Tag Archives: Death

Acid Days


I managed to miss the Mad Lib week, so please excuse me for this being a somewhat latecomer.

I asked the forever supportive Victoria to provide me with some words to play with and this is what she left for me.

N- Karma
N- Sound
V- To play
V- To seduce
V- To shadow
A- Creative
A- Strenuous
A- Resting
R- Mutant
R- Image

I am still confused how what came to mind actually came to mind, it was one of those out of nowhere moments, somewhere between deja vu and a flashback. So, this is the result of that 30 minutes of completely lost time where I am sure, if someone put a gun to my head, I still could not tell them what happened. Wierd.

The question may, or may not arise,
To play or not to play?

I read the words, but the image,
Was lost to my sight,
I was absorbed in this creative wonderland,
Yet,
Only words lay before me?

Ah, music,
Demonic melodies,
Maniacal guitar riffs,
From the age of the electric dawn,
Sound in the deep recess of the hour,
The creative minds,
Of axemen and bards,
Seduce the follower, toward
Unfathomable melancholic meditation.

Drums, throb with a strenuous rhythm,
I swear, Bonham and Moon were laughing, their
demented howl,
A lycanthropic disguise?
But no, I wont get fooled again,
This aint no stairway to heaven baby!

Somewhere, a silver bullet band played my tune.

The question, though
Was never in doubt to these monsters of rock.

Death,
Cast its eerie shadow beyond our manic twosome,
Resting in its periphery,
Sat Jimi alongside Marc in a purple haze,
Those metal guru’s of history,
Watching, The Voodoo Child metamorphose,
Into the miscreant mutant,
Of the unholiest Black Sabbath.

Who told you hell aint a bad place to be?

Someone out there,
I know not who,
Maybe the fool on the hill?
Called the karma police.

The arrests were brutal,
In their intensity,
The acid days,
Were long ago banished,
Into legend…..

John Bonham: Drummer with Led Zeppelin, sadly deceased.

Keith Moon: Drummer with The Who, sadly deceased

Monsters of Rock: A open air rock concert held at Castle Donnington racetrack. Applicable to Bonham and Moon as well.

Jimi and Marc: Hendrix and Bolan of course.

Karma Police: A song by Radiohead.

Other song titles are in there as well, some you will recognize, some maybe not.

Posted over at d’Verse, the pub where the poets hang. Come join the fun and read some awesome poems penned by some awesome poets.


Living With Myself


Lonely park bench
blissful mid afternoon sunshine glints
off puddles that ripple
disturbed by a gentle breeze
A man,
lonely as the bench he calls home
is in deep conversation
with someone only he knows.

They converse for hour upon hour
time, a concept neither respect
or fear.

Tuesday, just another day
much like any other
same park bench
same man
conversing with someone
only he knows.

Early morning mist lingers
unburnt by the suns early warmth
promises of
another beautiful day
in the life of
a lonely park bench.

Still is the air, restful
as the man who slept under
starlit skies.

So soon, the chatter of conversation
fills the void
like the dawn chorus
taken for granted
by the 9-5 army
marching on rations
of cholesterol soaked
bran flakes

“Hello mister”
rubbing his still sleepy eyes
is this a dream caught
between the realms of the real
and imagination
“mister, you ok”
ah, those words
music from a long defunct jukebox
of broken promises.

“want some coffee mister”
“does it come with nicotine”
“whats nicotine mister”
“never mind”
“i’ll ask my mammy”
with that, she skips away
a bird chasing its own song
unemcumbered by life

“mammy doesn’t smoke, sorry mister”
“but you can still have some coffee
cant you”
the last veil of mist
vanishes
to reveal this day
the most glorious yet

“is this yours mister”
“yes”
“whats it for”
“nothing”
sure this was still a dreamscape
the man yawned, aware
this was surreal, yet
somehow not.

That strange encounter
saved a mans life today
preventing hypothermia
from taking another innocent life
of a man who is not like you,
from a man who could not live like you
but a man who
Can live with himself.

This came about for a host of reasons. If you know Jethro Tull, you will know Aqualung, a song I find so sad, I tend to shed tears when I hear it. Then there was the old [to a child] man in the park I used to talk to as a bairn, unbeknown of the inherent dangers that would brng about today. And lastly, for the time I spent living rough, where the rest of the word passes by, ignoring the fact that you even exist. Hypothermia is the enemy of the homeless, no amount of paper or cardboard can repel it. Last of all, its for the people, who for whatever reason, spurn the life that the majority of us lead. Their bravery is testament to the human spirit.

