Part Six
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<a name="111">
~ Pheasant Feet and Juju Babies ~ </a>
Miniscule wax dipped effigies and desiccated foot of fowl,
strung from wailing willow bough 'neath silver, slivered, waning moon
left the Slack-jaw jibbering now for lack of sense made fear intense
and the simpleton was anti-sensed ~ laid open to suggestion
~ and Faye (who spun this mind game spell) was capable of evil deed
for she who twists the will of men can sow a heinous, wicked seed
and he, with will not of his own strolled along a path unknown
suspended like a marionette on arcane flax that she had grown.
Yes, onward now he strode by hex as she sat with the juju child,
pushing needles through its form and chanting words she had compiled
from ancient scripts, books of death and personal soliloquy
she waxed, evil, lyrical ~ and cackled at the imagery.
He foot-slogged through a brambled lane toward a goal as yet enveiled
and as the dawn crept o'er plain he saw a cottage, iron railed,
that stood, it seemed, in solitude, though watching from its curtained pane
was Lady Constance Castleton and at her breast was baby Cain.
Cain was heir to all the land, as far as mortal eye could see.
Off summit of Mount Evermore ~ from left side coast to right side sea
and all who lived within its lines were duty bound to bow and scrape.
From times of wealthy noble rule, they feared that there was no escape
but Beldame Faye had other plans and with the magic she possessed
she swore to put the wrongs to right. The common man was much impressed
and gathered all she did require ~ ( from pheasant foot to juju child )
but seems the fool was easy duped ~ and spinster Faye just smiled.
For she who spun this mind game spell was capable of evil deed.
and she who binds the will of men can sow a heinous, wicked seed
so he, against his better will, walked her chosen path and still
danced the puppet dance until the dire enchantment was fulfilled.
By lurk he crept and entered in through servants' door at shadowed rear.
The Lady Constance heard his slow paced echoed step and froze with fear
and as the mark ascended o'er the stoney tread of thirteenth stair
she slipped the child 'neath counterpane and mouthed a silent, pleading prayer.
Her orison was made in vain and as the slayer scoured the place
he heard the muffled infant's squall and traced it to that hidden space.
From 'neath the quilted coverlet that draped to floor at bedstead base
he lifted Cain to final clinch ~ of suffocating grim embrace.
Constance fell to bended knee, torn by grief and sore lament
she begged the mark to slay her and release her from this vile torment
but spell complete, he stood aghast, incredulous and much contrite
he turned face ~ took to heel and left the scene by frenzied flight.
Wracked with guilt and torrid pain he slid his pistol from his belt
and with contrition cursed the evil hand that Beldame Faye had dealt.
He pressed the metal to his temple, then with utter self disdain
he took himself to meet his maker, on the verge near Bramble Lane.
Faye in squalid hovel sat and viewed the scene through second sight.
Wrung her hands with gloating guile and subtle grinned with sick delight
but had she stopped to gaze a little longer at her crystal ball
she would have seen the livid face of vengeance that would come to call.
Whispering to Nemesis, Constance trod the brambled way
and beat a hasty step toward the residence of Beldame Faye
in her hand she tightly held a wooden handled carpet bag
it's contents were; a piece of flint, some pyrite and a gin soaked rag.
Faye still sat complacently, crowing and self satisfied
as Constance gathered kindling from the picket fence that ran the side
of where the garden met the lane, then hushed of step she tiptoed o'er
the weed strewn path that traced the way to flagstone stoop at Beldame's door.
In the porch she huddled and determined to avenge the hurt
she lifted out the the gin soaked cloth and draped it neatly 'round her skirt
then after setting bone-dry touchwood in a modest self-made pyre,
she struck the goldstone on the flint and quietly set herself afire.
As the flames took fueled hold the spinster was alerted and
she rushed toward the doorway with a silver dagger in her hand
heaved the door to ample yaw but then, before she could attack
Constance took her by surprise and bound her snug in firey wrap.
and she who spun the mind game spell was vengence sent to flaming death
yes, she who played the will of men and lived by trick did end by stealth
so evil deed for witches' gain sent the culprit triple cursed
and thus ~ each hex she ever spun was by her death reversed.
The commoners (repentant) raised the orphan child with honest love
and Cain grew strong and ruled the Kingdom, pure of heart and fair thereof.
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<a name="112">
For Sweet Marie</a>
Gazing deep into your eyes
your sightlessness accusing me
I feel your skin like porcelain,
like freshly molded clay.
We stood as one through thick and thin
and through my vision learned to see
what others called insanity
was simple disarray.
Our minds and manners misaligned
we ventured on a killing spree;
death and death and more we wrought
‘til all was slaughter, red and grey.
Until you said “enough, enough ! “
but there lies liability
and so you engineered your end;
It fell to me to plot the way.
Tonight we took a midnight walk
to old Diablo’s Sanctuary,
where candles lit by shifting shapes
showed all of goodness kept at bay.
I bow before an alter now,
your naked form enticing me.
