Year: 2015

Woodbrains, Woodbrides, Woodwives

/ The Wombwell Rainbow / Leave a comment

Grovemind, groovemind

 synaptic branches
 neuron tipped limbs
 sacred grove recovery

 oakbrain opens doors in my head
 ashbrain spears my ideas
 elmbrain plays the fey

 electric gust moves limbs
 inside my head

 barkskin neural net
 circumnavigates damage
 fruited hemispheres
 replenish, restore, reimagine

 senses water roots
 grove in my head
 grooves in my head

between oaklimbs
 between ashlimbs

 her flaps of the wood
 bride of the barkskin
 her inner lips of the forest
 fermented honey drip
 not butterfly laced stained glass

 fapleaf
 lamina mulch make out

 fragile doors into lust
 nympha

 tongue kindly these guardians

ashwives

 grew from blossoming blood
 of Sky’s balls and prick
 hacked off by jagged edged
 adamantine sickle wielded
 by his son, Time,
 goaded on by his mam, Earth,
 distraught at Sky exiling
 her one eyed bairns in hell

Oakface

 Blaze is agog at Oakface
 funking it up in her dance.
 Her dad is a river,
 her body writhes,
 as if under rocks,
 tumbles o’er ravines.
 Her mam is called ‘Many Gifts’.
 She hums her mam’s sweet songs
 as she dances.

 Oakface wants nowt
 of leering Blaze.

 ‘Oh, how cute!’ Oakface
 is flushed when her friends
 find a lost tortoise outside.

 She sits down with her mates,
 puts tortoise on her lap.
 Tortoise writhes into a snake,
 her friends scarper.

 Snake becomes Blaze
 who screws her
 agin her will.

 Sobbin’
 pulled art an afeard
 she runs to her dad,
 River, and mam, Many Gifts.

 Gives birth to bairn
 she calls ‘Both’,
 Takes him where a lotus
 tree grows an hums her mam’s sweet songs as she picks a flower

 off of it
 for bairn to play with,
 blood trickles dahn
 her wrist an ‘both’
 feels his mam’s tit
 harden as her feet
 become roots
 her flesh become
 barkskin
 of a poplar tree.

 Lotus tree were woodbride
 hiding from Penis
 as were after her.

 And bastard son of Blaze
 is left pulled out
 and bawling for his mam.

Whispering forest

 walk among us, as us

 known as oakman
 known as birchwoman
 known as elmlad
 known as ashlass

 Each one gentle,
 one is strong
 one elegant
 all older than they look

 their voices not listened to
 “I talk to the tree”
 “Hug a tree”
 “I am a tree”
 seen as signs of waywardness
 to be laughed at,
 pilloried and scorned.

 later they will scream
 when cut down
 or have a limb amputated

 we ought to listen.

Grovemind, groovemind

 synaptic branches
 neuron tipped limbs
 sacred grove recovery

 oakbrain opens doors in my head
 ashbrain spears my ideas
 elmbrain plays the fey

 electric gust moves limbs
 inside my head

 barkskin neural net
 circumnavigates damage
 fruited hemispheres
 replenish, restore, reimagine

 senses water roots
 grove in my head
 grooves in my head

between oaklimbs
 between ashlimbs

 her flaps of the wood
 bride of the barkskin
 her inner lips of the forest
 fermented honey drip
 not butterfly laced stained glass

 fapleaf
 lamina mulch make out

 fragile doors into lust
 nympha

 tongue kindly these guardians

ashwives

 grew from blossoming blood
 of Sky’s balls and prick
 hacked off by jagged edged
 adamantine sickle wielded
 by his son, Time,
 goaded on by his mam, Earth,
 distraught at Sky exiling
 her one eyed bairns in hell

Oakface

 Blaze is agog at Oakface
 funking it up in her dance.
 Her dad is a river,
 her body writhes,
 as if under rocks,
 tumbles o’er ravines.
 Her mam is called ‘Many Gifts’.
 She hums her mam’s sweet songs
 as she dances.

 Oakface wants nowt
 of leering Blaze.

 ‘Oh, how cute!’ Oakface
 is flushed when her friends
 find a lost tortoise outside.

 She sits down with her mates,
 puts tortoise on her lap.
 Tortoise writhes into a snake,
 her friends scarper.

 Snake becomes Blaze
 who screws her
 agin her will.

 Sobbin’
 pulled art an afeard
 she runs to her dad,
 River, and mam, Many Gifts.