A quote from Ian Anderson, frontman of Jethro Tull and composer of Aqualung.

“Aqualung wasn’t a concept album, although a lot of people thought so. The idea came about from a photograph my wife at the time took of a tramp in London. I had feelings of guilt about the homeless, as well as fear and insecurity with people like that who seem a little scary. And I suppose all of that was combined with a slightly romanticized picture of the person who is homeless but yet a free spirit, who either won’t or can’t join in society’s prescribed formats”.


Apparition of the Mind


The sword sat comfortably in its scabbard secured to my waist by a strong leather strap.  Its steel glistened in the sunlight when it was drawn, but that was rare in these peaceful days. People, rich and poor, walked the streets in relative safety and were quick to express their gratitude with a nod or a smile.

I had wandered often from this place in search of, well, just searching. For what exactly? I am not certain myself, just observe I search for something. I knew this land as well as the lines upon this sunburnt face that graces these shoulders. I have travelled these lands to all points, North, South, East and West. There could not be many who knew this land better than I, nor many who have journeyed as extensively either. I regard this vista that is set before me as home, my home.  But I am restless still. My spirit yearns to travel once more but my heart wishes to remain in this peaceful place. The conflict rages continuously inside, awaiting the winner.

I approached the  Sword and Shield from the direction of the setting sun. It stood pale in its glory in the dying sunlight, the first flicker of light danced in the windows from candles, hurriedly lit as darkness encroached. I have frequented this most public of houses for many a year to sample its delectable delights, that which we call ale. Roast Boar turned on its spit as I walked through this hallowed doorway. The aroma of fresh roasted meat, coupled with the bread and ale was enough to seduce any man from the street.

I took up my usual seat, set back from the fire and the draughts that crept beneath the door, and removed my gauntlets and helmet. Whenever I was returned to the citadel, this table always remained free. A person who knew nothing of me, or this place, could take this seat in their ignorance, but one look into their eye from myself , upon entering and they soon vacated the table to find a seat elsewhere. There was a fine reason I always took this table. I could observe the room and the street from this position. I could watch the door as faceless customers came and went. I had sat here so long, the wood of the seat seemed moulded by the light armour I always wear. There was a deep grove in the table where my eating knife always stood within reach. If it were laid flat on the surface, the proprietor and his helpers know not to bring more food or ale, my appetite and thirst sated for the night. If the knife stood erect in its grove, then food and ale were always welcome. Gold and silver coins were not needed to pay for what I drank and ate, my payment was my sword. My presence kept the drunks and gamblers quiet. There were no arguments or fights over ale  or cheating so long as I sat within the room. They knew better than to cause problems or disrupt the peace whilst I was in attendance.  For this, the owner was most grateful.

I am a business man of sorts. Wherever or whenever my services are required, as long as payment is acceptable, I work as and when I choose to. I am a slave for no man to command. I carry out my tasks discretely, without fuss or ado. I merge with the shadows and pass by unnoticed. I am seen, only when I wish to be seen. For the remainder of the time, I blend with my surroundings and watch. Always observant, nothing escapes my eyes, even when sleep escapes me, I am watchful.

I have rules to work by and they are adhered to, implicitly. I never meet who I work for. I use my own go-between. I have built a network of trusted individuals over time and they do as I ask, for a payment. They never let me down, they understand the consequences of such actions. I get paid, they get paid and that makes for contentment of us all.

The ghostly apparition passes by unheeded,
Where others have failed I have succeeded,
A mere shadow of a thought,
A blink of thy eye,
Involuntary shiver as I meander by.

No walls can contain me, no gaol can confine me,
No chains can enslave me,no stocks can retain me,
Fear animates thy face,
Enchanted mind succumbs,
Motionless, statuesque becomes.

I steal into your room, just a whisp of penetrating air,
Rustle a curtain, a drape, look closer if you dare,
You feel me, sense me,
Surrounding,choking shroud,
This all-encompassing cloud.

One surviving, remains of an ancient creed,
I cut you, alone, watch while you bleed,
Life drains, slips away,
Dark takes you slowly in,
Another deed of the ghostly assassin.

Thats who I am. If I pay you a visit, be afraid, be very afraid. The one who pays the price?  Why, Satan of course. I give souls so I may live. Its a fine agreement.