I trace the blade from nape to gape
and watch you slowly ebb away …
but one last kiss, a fondled breast
and thrust of love for sweet Marie.
In throws of death I seek the best
of Gods despair ~ and her decay.
©Ven.Dec06
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<a name="113">
Molly's Eyes. </a>
They were wide and dead and empty.
They were cry dry, vibrant green.
They were gin soaked drunken
... sunken.
[ Molly's eyes I mean ].
She was dead to dread and heartache.
She was numb and would succumb.
to the whims of pimps and pushers,
unaware that she'd become.
A crack whore junkie hooker.
Injected and infected.
Disrespected by her peers.
Forgotten
and neglected.
Denial keep her ticking
and substance killed disgust,
until sobriety raised its rare seen head
and she decide that she must
destroy the rancid shell
that housed this saddened core
so she trod the road to the station
as she often had before.
But this time,
... this time was different.
There would be no going back.
No more hidding in a bottle,
or behind the coke and crack.
She leapt to death rejoicing.
She embraced it open armed
and she uttered a prayer for the others
that the city slums had harmed.
They found her corpse beside the tracks
eyes open, wide and dead.
Death by misadventure,
the coroner had said
and no one now would miss her
or notice that she'd gone,
tell stories of her past
and sing the song of swan
or tell how they were open wide
tear soaked vibrant green
and no longer cry dry hardened
[ Molly's eyes I mean ].
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.
<a name="114">
Non l'esprit d'escalier</a>
Her razor tongue cut deep and hard;
words like weapons, shards of spite,
punctured my initiated skin.
My own retort, uncommonly,
was witless and revenge inspired;
by chance I found the strength to hold it in.
Knowing me, she saw straight through
my shoddy, slipshod masquerade
and yet again she cut me to the core.
Comebackless I sloped away
but as I left it came to me, I turned
and boldly walked back through the door.
Face to face we came again
with neither fain to give an inch,
we stared each other boldly in the eye.
She raised a hand to slap my face:
I raised my gun and shot her dead!
Last words ! "Hey Stupid muther fucker, DIE !!!"
©Ven.Jan2007
~
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<a name="115">
Through the Eye of the Beholder.</a>
"The wind farms are beautiful" she said.
but ~ not thirty miles North, nor forty minutes later
as if by contrived contrast, Trawsfynydd intruded
and made foray into her head
rendering her eye's peeled and salted
with it's harsh and sinister visual.
Digital mind recorded the scene
transcribing its eyesore imagery
to a slide-show set between
what was; and all she hoped could be,
posted (all be it in washed out Conservative green)
upon her deceptively delicate
and easily offended sensibilities.
So she disregarded the diversion
and
in an act of deliberate denial,
over-papered it with quaint zephyr blade images
borrowed from the start of the excursion,
hoping only now,
for the meandering sway of an easy day
on the curves of an idyll mountain road
... and exactly so it ribboned forth
from patchwork fielded, hedgerow hemmed farms,
through manufactured forestry, deliberate made, square
and all too familiar
to this;
Her coddling, cushioned, green and rolling Wales
transformed by gradient degrees
and turned then to harder shades
of tree-less bleak and blackened block-scape.
Grey-scale misted mountains brooded ominous
and left her thoughts half and half mixed
with equal allotments of oppressed and transfixed.
Each new view
inspiring future rhyming writes
and abstract, slate shaped, palate knife paintings.
The muse giddy spun, danced dizzy through her mind
while her cultured guide (and pilot of this ride)
threw forth reference of history, heritage
and stainless Sospan monuments.
Battle tales of Princes of Wales
recited aloud with a "proud of roots" knowledge undervalued
and seldom now seen
in this modern day hussle bussle "Land of my Fathers"
and yet, still ..
the road upward,
onward goes
to ever more dramatic horizons.
Each surpassing its predecessor.
Each flowing.
Poetic !
Like rhyming lines and metered text.
Each peak a veritable stepping stone to more
and more
and next
'til crag and bouldered summit silent stands,
in wait of the return of Eagles grace.
Listening as the ancient stories flow
onward down the valley from this place ~
where,
from Fathers voice to Sons it travels on
through names best heard when whispered, softly spoke,
or even sung, as Celtic history sings
so smooth upon the tip of Cymru's tongue
Immortalizing many a deed of mettle
lamentful voiced o'er hill and vale it brings
a feeling of at-oneness with the clansmen of my past
and
a loathing of marauding English Kings.
~ ~ ~
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<center>.
<a name="116">
The Maunderer</a>
She had candyfloss hair,
a spell binding stare
and a liberal air of confusion about her.
She'd walk with a limp,
like Lenny the Gimp
and often forget where her shoes and socks were.
They asked her this morning
to join without warning
the metal self help group at Garth-Dan-Y-Bryn
but by quarter to ten
she'd vanished again
slipped out the back, with her friend Mickey Finn !
In the market place later
you'd need a translator
in order to work through the slur of her speech.
They sent social services,
many a time
but she either didn't want to ... or couldn't be reached.