 Gives birth to bairn
 she calls ‘Both’,
 Takes him where a lotus
 tree grows an hums her mam’s sweet songs as she picks a flower

 off of it
 for bairn to play with,
 blood trickles dahn
 her wrist an ‘both’
 feels his mam’s tit
 harden as her feet
 become roots
 her flesh become
 barkskin
 of a poplar tree.

 Lotus tree were woodbride
 hiding from Penis
 as were after her.

 And bastard son of Blaze
 is left pulled out
 and bawling for his mam.

Whispering forest

 walk among us, as us

 known as oakman
 known as birchwoman
 known as elmlad
 known as ashlass

 Each one gentle,
 one is strong
 one elegant
 all older than they look

 their voices not listened to
 “I talk to the tree”
 “Hug a tree”
 “I am a tree”
 seen as signs of waywardness
 to be laughed at,
 pilloried and scorned.

 later they will scream
 when cut down
 or have a limb amputated

 we ought to listen.

via WordPress for Phone app.

Whispering forest

/ The Wombwell Rainbow / Leave a comment

walk among us, as us

 known as oakman
 known as birchwoman
 known as elmlad
 known as ashlass

 Each one gentle,
 one is strong
 one elegant
 all older than they look

 their voices not listened to
 “I talk to the tree”
 “Hug a tree”
 “I am a tree”
 seen as signs of waywardness
 to be laughed at,
 pilloried and scorned.

 later they will scream
 when cut down
 or have a limb amputated

 we ought to listen

via WordPress for Phone http://goo.gl/j6Fzhf

Mother Sickle versus Father Scythe

/ The Wombwell Rainbow / Leave a comment

She holds a sickle
 leaves her other hand free
 to lay the stalks of corn
 neatly for the followers
 who will bind it into stooks.

 His scythe cuts quicker
 but leaves stalks in disarray,
 so binding takes time.

 His cradle means corn is mown
 with a  scythe
 and arranged neatly in rows
 and straw cut lower.

 His Crown blade,
 soft steel with a strip
 of high carbon steel
 sandwiched inside
 to provide the cutting edge.

 His scythe replaces her sickle,
 she now does lower paid jobs
 raking and tying — and soon
 no longer needed.

via WordPress for Phone http://goo.gl/j6Fzhf

I lob my head beyond its borders

/ The Wombwell Rainbow / Leave a comment

here is a
 hot dry season
 cattle fodder scarce
 disease a risk

 circular procession of music
 around this brain
 dancing and chants
 led by priests
 torches and animals

 the procession circles three times

 I lob my head
 beyond its borders

 it scarpers heaped with what
 should have been done
 what should have been said

 I chase it
 catch it

 sprinkle my mind with sweet wine
 with bits of sacred cake
 made from flour and salt

 I stun it
 with an axe or mallet
 before I cut my thought’s throat
 disembowel it to ensure
 that there is nothing
 untoward about my
 idea’s entrails.

 burn my imagination’s
 vital organs
 on the altar

 cut into pieces
 and eat my carcass

 I am the priest
 wear a cloth over my face
 to shut out

 what my eyes
 will not be allowed to see

 say prayers,
 under my breath

 the procession ends

 it is cooler
 a little wetter

via WordPress for Phone http://goo.gl/j6Fzhf

what you can dig up

/ The Wombwell Rainbow / Leave a comment

EXCAVATION

Take an aerial view of this thought,
note slight undergrown corn
in the field follows the shape
of an old idea.

smell corn dust

On the hills around
furrows and levels,
lynchets of ancient growth.

corrugated, crumbly

That bump in the landscape
appears out of nowhere,
could be a burial mound.

especially quiet

It would not be dwelling
on the past to uncover,
patiently reconstruct what
was once prominent here.

taste sweet air

It may lead to obvious
conclusions or highlight
an aspect we had forgotten.
Carefully, layer by layer, brush.

*******

EXAMINATION

Put your protective gloves on
to examine any thought fragments,

feel their texture, rough, smooth,
leathery? Do they crumble easily?
What do they smell of? Decay
or fresh growth? Can you hear
any faint sounds emanating?
Gently shake it. Does it rattle?

Put one on your tongue,
roll it around your mouth.
Sour, sweet, acidic, alkaline?

