... stuffed

Peace on Earth! You must be kidding.
Peace came second in the bidding.
Pipped, before the hammer fell,
By a finger raised from Hell.
Warfare takes the Lot, and the fate
Of Earth is held in his estate.
Plead and pray and cry despair,
The deal is done, the auction fair.
Going once and going twice,
But Peace could never meet the price.
Impoverished, are Peace ideals.
Their fare consists of meagre meals.
Hollow words and shallow acts
Echoing sanctimonious tracts.
Peace campaigning! Do me a favour!
Watery gruel that has no flavour.
Bleated babble; a Sacred Cow.
Lowing ‘Holier than Thou.’
In a field of blind belief,
Justifying blood and grief.
Screw it up, and ‘it’s god’s will’.
As is old tripe, and pig swill.
Hold the line and lock the shields.
Energies dwell, in battlefields.
Cosmic clashes! Warring stars!
Mutant microbes in constant wars!
Nature of Nature? Strength holds sway.
Conflict! … Looks like Nature’s way.

See Through - Cthulhu (Or Reincarnation. An Agony. In Infinite Fits)

This world is a spinning slaughterhouse.
A Carousel of reeling repetition.
A Roller Coaster ride over hills of anxiety
into vales of terrifying uncertainty.
A fixed game of no chance, that in the end
ensures that we lose everything.

The fabric of our flesh fatigues
like metal under strain.
And breaks our hold,
loosens our grip,
as we are finally flung
from the fairground of life.

Murdered by the mangling frenzy of greed
which is, but the nature of the material.

Strings of scattered genetic shards
and remnants of subtle energies which
built our fairground forms,
weave into tentacles of attraction,
drawing us back
into the gurgling glare
of gaudy light.

Smith's Funeral.

I didn’t go to Smith’s funeral.
Smith, and I had an agreement,
that whoever went first would spare the other
the bullshit of bereavement.
The limpid eulogising:
Some po faced Holy Joe;
prattling piss we didn’t believe,
in a gloomy morbid show.

I went to Smith’s tree planting.
A memorial tree in the park;
where Smith, and I would sit all day,
swilling cider till’ after dark.
Smith, would rant about modern life
and history, and tomorrow.
And blame it all on the price of ale:
The cost of drowning sorrow.

Smith, was a blowhard of living.
A Poet, a Bard and a Prince!
He could blast out a curse in perfect verse
that would make the Devil wince.
I want to remember his madness.
His wild visions; so truly divine.
So I didn’t go to Smith’s funeral
And he won’t be coming to mine.

I have included this belatedly in the edited(ish) stuff, having been reminded today of the sudden passing of my old hoppo’ Ian Smith, of Wakefield and Manningham. Smith’s funeral was actually far from as we had imagined when we made the pact, but I’m glad I honoured it. Smith, always said he didn’t want to go to a Heaven where anyone was excluded, however much of a low shitbag they had been in life. Almost the exact words as I recall. And since Mighty Smitey, was a gifted Shaman and Seer; I have no doubt that such a Valhalla, awaits.

The Awen Of Autumn.

What was glistening green
is now amber and gold,
yet as fair on the eye
as when young, though it’s old.
The energy strong
as the colours arrange
and paint on the woodland
the patterns of change.
Dank air fills the nostrils,
the mulch midden groans
with mountains of leaves
that are swept from the lawns;
to mould through the winter,
then boil, broth and brew
into foods for young grass
that will shine with Spring, dew.
Through the Awen of Autumn,
the Prajna; the Chi!
The vibrant life force
is sent wandering free.
As a seeming death dealer;
decaying and ending.
But just Nature, at work,
on Her, tending and mending.


I don't write many poems of an order that can be dedicated to an Aunt. But this one fell into my head, and it isn't too philosophical and heavy. So as promised, I'm dedicating it to my Auntie Kath. Hope you like it Auntie Kath, X.

Many thanks to Mark Sunderland, for permission to use the pic, from his Yorkshire Through The Seasons series.
www.marksunderland.com
"Sunlit autumn leaves reflected in the rippling water of the River Wharfe near Bolton Abbey."

Hadronic Mechanics. A scanner in the works.

Oh say can you see?
Because I can't.
But I haven't bothered to look.
I may be mistaken
and logic forsaken,
misread, misinformed and mistook.
Dimensions are
damning distractions,
of devilish detailed deployment.
Because they're acausal
their very disposal
redeems them in constant enjoyment.

Syntactical Objectification.

My Grimoire,
was never
very far
from finished.
It was
as if
the chequered
flag was
just around
the bend.
No signal
that the
torment was
in any
way diminished.
That held
me in
the certainty
that soon
it all
would end.