I saw her tonight,
she asked for a light
for the stub of a roll-up she'd found on the floor
then went on her way
to the Central Cafe
where she sat every night, table six, by the door
until home to her flat
and Bedraggle (the cat)
on the very last bus, as was always her way.
They'd meet on the threshold,
her inward ~ him out
and with barely a clue to tell which was the stray.
©Ven.Jan07
~</center>
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<a name="117">
A Commendable Regression</a>
With a seething fullness of shimmering shine
the complex contents tumbled forth;
a trove of treasure became part mine
while Dora cradled the ransacked box.
But amateur handling jaded the sheen
so rolling backward stone by stone
each jewel returned to where it had been …
Dora smiled ~ and polished the locks.
©Ven.Jan07
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<a name="118">
A Damned Fine Place. </a>
They trickle by, treacle slow,
in synchronized formation.
Five hundred walk, ashen faced,
right through the congregation
who do not see, or sense or smell
that something is awry
They sit, in calm oblivion,
as five hundred souls walk by.
Displaced,
expelled,
evicted
from their place of final rest.
Unearthed,
exhumed,
discarded
so the land can then be blessed,
reclaimed,
re-used,
re-classified.
No more this hallowed ground,
shall be the bed where sleep the dead,
a new use has been found.
A housing estate for families,
with a school,
a shop,
a Church.
A fine place for the living
while the dead, they roam and search
and trickle past, treacle slow,
in synchronized formation.
Condemned to walk, forever more,
right through the congregation.
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<a name="119">
Unfolding</a>
Life within uneven layers:
Creased,
un-creased
and re-creased
every day.
©Ven.Feb07
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<a name="120">
Should I say?</a>
And on that day, that ritual day,
what if they ask me to stand and say
a word or two,
a word or two about you.
Should I say "refer to rhyme
and heed what Philip Larkin said ?”.
Should I tell of selfish thought,
of thoughtless need,
of selfish deed
and spiteful phrases,
sharp like hooks,
with barbs so fierce they rip at skin
and settled in
to stay for thirty years ...
Should I say “I hate you ?”,
or “I love you”,
or “I'll miss you”
Will I say “I hope you rot”
Oh Mother dear,
...............… of course not.
03/07
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<a name="121">
A Thoughtful
...........Equivalence;</a>
A self orchestration,
her slow, intense demise
was the obvious culmination
of a million trivial suicides.
Insignificant inhalations
climaxed
to that (never say the “C” word)
small cell hell.
The resulting “Godspeed” journey
to her final mortal sleep
became a humbling expedition
and the tears we were to weep
would come pronounced
but unpredicted.
For we, “the kin,”
pre-armed
and with our selfish thoughts constricted
would inflict on the afflicted,
a most honourable deception.
A battle that was winnable (we swore!)
and armed with a prescription
for medicinal ammunition
we marched ahead
to pointless, futile war.
We gathered, strong, all allies
to deliver fond disguises
of benevolent little lies
and fine-formed
pretty preconceptions.
… or misconceptions maybe,
for I think, perhaps the lady
(with an understated wisdom)
played along to an
equivalent degree.
~~
03/07
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<a name="122">
Dolour</a>
A desktop littered with place keeping words,
snippets,
markers
and dog-eared events.
Irony that life's most profound inspirations come
at a time
when we can find no time to write.
History says;
"Descriptions formed in retrospect
will loose their crude "here and now" impact".
Perhaps the finest writers
have a separate, secret bureau drawer
and special chair
for this unique despair.
©Ven.Mar07
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<a name="123">
In Prognostic Mourning</a>
She drips pain.
Like red tainted water
from a rust encrusted tap.
With eyes cast downward
and hands rung in her lap
she sits in solemn mourning
on the doorstep, in the cold rain
she sits there, cursing gods
and dripping pain.
03/07
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<a name="124">
The Unfortunate Mr. Smith</a>
That poor ill-fated, hapless prey,
bred to pet yet purchased under false pretence
was destined for the serpents jaw.
A warm and tempting tiny, mobile morsel.
Rodent with no other name but food.
Circumstance however, and the predators indifference
cast a fortune far more favorable
and "food" became Auspicious Mr. Smith.
A cage was bought, a ball, a toy
soft bedding and the finest seed and grain.
But, fate it seems, with overtones of humourless contempt
had alternative ideas
and the scene was set for tragical conclusion.
A monster with a velvet collar ( silver bell connected )
came a'stalking while the house was dark and still.
So ask not who .... A pity, but the bell did toll for him
in an ironic execution, executed by
the feline campanologist.
©Ven.Mar07
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<a name="125">
The Work-Mans Whistle</a>
A happy smile did this way come
when whistled at was I
by a brickie with a builders bum
from scaffold in the sky.
He doffed his cap and upped his thumb
I blushed ( a little bit )
but then carried on all dum-dee-dum
So where's the harm in it ?
