End of the world blues

Two and two is four
Double what you need
I got you girl
You got me

Ah poor boy, treads on the beach
Sea at your knees
Sky within reach
Wind on your back
Sun in your face
Yeah coast boy
End of the world

Hey good girl, feet on the beach
Salt in your hair
Sand on your knees
Tears in your eyes
Smile on your face
Yeah coast girl
End of the world

She got gold, her old soul
He got ink
His hard skin
They got breath
Warm in their throats
Here we are
End of the world

Jamila

Dust
Grits her yawn
Her wind ruffled pool
Slaps
Fried blue concrete
This Arabian sea-side
Tires her dry eyes while
Tall shadows, bleached parasols
Blur through her
Squinted tears
Blazing her long hot days
Through mocktails
Banal tales
Airport novels
While the palm dials
Time to her
Dubai brightened
Sun

Lazy Boy

Busy days
Ain’t got the strength
To blow these blues away
Worth no money
Got no food
This mind state set
With no wants but you.

Smoked Out Slow

Bored with work ‘cause there’s too much to do
Wasting my time instead listening to music
Writing words to fill my head
Filling my soul with the takers of pain
Drinking some smoking then writing again

And imbibing
Deep breathing
To scribble again

Slow music better than no music
Quiet music better than loud
Hot tunes hold my mind in line
This night goes so slow – so unkind
The shakes once again start me shaking
It’s the fault of quick thinking whilst sitting

The tongues through my head
Keep me waking

Drastic action has me waiting
So long that eyes close under eyelids
Strange thoughts prop my psyche
Weird music and thinking
Sad slow – stoppage drinking
pushes time
to just over the brink!

 

June

We’re finally at the end of the crazy-June! Leaving us still with 2 months of silly season (English summer) to go… Where that will take us who can possibly know?!

June Oh June

With your bitch, full, blue moon.
You run on in pieces
in drips so drab
and break up the fun
that we waited to have.
You tyrannous slut
of a month
– Cat June!

Bringing the promise of sun and fun
to dash them and crush us –
you run on and run.
So you’ll guess I’m not pleased with you;
guess we’re not growing
to love your foul days of rain,
while you hide the suns glowing!

Oh June.
Oh my.
What have you become
now so late and wet
were you once called the sun?
I cry for you, baby
and the tears sting my cheeks!
I cry everyday
through your long blasted weeks.

Beck sun

This is an updated post from 2012…

Over (tribute)

Play it slow; wake me when it’s over.
Feel the music lift you, love a supernova.

Sleep is quiet.
Sleep is quiet when I’m with you.

Faking love: Push me I roll over,
feel so warm inside – join me in a Rover.

Floating past, gone further than ever.
Quiet, dark, solitude.
Now the moments over.

Dreaming still,
Standing still, dreaming that I’m with you.
Now the feeling’s over.

Sweet short

Here she sits a lady truly blue
Sweet heart lays in her lap for you
She whispers some sweet treat in time
And blurs the lines of your afternoon

Like something is wrong
In the tune in her song
Like something has left
She has sung it so long

She’s your silent Dido – carved of stone
Living in a life you dreamed was blown
As shadows stretch and rise and die
Your night lights with her white-rose tone

[revisited from Dec 2012]

O

image: Jean-Jacques Henner, words: Bujonswords

image: Jean-Jacques Henner, words: Bujonswords

Mothers of Mope

The marvellous mendicant mothers of Mope
worry about weaning their kids off dope.
Haplessly harried they hardly hold hope
of finding an answer that isn’t looped rope!

Round here the rising sun breaks slow the cloud
which builds through the night
– from the fags dark allows,
yet, none of Mopes mistresses notice,
through rows,
that newly a day is born
– sweet, fresh and proud.

Surely some sapient soul serves to sate
the confusion of questions one’s sure to negate,
in diurnal dialogue done direct and to date…
or so you’d suppose, in most all other states.

Here though, in Mope, the mothers are clear:
we’ll have no free thinking ta! None of that here!
Perish the thought of fresh views or ideas
and hold your big books from coming too near!

The plan goes so simple (it has to it’s true) –
the brideless of Mope know all that they do;
that learning from lessons is theirs to eschew!
Our proliferate pups truly think this their due.

