poured oil

Pored over.

Understanding

Or incomprehension.

A Dream Too Far

My friends,

I find myself so drawn

To others I can’t see

And yet, their souls are visible.

Is this only me?

 

All week long

I worked and wanted

To share myself with thee

To read your truths and your stories of

Truth and fantasy.

 

It seems to me

That I now live a lie

In once, choice profession.

Excuse me, please, I know this sounds like

Sordid, mean confession.

 

It is not that.

It’s just that, well,

I’ve written far too long and hidden all

I’ve thought and felt,

Like BBC banned song.

 

At last I feel

I’ve found my way,

Words upon the page

Flowing more profusely

Than at any other age.

 

I love my kids

Inside my school,

I know I do them well,

I, seriously, could do no other.

They’re like my own, myself.

 

But what to do,

I’m fifty-two.

I know that that’s not ancient

But I don’t know if I have will

To be forever patient

 

To do what I have always felt

Is so my heart’s desire

To set chosen words

Upon a page

To fuel a literary fire.

 

I kind of figured

A short while ago

That all this was a dream,

Like fairy belief and flying;

Nothing as it seemed.

 

Such disarray within my thoughts,

My dreams are running wild

And yet,

I am responsible,

No longer infant child.

 

May dreams surpass

All aged years,

All human expectation?

Is wanting something longed before

Merely, childish, frustration?

 

It may be so.

I think it may

Be nothing more than flight,

Imagination, born of dreams

Aurora Borealis light.

 

But, still,

I see them flashing there

Right before my eyes,

I look forever upwards

At heavenly, promised skies.

 

If truth be told,

There’s part of me

Still gurgling in my cradle.

I can’t let go, confession time.

I simply am not able.