©Ven.Apr07
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<a name="126">
For Them ... </a>
All these days, are all the days we’ll ever have
and none can count how many, not for sure,
so greet each simple sunrise
with the wonder it deserves
and survive it or enjoy it
or endure.
Class each single sunset as a summit,
as peak that is surmountable, with drive.
The world will keep on turning
whether you are here or not
but for love of “them”
strive to be alive.
Ven.Apr07
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<a name="127">
The Poet & the Bloke </a>
She wrote in perfect meter
What poem could be neater
What subject could be sweeter
Than love of which she spoke.
She set a perfect scene where
the mood was lighter than air
She painted it then went there
as midnight struck the stroke.
He waited where she’d painted
They sat and reacquainted
Repaired what had been tainted
And fixed what had been broke.
Beloved and united
The spark was reignited
Excitedly delighted ...
The Poet and the Bloke.
©Ven.May07
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<a name="128">
Falling Out ...</a>
She marked the move from all eyes on to gone
confirming that he was, as she had feared,
distracted by the charms of sweet Delilah
who watched as she apparently disappeared.
There was no option there to repossess,
for what was lost is gone and there's an end.
To play at making more is worse than less
and reassurances just condescend.
The times they'd had were better times than most
with disagreement seldom slept upon,
so raise a glass and offer up a toast
to love that lived there once but then was gone.
And shed no tears for all good things my dear
must come appropriately to a close.
Say "bon voyage" and say it with good cheer !
May happiness come free with what you chose.
©Alice 26May07
~
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<a name="129">
Shape-Shifter</a>
Unassuming, an excellent word !
and a thoroughly good descriptive.
It summed him up
and was to me
a most endearing quality ..
But times they change,
things rearrange,
Narcissus now has nothing on him !
He has become an egotist
and thorn in my stability.
©Ven.May2007
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<a name="130">
Even then .. </a>
He never told but could have.
An opening to share
and lift a portion of the burden
had been there,
not for a fleeting moment
but for an immeasurable time.
He never said
but lead them to believe
that all the fires of Hell burned bright
with bellows blowing,
knowing his arrival was assured
and on that dreaded,
longest, darkest night
when no redeemer was in sight
and light of day seemed further
than a million, billion stars away
he fell down weeping
stinging tears of sore regret
and yet …
even then !
Even here and even now
that word he kept,
that fearful, tearful,
ever-loving secret
safe he kept.
©Ven.Jun.07
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.
PART SEVEN
_____________
<a name="131">
Guidden</a>
It is a curious force that guides us ( rides us? )
through blinkered, tram-lined calamitous mutterings
and stuttering wayward odysseys.
An affected cause that joins the lot from cot to rot
and scatters the uneven way
with potholes full of hex and vex
-past midnight monsters, closet ghosts that sway and slay
and witches that say, “I’ll get you my pretty,
You wait, I’ll get you, some fine day”
©Ven.Jun.07
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<a name="132">
To be Lost </a>
What thing provokes me now
What art, what word, what deed
What need have I
that stimuli
is leaving unfulfilled.
What sights inspire and how
What gluttony, what greed
that leaves me fly
and high and dry,
Where is the I we killed.
And what now sits in place
Of who I used to be
Which wiser woman
takes the chair
from her that once was me.
What chapter at what pace
shall be this third of three
what path to take
and for who’s sake
To be or not to be ?
©Ven.Jun07
~
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<a name="133">
An Introduction
to the Romance Section.</a>
Poets are a fickle brand
who often flit and come and go
with barely ever a "By your leave"
or "How'd you do",
or "There you go".
I however, intend to show
despite the highs
and lows and woes,
they do believe;
We do believe.
I ...
do believe
in Love !
~
Like Candy-Cane Tooth Pain
The way you stand;
the way you walk;
the hand you shape to drink your tea.
The lowered eye;
the sculptured thigh ..
I sigh, I die,
you torture me.
~
"Perfec"
There is no prop
there are no lights
and no stage make-up I can see
that could impress
your flawlessness
and impact more indelibly.
~
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<a name="134">
Little Red Riding Hoodie.</a>
This is the updated story
of little Red Riding Hoodie
She lived in Wales ( in the valleys)
Where they ain't so naive anymore.
Her Nan was a Marylyn Manson fan
Who's favorite song was "Fight"
but the wolf in the tale hadn't reckoned for that
when he snuck in her bedroom one night.
When he whispered "Oh Grandma, what big eye's you've got"
She said, "Are you taking the piss ! "
It's four in the morning, I'm s'posed to be snoring
what kind of kafuffle is this ?
She leapt out of bed like a ninja on springs
landing barefoot and squat on the floor
then pounced in flash as the wolf made a dash
for the safe looking shape of the door.
But Hoodie was stood at the top of the stairs
She's just gotten home from a do.
She was still off her head on coke ( and red bull )
and she said, ... WHO (for fuck sake) ARE YOU !!!
Wolfie just stuttered and trembled
and begged to be left alone.
He said, I'm a friend of your Grandmas
You remember ... we spoke on the phone.