Note all responses,
then carefully place
it back in the numbered box,
and store in the museum of memory

via WordPress for Phone http://goo.gl/j6Fzhf

Groovemind, grovemind

/ The Wombwell Rainbow / Leave a comment

synaptic branches
 neuron tipped limbs
 sacred grove recovery

 oakbrain opens doors in my head
 ashbrain spears my ideas
 elmbrain plays the fey

 electric gust moves limbs
 inside my head

 barkskin neural net
 circumnavigates damage
 fruited hemispheres
 replenish, restore, reimagine

 senses water roots
 grove in my head
 grooves in my head

via WordPress for Phone http://goo.gl/j6Fzhf

Total Liberation

/ The Wombwell Rainbow / Leave a comment

ORPHAN BORN PREGNANT

she enters dark
 catacombs her wings
 scrape off

 she brings new birth

 wingless orphan lads are born first
 search for their unborn sisters
 fuck one

 dig an escape tunnel
 to light
 and die

 orphan lasses born pregnant
 exit through escape tunnels
 new birth clings to them
 as they unfold wings to fly

THE WILD FIG

I’m allowed to dress in her clothes,
 richer, softer, more delicate

 I’m out with the other lasses
 in the streets hitting ourselves
 with wild fig branches

 lads eye us up as we breathe
 heavy and show more flesh

 they might have us later
 or we might have them

 I’m supping and eating with her
 tomorrow I shall wear
 poorer, harder, rougher clothes

 and do chores

LIBERATION

SERVING WISDOM

Tha wants to hear
‘ow tha nannan saved tarn
al tell thee.

a were nowt but
a serving oik
to big bosses
on r tarn.

serving ’em sup a were
an they were in
a reet tacking

seein as son lads
from another tarn
as said ‘Thas best
do as we ask else
we’ll beat thee
black and blue.
Know what am saying?’

“We want tha lasses,
wives and girlfriends
fort neet or maybe
longa.”

In a reet to do.
Well as bein a serving oik
a ‘ad an idea.
So a pipes up
“al sort it for thee.”

an they continued
wi their yammer.
” a said, al sort it.
For thee.”

an their still yammer,
yammer. a slams full
pint pot dahn so’s it
splashes all o’er

“Lunk’eads! A said
al sort for thee!”

Well, they eyes me
up and dahn like a were
summat art a tarn.

A were a bit on a looker
then, tits pointy, reet curve
on ma hips and dash
a blonde hair.

Then been so engrossed
they’d not noticed us.
“Well!”, chief boss says.

A outlines plan
to ’em while they’re
eyeing up me goods,
int plan a volunteered
a stack o’ me female
mates to join us.

An it were on.

SECOND BEST DRESS

Bosses telled their wives
 an girlfriends o’ plan,
 an telled ’em to keep stum.

 Some o’them lasses
 as doubted us lot
 lower dahn pecking order
 could do job reet. Snobby
 bitches. They says
 “We’ll tek ’em in an
 teach ’em how to play part.”

 A told our stack o’ lasses
 an they were game. So
 all on us volunteers
 turns up at posh lasses
 doors and got a reet
 pampering.

 “Tha dunt want too much,
 else tha’ll stink like a whore.”
 she dabs rose petal scent on us,
 rouge’s me cheeks,
 chooses second best
 linen  for us “Dunt want you
 showing us up.”

 an a were saving her.
 Other lasses had been tret
 same, but now all on us
 were off to meet
 wi enemy artside tarn.

 a gev lasses advice.
 “Play hard
 to get, first. Thas posh,
 remember. Up to them
 to woo thee.”

LIBERATION

When us turns up
they’ve laid on a reet spread
for us, hot meat and fresh fish platters,
rice, pasta and sweet wine.

bearded enemy is all in a line up
to the tables. “Are you their
wives and girlfriends?”, one
o’ them asks.

A walk along line o’ men.
Stop. Pull a lads goatee
beard towards
ma tits an say ” No, we’re
shit under thee booit. Av
got some goats milk
‘ere that wants suppin’.”
an ma tits in his marth.

One o’ other lasses,
reveals a thigh an says,
“ma fig wants chewin’ on.”

Yet another pouts her lips,
“a need a tongue to tek,
ma nectar” an snogs
one o’ the enemy.

soon all are coupled up,
an suppin’ place dry
an sossled
an ma lasses are play
fightin’ wi enemies weapons
an hidin’ them away

lad on ma breast as his hands
all o’er, a gently prise him off,
“Time, yet, lover, time.”
an sneak artside
an climb a wild fig tree,
an raise a torch
art on folds a ma dress
leet it so’s bosses can see.

an bosses come dahn
on enemy fistin’, cuttin’
av blood splattered o’er
her second best dress,
ma rouge is redder.

beat ’em soundly we did,
atter wi were gin r freedom
fort savin’ tarn.

an that’s why we’re ‘ere
under wild fig tree,
suppin’ goats milk
an lasses play fightin
o’er yonder.

via WordPress for Phone http://goo.gl/j6Fzhf

The Artist, Mariner and Engineer

/ The Wombwell Rainbow / Leave a comment

I.