It’s the
same node;
same old
story told,
once upon
a rhyme.
For the
node knows
that when
one node
falls the
same node
still arises.
Once again,
is never
told true,
so there
can be
no surprises.
One is
one and
one and
one, and
can be
counted just
one time.

http://www.matrixmasters.net/podcasts/TRANSCRIPTS/TMcK-InValleyNoveltyPt01.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-g7Y8Shxn9Q&feature=PlayList&p=01EBE676308D44E1&index=0

Me transmitte sursum, caledoni

Abandon your integrity,
just a little bit.
The worst thing that can happen then,
is you get away with it.
Integrity is what you are,
Integral to your being.
And every time you barter it,
the real you goes fleeing.
The real you will not maintain,
your soul becomes a washed out shell.
And very soon you’ll know that you,
don’t have to die, to go to Hell.

Particle Particulars.

Particle Zenics.

The ‘big bang’ isn’t big.
It’s very, very small.
And out across infinity
doesn’t register,
at all.

As the mind focuses
the microscope of concentration
it perceives the clutter
of colliding, conflicting concepts
that constitute the cloud
of clammy confusion,
in what is
clownishly called creation.

The pattern
is a random scrawl
drawn in a damned,
dancing deluge of delusion,
and whoever
or whatever
put it into being
screwed up
‘small’ time.

The reality of ‘reality’
is
that it is
a waste of space.

A paradoxical point
that is pointless.

David Hazell

Druid Dharma

Through section of Large Hadron Collider.


Out of the cloud of unknowing. Out of the veiled beyond.
The merest impulse probing through, makes ripples on the pond.
The senses and the urges, random graspers of the form,
enjoin with dim perception, to fantasise a norm.
The storm tossed mind that bounces on the ocean of mind states
is prey to every impulse in the raging sea of fates.
To all events and wing beats, we are energy chained slaves.
And only non attachment, makes us Master of the waves.


The radius of the AUBREY CIRCLE is related directly to the SPEED of LIGHT; and the radius of the SARSEN CIRCLE corresponds to the square of the reciprocal of the speed of light.

May Fields.

In the flowering fields of May
I will walk upon the hills,
and breathe again the early summer air.
And in gratitude I’ll taste
the fragrance of the land,
and enjoy the simple fact that I am there.
For Springs and Summers fly
with the passing of the years.
A month seems like a day; a year, a week.
So with some smug satisfaction,
I will rest in laurel groves,
in contentment, that there’s nothing, I would seek.
The experiences of life
hold great mystery; and the spice,
of curiosities, inflame desire.
But the anti climax law
worms through every seed we sow,
and the borne fruit, seldom is, what we require.
So in the bright Maytime
I will look on England’s glory,
as she carefully puts on Her Summer dress.
As I watch the months and years
fly away with all my fears.
I will ponder on the things that I may bless.

A Demon Seed.

The human condition? A state of attrition!
No wonder they all get depressed.
What with organs that fail, and bodies that ail?
It can’t leave them all that impressed
With whatever has caused, them to be so disposed
In a flimsy, pain sensitive sack.
An abomination. A joke of creation?
Where dreams surpass gifts that they lack.
The frustration of hope. The slippery slope
They slide down, as their world comes apart.
Hardly a wonder they stumble and blunder
In efforts they dare to call art.

The Screening Process

So that they don’t disturb our dreams
we close our ears to distant screams.
So that they do not haunt our nights
we turn our thoughts from awful sights.
We throw up screens and nets and walls
and we dwell in a maze of occlusion.
This is the world of illusion.
This is the world of illusion.

The Old Firm.

The doors of perception...
Oh! What a conception
to be the great know all
of all that is seen.
Ah! What a delight
to have total insight,
of what will be; what is,
and indeed; what has been.
But a gift of such power
can taste rather sour
and give you some cause
for regret.
When the doors are thrown wide
you can look right inside,
and what you SEE is...
What you get.
Innit?

On The Pennine Way In Spring.