I said I'd be coming to visit;
I said I'd be coming tonight;
I followed you home from the party
There's really no need to be fright … end :~)
Grandma said, "Frightened ! … I doubt it"
You're a little ambitious my dear.
It's me and Red Riding that's calling the shots
and you that is shaking with fear.
And with never a thought about mercy
she bludgeoned him over the head
with a big copper pot that believe it or not
was kept purposely under the bed.
They sliced him, diced him and cooked him
with carrots and parsnip and leek
and sealed him in cans with sell by dates
to be shipped off to Tesco next week.
The End.
007
~
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<a name="135">
Foundling</a>
You who once was lost and lonely,
left too long to sit in corners,
learning lines from see-through friends
that whispered, "Lo, I'll find you".
I never meant to leave you there,
I thought you were behind me.
I thought that you would find me
as I raced toward where now is
and the promise of this better place.
Yet in the rush I lost you.
As I crossed from there to now
I'm not sure how,
I'm not sure when
but sometime then ... I lost you !.
... It was never my intention.
And now I find you sitting there
in the closet, at the bottom
under books of poetry
and dusty photo's long forgotten.
You who once was lost and lonely,
left too long to sit in corners,
sharing words with timeless friends,
... "It's me, I'm here, I love you !
©Ven.July07
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<a name="136">
An open mind</a>
He is superb and I am wayward child;
He is the shine that makes each day worthwhile.
I am no poet there, within his shade,
so I will rest my talents for a time
and in each moment saved for pensive thought
there shall be inspiration to be found
and at each summer morning lit by sun
or winters dark and cold awakening,
I'll raise my head and nod to who is one
that opened dark of mind to let light in.
~
©Ven.July07
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<center>.
<a name="137">
Fall We Will</a>
One and all,
like kings of posey
down we fall
we're falling down.
Fall we will
like laws of Moses
long forgot
in rotting towns.
Long forgot
and much lamented
incense scented
fallen, drowned.
All in all
through rings of roses
down we fall -
All falling down.
©Ven.Aug07
.
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<a name="138">
Ya Live and Learn </a>
At seventeen you found her,
the ultimate companion.
She matched your wide boy image,
she was so just right for you !
She was lit by subtle street light
for your fleeting introduction
though in retrospect, some daylight
might have lent a better view.
Kitted in full leather
she tempted and she teased you;
her outward image pleased you
and the comfort pleased you too.
But the clincher for the deal Sir
was you were allowed inside her
anytime you ever wanted,
It was too good to be true !
So you coughed up all your savings
to satisfy the craving
for the speed and independence
she was meant to take you to.
But in the morning by the harsh light
of a thousand thoughts of hindsight,
she was rust encased and not so bright
Well ! …
Live and learn you do.
.
©Ven.Aug07
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<a name="139">
Bemused</a>
She greets me and purrrrs
at the top of the stairs,
winding in and winding out
while I river-dance an avoidance.
My cat has no concept of
"stood on" or "stumbled".
"Tripped" or "hurtling headlong".
She winds in, winds out
and then walks on.
Completely bemused
by my death
at the foot of the stairs.
©Ven.Aug07
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<a name="140">
Injuiced</a>
I bit
my citrus
too hard
and too swiftly
causing
sweet liquid
to burst
in a stream
that narrowly
missed
both my eyes,
by good fortune !
but now
I birth verse
through a tangerine
screen.
©Ven.Aug07
.
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<a name="141">
Questioning the Gift </a>
So that poetry thing ...
was it there all the time;
entangled,
built in,
were you destined to rhyme ?
Or did it come free
as a gift
wrapped in Rizla
or stacked on the back
of a wrap
of class A ?
You could 'portion the fault
to a fine
single malt
or some mushrooms you ate
in the seventies no doubt
but would that be fair ?
... and more to the point,
would anyone care ?
‘cos I couldn’t care
either way.
©Ven.Aug07
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<a name="142">
To Nanna Raine’s Witchery </a>
The signs say: To up-sticks and bundle broom,
cataloguing herb and rhyme and cats.
The witchery of silent night time
hooks it’s crooked finger
in a “come ye hither” fashion
and I (despite all science pointing fingers to the contrary)
pack my hat and coat
and blindly follow.
©Ven.Sept.2007
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<a name="143">
Lore Abiding</a>
What better time than night to share the other side of reason ?
What better wheel than natures seasons turning one through four ?
How magical the mysteries that lit beneath a silver moon
can spark an intuition and a natural rapport.
What purer need than selfish deed, to aid a preservation ?
What fruitful seed in thought is sown and nurtured evermore ?
How sanative a change of pace that surly cannot come too soon
and apt indeed, the chances that are set within the lore.
©Ven.Sept2007
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<a name="144">
Fishin' 4 Elefants </a>
Dali and I,
while fishing for elephants,
fell by mistake
on a swan covered lake
and drowned in
arrangements
of baritone
eloquence;
drawn through
the fine lines
impressionists make.