So work on you earners, as hard as you can
Build coin for your country to feed the taxman.
His pennies and coffers are spent
– the grand plan:
Dished out to the mothers
who need what they can!

vicky_2371818b

Polisylum

Standby…
Standby.
Standby you!
Can’t get enough of that magic you do!
Stocks are broke
Oil’s all down the drain
you too get the feeling you’re here once again?
Standby – hold tight –
We’ll shoot when it’s time
wait for the clamour of bangs on the line.

Here’s the latest
broken news
We’ve forgiven Iran
The Soviets too.
Out of their madness and out of their heads
Our greatest have failed
to lead us to death.

Standby anxious
You’re not due yet
There’s time to drop bombs
Our gods hedging his bets
Stately you wait on
The pride of good taste
Please be in no hurry
to rush with the race.

Lautro

gods

The Gods have awoken
and they are smiling!
Not at you
but – for sakes scream – with you!
Your hearty laugh,
for now is the real time
of recompense.

106

Writers Block 1 by Drew Coffman

Image: Writer’s Block 1 by Drew Coffman, https://www.flickr.com/photos/drewcoffman/4815205632/in/photostream/. Words: Bujonswords

Inside

Groan
Pain seeks to find a source
Caught
In the process no one ever thought
Shunned
Left in the dark to find the self inside
Corrupt
So much self inside – better to hide

Inside

Glorious

Ramble, ramble, rumble
In her thighs in succulent thighs
ramble, humble, mumble
Thick in lies
Luscious lies.

As all we wait for something
we can never realise
and burn this twinkling life you hate
and start so many fires…
The answers we may never grasp
while reasons turn to lies
Even as the moths of death
circle nightly skies

A self-wrapped life is meaningless
and pocketed with lies
Just as sorrow for our selfish ways
shows up your mortal eyes.

412

Sulking in old boots and smoking dry tobacco into ringlets of fug there is a beautiful untouchable riding my memory like slow waves. Free to ramble through all my day-to-day wonderings this wisp of a witch leaves hints of her passing arse and brushing breast but refuses to shed light on any corner or artifice?! She chooses instead to skulk around corners and tease from the dark hollows of her once incandescent beauty. I am weak and willing and glad of her smokey company. This mirage of memory kindles warmth in my cold dark thoughts. She is far removed from reality by time in my head and far more intimate with me now, even thru her clouds and footprints… evaporating each time I try to get close.

Ah November

I see you, poking your crisp nose
round October’s back.
Pushing away at her
just so you can drag us screaming
through your frolics and fireworks –
So soon burnt and forgotten!

Well, how chill will you feel this time
runt November?
Racing maniacally towards us
like you have anything to say.

Only last week I seemed to be swimming
in Augusts hazes and late nights
when suddenly –
November is eating into poor October;
beckoning the willing and the wary
to embrace the winter bullies.

I see you coming this time though.
Oh yes, sneak all you like you fireball of lies.
This year I’m ready and sick or not,
you’ll not put me down this time.

Ah November, just watch you don’t get too lost
in Decembers big promises –
remember amongst all the lies you’ll devise
that as quick as August was
so are you…
After the drag of October
you can but gallop by
all cinders and chills.

I Heard Your Music

Playing,
in the sweetness of the night.
And I saw what you were saying
though I don’t think you are right.

The floor – washed blue
with lasting tunes –
was moving through
your fierce platoons.
And dancing clones
that stayed your side,
in monotone –
sang sad lullabies.

The Recovering Goth

Please pile up your ponce
And pomposity
Line up your laughter
And lick
You’re liquidity
Offer your art up for critique
For query
Open your mind up
In time
To your history

Moth with woman on wings

Eastern Shores

On these eastern shores so dark and late at night
cold waves break over stones and wash them clean
Beneath the fat moon floating proud above the belching surf
A sinking ship of broken dreams slips quiet from the scene

Shortly as sun cracks its fiery whip on the day
and bathes this stony silence in sweet blue
Straggling at the waters edge the shadows of last night
worn and tired and wet this sunken crew.

Lowestoft Beach January 2015

Olden

Injections of objective retention,
recondite, a bile-like-ripe lifer.
Can profane living
give rise to oblivion?
Give re-issuing license to losers?

Outstanding, derivative pleasurer
found lighting the end of a fuse:
Warnings abounded about her
moreover land closed in around her!
Still silence in mind,
expletives well timed,
I’d rather live lightly than longer…

A moaning most maudlin disgruntler
caught slinking and loudly around me.
These sorry sad Sinbads,
these bored boring bastards.
All fellow food-fighters forever!