Tiny buds of purple, peek from in the ochre heather.
And nesting pheasants fuss, as I stroll by.
The ‘God light’ pokes strong fingers through the warring western clouds.
As the Sun, combs amber furrows, through the bruised and bleeding sky.
In the vales, the apple blossoms, speckle snowy patterns.
With promises of Nature’s bounteous yields.
The Lambs are growing stronger, and they stray now from the Yews.
And Daffodil, etch golden lines, where hedges cut the fields.
Patches of green can now be seen, on copse and ancient woodland.
Vestiges of life; where mighty forests, once did swell.
So different, the economy, of ‘civil service’ Pines.
That march like sombre soldiers, on the softly rounded fell.
Sunlight swings an arc of hope, along a winding river,
Lighting silver ribbon; and froth, of waterfalls.
Then it dances in the dell before it polishes the Ivy,
That clings with faith unbending, to old Monastery walls.
High upon a moorland seat, I watch the shifting shadows.
Unenvious of those today, who dwell in desert lands.
Although in truth I’m blessed; for I too have seen the magic,
Of the swirling Djinns, and Moonlit mounds, of endless tawny sands.

The French.

I love the French. Their food is great,
The women have ample asses.
They chopped off all their noble’s heads
To level out the classes.
They curl their lips and cock their hips
Their wine is just divine.
But best of all they gave the world
Positione’ sixty nine.

A Cupid Stunt

The Love God is a feckless thing
It’s arrows it doth’ wildly fling
But each hath curs'ed poison sting
For though the heart when struck may sing
And dreamily to hope may cling
Eftsoons that hope will swiftly wing
And lovelorn care the hands shall wring
T’were better that th’ Amor’ King
Would snap the bow and break the string.

Feasting Folk

Let’s all wet the baby’s head
Uncle Wilf’ and Auntie Sue’
Will be the godparents they said
And Sue’ will make a trifle too.
We’ll get some wine, Australian,
And Cola for the kids.
OJ for Alan and Damien!
Cola blows their lids.

Janine is throwing a tantrum
Because she didn’t get a bike.
And who bought Jim that bloody drum?
Someone that we don’t like!
At least the Turkeys nicely done
You ballsed that up last year.
This Christmas must be a merry one,
I’ve got in gallons of beer.

See Ingrid there, with the curly hair?
Looks like nothing would interest her.
Well that Prof’ who held the Lit’ chair
Fucked her in the first semester.
Some graduation; this is a joke,
Champagne and sausages on sticks!
Let’s piss off and score some coke,
Forget about these gowned clown hicks.

Well many thanks to my old mate Stan’.
In an act of desperation,
He went and picked me to be best man
And give you this oration.
A proper sit down do, as well
Much classier than a buffet’.
The prawn cocktails have a familiar smell
But I suppose we can’t be fussy.

Oh stop it Jean. You’re rid of the louse
You’re free to look around.
You get to keep the kids and house
It couldn’t be more sound.
Stop snivelling for pity’s sake
You’ll soon have a man with tits like those
Here have a piece of chocolate cake
And for God’s sake blow your nose.

Yes give me sunshine any day
Though we have been skiing twice.
Not my idea of a holiday,
Cold and snow and bastard ice.
What’s in this drink the waiter brought
Apart from all the fruit?
Let’s nip down to that nudist beach,
Swap the thong for your birthday suit.

Here have another vol au vent
The dog puke in em’ makes me squirm.
I wouldn’t say they’ve overspent,
How long was Perkins with the firm?
The MD wasn’t too verbose.
Taciturn and to the point.
When I retire I’ll just piss off
And tell them where to stuff this joint.

Go on I’ll have a double gin
Helen’s staying sober so she can drive.
The ham on these sandwiches is a bit thin.
Tim would tell them if he were alive.
I’m glad cremation was their choice
Those graveside jobs can be a pain,
Got a sore throat once and lost my voice,
Standing on mud in the fucking rain.

The Legerdemain Of Legend

The source of a legend is vital,
In determining if it is fact.
The Irishman’s art, is inclined to impart
Some embellishment where it is lacked.
Ogham, survived in the Emerald isle,
Where the Druids, were always book cooking.
What ere’ it may seem, it may be not so green
As much as it is, grassy looking.
Once, beyond the Pale, you will get a tale
For just any question you ask.
Making it fit, by talking auld’ shit,
Will prove to a rustic, no task.
So Bean Sidhe, and Boggart, will people the land,
For those that have ears to listen.
Keep buying the stout, and without a doubt
You’ll see ancient eyes start to glisten.
The fairies of glens, the dark wraiths of fens,
And cartloads of Leprechaun lore,
Will be yours if you are, back and forth to the bar.
Keep em’ coming, and you will get more!
You’ll hear how Druids, of evil design
Put terrible curses on cattle and swine.
The plots they were hatching with Divilish sctratching,
A smouldering demon in evr’y scrawled line.
A small price to pay, as you go on your way
With a head full of Blarney blessed mystery.
And who is to say they are lies, anyway?
Spinning yarns, can’t be messed up with history!