Through ripples,
reflections,
refractions and likewise
we floated like oil
on peripherals of blue
and danced
the last tango
in sepia dejection,
with him
looking inward
and me
seeing through.
©Ven.Aug2007
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<a name="145">
She and I </a>
And Death (The Bitch !) was chilled and vicious
riding roughshod, ever nearer.
Come to take a piece of mine
to take a thing I should hold dear … but didn’t.
Come to steal in increments
the underhanded b*stard !
Come to break
and ruin
and take
one dignity at a time.
And death (the Bitch ! ) paid me no mind
nor any of us courtesy:
She fled the stage to no applause
and never took a bow.
Death, the ingrate
just moved on to someone else’s misery
and wretched cries of “Why, oh why”
or screams of “Take Us Now!”
Death ( The Bitch ! ) promiscuous
and ever indiscriminate,
will pass this way again someday,
of that there's little doubt
then She and I shall have our day
and I will tell her how it is
and She will listen while I shout ...
and then She’ll take me out !
©Ven.Sept2007
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<a name="146">
Time and Space</a>
My father sits upon my shoulder
quiet and weighing nothing
but his laws for being bleed through me
as if they were my own.
Through struggle and adversity
he left me markers plain to see
~ he always shone a light for me
I've never felt alone !
His wisdom like a beacon shining
lead me through the fog and mist;
between the storms of life he'd guide me,
past the tempest, fear unknown.
I balance now upon my babies,
practicing this weightless trick;
sitting still upon their shoulders,
bleeding out all I have known
and 'though they're grown in mind and stature
weaned and fledged and all bar flown,
there's always time for escapade
and always space for welcome home.
©Ven.Sept2007
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<a name="147">
The Wasted Philosopher </a>
I set off on a tour of self detection,
an excursion fuelled by leaf and quest for text:
Wandered through an Amazon of literates
and thinking minds that history judged the best.
I pondered, read and contemplated wisely
while the company of input grew and grew
but the thinking that I failed to step away from
was the thinking that I almost thought I knew.
I embarked upon a trail of self pursuit,
to research the inner mysteries of I .
I looked inside the psyche of Spinoza;
I searched through Kant and Plato wondering why ?
When all the time the answer I was seeking
was in-situ bold as gold before my eyes !
In metaphysics My conclusion matters
and I am the sum of all that I surmise.
©Ven.Sept2007
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.
.
<a name="250">
Underdogs</a>
Chapter One
Jaynie woke to the sound of utter silence for the first time in eighteen
months and it un-nerved her.
She rose from her make shift bed, an ingenious invention constructed
from milk crates lashed together with cable ties and topped with an old
duvet that she'd found in an abandoned caravan.
It wasn't the most comfortable thing she had ever slept on but it kept
her elevated from the cold dirt floor and that was a definite plus. Once
you reach your thirties February is no kind of season to be sleeping with
your arse on the ground.
She opened the door of what used to be a back yard lean-to which now
leaned against absolutely nothing and was, she surmised, held up by
either magic or the grace of God, she didn't much care which, she was
just grateful that it stood. Half decent shelter was hard to come by these
days. She still wasn't quite sure why she still came and went through the
door especially as the forth side of the small square building was almost
completely open to the elements, it just seemed like it was the right thing
to do so she kept on doing it.
She made a mental note to fix the place up a bit when the weather broke
then returned to her uneasy deliberation of the unaccustomed quiet.
She walked around back, pulled away the tarp that concealed Betsy,
slung a leg over the tattered vinyl seat of the old KTM250 X and
attempted to kick her to life. Betsy (a severely overworked 2-stroke)
spluttered and coughed a few times and then resigned herself to the idea
that her co-operation was required and begrudgingly transported Jaynie
over the brow of the hill to where the Underdogs were camped.
“Oi ! Over here !” Jake shouted.
Jaynie smiled, waved and haphazardly zig-zagged Betsy through
the rough, frosted mounds of grass to where Jake was sitting.
He lifted the billycan from the camp fire, poured coffee into an
old bean tin and simultaneously raised his eyebrows and tilted his
head in a silent "would you like one ?" gesture.
She smiled and nodded in response as she disembarked the ratty,
rust covered machine, bade it be silent and then parked herself cross
legged on the old tartan rug beside him.
"So .. where did everyone go ?".
"Your guess is as good as mine mate, I went over to the old factory
estate last night, thought it might be a good idea to check out what the
Townies are up to. Got back here twenty minutes before you showed
and found this place deserted. Bastards didn't even leave me a ‘Dear John’.
Had you heard any whisperings about moving on ?".
"No ! but then, they wouldn't tell me anyway would they. They might
have agreed to let me shelter in the old lean-to but they never really
trusted me. Think about it ... who in their right mind would trust a
Lonesome. We’re are all fuckin' crazy you know !" .
She sipped her coffee (which tasted surprisingly good) and contemplated
the Jake thing.
She reckoned he was probably the closest thing to a friend she'd ever had.
He was certainly the only person that had ever made her coffee and he was
cute too. Tall, dark, lean. Mid thirties she guessed
She pulled herself up mid thought ... No! I don't do friends. Friends make
you weak. End of the day, they're nothin' but a liability !
Jake's voice shattered the short but weighty silence.
"That's in a bit of a state he mumbled", pointing half heartedly at the KTM.
"I know but what can I do … no tools, very little mechanical knowledge
and not even a copy of Haynes Japanese Motorcycle Maintenance". She
giggled and batted her eyelashes in an "I'm just a poor vulnerable female"
act that Jake didn't really find very amusing.
"One of these days you might have to bet your life on that thing starting
first kick and I wouldn't fancy your chances. I've got a tool kit in the back
of the Dodge, I'll take a look at it if you like".
"Cool ! Thanks".
Jake got to his feet, brushed the crumbed remains of breakfast from the
front of his combats and took the five or six steps required to get him to
the back doors of the dodge. He climbed in and scrabbled around for the tool
box."Found it !" he shouted as he jumped down from the tailgate and humped
the big red box over to where Betsy was lying ( her side stand had long since
corroded and fallen off in protest against the tragic lack of T.L.C.).
"Anything I can do to help ?" Jaynie enquired.
"That pretty much depends on whether or not you know the difference
between a tyre lever and a ten mil spanner " he laughed, turned towards her
and winked. "If you could just pass me what I ask for when I ask for it I'll
be happy. You can start by digging me out a screwdriver.
"and would that be a flat head or a phillips you'll be wanting" she said
with a grin and winked back.
"These electric's are a farce, best bet would be to rip out everything that's
not essential and replace the stuff that is" he muttered, not really speaking
to anyone except himself and wondering what idiot had gone to the trouble
of adding indicators to a dirt bike in the first place. "12 mil spanner" he
said in a loud and clear voice, sounding a bit like a surgeon in an operating
theatre. Jaynie passed it and watched as he effortlessly undid the nuts and
removed the rust and mud encrusted bullet shaped blinkers.
He tossed them over to where she was squatting. "could you put these in
the big plastic box in the back of the dodge ? ... it's on the left hand side as
you go in, next to the littlewooden table thingy with the big red battery
charger on." "Oh and while your in there" he added, fetch me one of the
wiring looms off the floor in the corner ... right by the door".
“Oky Doke,” Jaynie chirped.
She'd already completed the first part of the mission before he had finished
speaking and was now scrambling around on the threadbare carpeted floor
of Jake’s Dodge looking for the loom.
Got it ! She got to her feet, dusted her self down a bit and then for the
first time took a good look around. This place was fairly cool ! kinda like
a do it yourself mobile home. She had already noticed the carpeting while
rummaging around on her hands and knees but know that she was standing
she could see the bunk that was positioned above the drivers cab, it was
partially curtained off but open enough that she could see it had a proper
mattress and for a moment she struggled to overcome the urge for a quick,
sneaky lie down. To the left was an old wooden cupboard with a caravan
sink sunk into the one side and the draw below it haphazardly nailed shut.
Below that was a largish door ... she opened it ... mmm full of fire wood,
Good idea ! The other side of the cupboard contained a large wooden barrel
labeled SALT. Next to it was a pink battered half stuffed two seater settee
covered with clothing and a couple of big green cushions. She guessed that
color co-ordination was not one of his talents. Not that things like that
mattered anymore even if they ever really did in the first place.
There was a make shift stove to her right that had been constructed from
an empty propane bottle (and as far as she could tell had never once been
cleaned) and the wooden table with the big charger on. She pondered that
for a second and then came to the conclusion that the Underdogs must use
vehicles to charge vehicles, what with there being no mains power. Some
folks had Gennies but they were very few and far between. The rest of the
space... floor, wall and hanging was taken up with clutter.
Clothing, vehicle parts, and tools adorned every square inch of useable
surface and a candle lamp hung from a short chain suspended from a brass
hook in the center of the ceiling.“Hurry up !” Jake shouted, making her jump
and bang her head on the swinging lamp. Stupid fucking place to put a lamp
she thought and yelled back "Found 'em ! ... Just coming !"
She jumped down from the tailgate with the wiring loom in one hand and
a hammer in the other, ran the five or six strides to where Jake was hunched
over Betsy and before he had a chance to turn around and say thanks she
rained down a hefty hammer blow to the back of his skull swiftly followed
by six of the same leaving a hole you could just about put your fist in.
....
Jaynie kicked Betsy to life and rode back to the lean to, packed the few
belongings she needed into a knotted blanket and then set about removing
one of the more sturdy and less weather beaten planks from the door of
the ramshackle shelter. Riding back to the dodge with the blanketed parcel
on her lap and a five foot plank under her right arm was no mean feat and
took considerably longer than she had anticipated.
Crows and magpies were already circling and that, sooner rather than later,
would draw unwanted attention.
She felt bad about Jake and decided that time, the availability of a shovel
and a suitably soft patch of ground allowing, she would bury his body
before leaving. She knew that this wasn't really an option but thinking
about it for a little while made her feel better.
In reality it was already starting to get dark, she needed to get back to the
underdog camp, lean the plank against the tailgate, ride Betsy up and into
the back, get the old dodge up and running and get the fuck outta there
Asap.
Chapter Two
Notes: The Elite;
As per dictionary definition were “The very best of the best”
A highly organized group of expert individuals from all walks of pre-catastrophic
-event life.
Doctors, dentists, tailors, sailors, thinkers, scallies, thieves and killers who all
managed to rub along together just fine because their common denominator
was intelligence.
The Elite were smart ! and perhaps wisest of them all was commander in chief,
an ex performer, stage hypnotist, self proclaimed psychological illusionist,
perceptual manipulator and smart arse who went by the name of Darren Crown.
... to be continued
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<a name="251">
It's Just Routine</a>
It's Sunday morning. I'm sat here alone.
I'm always the first to rise and always at the same time. She knows this and that's when she comes.
The ritual is identical, week after week. Nothing changes. I shower and dress ... make coffee and toast then sit for some peaceful time at the computer ... and she watches.
She never speaks, she just stands there in the doorway and she always looks the same. Long hair ... straight, dark and slightly damp. Cotton frock, grey, pressed, starched and pristine.
Her stature I would describe as petite and I'd estimate her age to be maybe eighteen or nineteen. Her face ... pleasant enough, but devoid of expression. I think if she smiled, you would call her pretty.
Two years !
... Two years of Sunday mornings
... Two years of thirty three minute ritual. (Yes I've timed it) and not one word nor one single deviation on her part from the weeks precedeing, nor I suspect, from the weeks to come.
Maybe I should ask her name, try to find out why she's here. Maybe do some history research on the propery.
...or maybe not.
I drink the last mouthful of tepid cofeee and glance and the clock. It's 10.33 a.m.
The same as last week and time to wake the others.
She walks behind me as I take the first flight of stairs and then stops.
She never takes the second.
© Ven.Sept2003
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<a name="252">
The Two Faces of Kelly S.</a>
It was 11.45 a.m. when she finally got up and came down the stairs.
God ! I thought I looked bad first thing but she was a whole new ball game. Ruffled hair, the remnants of too much makeup smeared under her eyes and a face like a pit bull licking capsicum.
"Morning Kel" I chirped, in as cheery a tone as I could muster. No response.
"Are you off out tonight love ?" I asked. "Yes" she replied with a distinct inference of, what the hell has it got to do with you?, in her voice. She shuffled past me and headed toward the bathroom and I shrugged my shoulders and continued with endless list of Saturday morning household tasks.
Forty five minutes later she emerged, looking considerably more human than she had previously but there was still something about her attitude that bothered me. "She can be such a cow", I thought to myself ... but I said nothing. I just tip-toed around her all too familiar volatile ill humor, unwilling or maybe just unable to bear the thought of another, blown out of all proportion, Kelly confrontation. God knows I had enough to do today without having to deal with the aftermath of another one of her demented tamtrums.
"Where are my black trousers ?" Kel screeched from the top of the stairs.
"I don't know" I replied, "did you put them in the laundry basket after the last time you wore them ?"
"No I left them on my bedroom floor."
"Well that's where they'll still be then babe, if they don't get to the laundry basket, they don't get laundered. You should know that by now.
"Well that's no bloody good to me" she yelled. What am I supposed to do now. I've got nothing to wear !.
"Right ! ... well just go in my room and borrow a pair of mine" I said, thinking that would solve the problem but I couldn't have been more wrong.
"Oh for FUCK sake !" she shouted. "Like I can go to the pub wearing a pair of old ladies trousers. What are you trying to do Mum ? Turn me into a fucking laughing stock. You'd love that wouldn't you ?".
I did'nt reply ... it wasn't worth it. I just thought, "old ladies trousers, cheeky bitch !, thirty nine I am !, not bloody seventy.
The thought was interupted by a tunefull rat tat tat tat on the back door. I peeled off my pink rubber marigolds, glanced in the hallway mirror, quickly smoothed my appearance and answered it.
"Hi Jake ... How are you today ?"
"I'm fine ... How are you Mrs. S.?"
"Busy as usuall I replied with a smile ... Come on in, I'll give Kelly a shout for you. She's upstairs getting changed.
Cup of tea ?"
"Yeah, that would be great, Thanks. I'll make it if you like, I can see you've got your hands full. Do you want a coffee ?".
"Umm, Yes ... Why not. Cheers Jake".
I walked over to the bottom of the stairs and called to Kelly.
No reply.
I shouted again, a little louder.
WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT NOW ?, she bellowed in the style of someone demonically possessed.
"Jake is here for you" I said.
It was like flicking a switch. Kelly went from devils spawn to butter wouldn't melt in her mouth angel in less than a micro second.
I glanced at Jake, sat in the armchair sipping his tea and watching VH1
... I hope the poor lad knows what he's letting himself in for I thought.
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~
Dunno what you guys call it
Find your duster yet?