 At eleven years old
 my Dad’s teenage sketchbooks
 opened.
 Cows sat down in pencil.
 His Dad’s backyard full of tools
 a preliminary pencil sketch.
 Wanked off at
 his female nudes, even when
 drapery hid modesty.
 Extremely detailed Clwydian hills,
 mountains, landscapes,
 rotting stump colours
 ablaze yellows, ochres, greens.
 I wanted to draw, sketch,
 inspired.

 I asked
 for my Dads’ books.
 He did not have many.
 He gave me all.

 Alfred N. Whiteheads
 “Problems of Philosophy”
 “An Introduction To Immanuel Kant”
 “The Poems of Rudyard Kipling”

 He played a 33″ record Dylan Thomas
 ‘Under Milk Wood’ from my earliest memory
 so every portion of my life
 a quote from it pops into my head.

 “Listen, listen. Time passes…”

 II.

 White, steaming big neck
 swings like sail in full.
 Horns razor sharp Madras cow
 clanks down metal aisle
 three funnelled merchant ship.

 Dad, up from hot boilers
 his mate behind the beast
 they hit it with sticks herd it
 back to wooden corral
 above hold.

 Heat, more flies than sweat.
 Dad knew white monster’s
 coal blistered face,
 nostrils hissing air
 steam scream water
 through pipes, pistons.

 Knew every caress of its flank
 every flinch, flick, strain
 yawn of engine below
 the only way to get there.

 Indian cows are sacred,
 so are ships boilers.

 II.

 (cough)

 I kept at him

‘Have a drink of water, Dad.’

Retired he climbs Lake District
 up through
 earth’s forest lungs

 (cough)

 Specialists ask “Have you worked with Asbestos?”

‘Only cleaning boilers when I was young.’

dust thickens
 lungs
 diffuse thickening
 dries lungs
 branches and twigs

 (cough)

 “Listen, listen. Time passes…”

via WordPress for Phone http://goo.gl/j6Fzhf

Torc of Fire, Torc of Linden

/ The Wombwell Rainbow / Leave a comment

Received English version

 Bright Battle is asleep,
 in a torc of fire,
 in a torc of linden shields
 at top of a peak called Hindfell.

 After hearing from Nuthatch
 about Bright Battle
 Siggy wants to see
 for himself, journeys to Hindfell.

 With his horse
 he splinters through the linden shields
 and leaps the lapping flames
 to get to the sleeping maiden

 With sharp blade he slices
 through thetight bound straps
 of her corselet, so it falls
 on the floor, and he kisses her.

 She awakes and tells him
 ” I have been trapped here
 by One Eye when I picked
 the wrong dead king to fetch
 back to the great mead hall.

 One Eye stabbed me with a sleeping
 thorn and put me on top
 of this peak asleep
 with flame and wood around.

 And gave us to believe
 only a mortal kiss
 from such as yourself
 who has braved the wood
 and the fire would set us free.

 You have freed us
 and I am beholden to you.”
 They fall hard
 for each other.

 No need of horse
 he eases through
 her fleshy torc of fire
 her unbroken torc of linden.

 Dialect version

 Bright Battle is fast on,
 in a torc o’ fire,
 in a torc o’ linden shields
 at  peak called Hindfell.

 Atta hearing from Nuthatch
 abaht Bright Battle
 Siggy wants to see
 for himsen, goes to Hindfell.

 Wi his horse
 splinters through linden,
 leaps lappin flames
 to get to fast on virgin lass.

 Wi sharp blade slices
 through tight bound straps
 o’ her corselet, so it falls
 on flooar, an snogs her.

 She weks an tells him
 as “av been trapped here
 by One Eye when I picked
 wrong dead king to fetch
 back to grate mead hall.

 an stabs us wi sleeping
 thorn an sets us atop
 this peak fast on
 wi flame and wood arahnd.

 An giz us to believe
 as only a mortal kiss
 from such as thee sen
 as has braved wood
 an fire as set us free.

 Thas freed us
 an a owe thee.”
 They fall hard
 on each other.

 No need of horse
 he eases through
 her fleshy torc o’ fire
 her unbrok torc o’ linden.

via WordPress for Phone http://goo.gl/j6Fzhf

Before the morning

/ The Wombwell Rainbow / Leave a comment

let me light your dark
 in flicks with pale blue.

 Let me make you cold,
 no pulse, confused,
 forgetful, tingling
 paralysed.
 Let my concussive
 shock wave lose your ears,
 listening, hearing,

 give you hypertension,
 fixed and dilated
 pupils. Inhale burn.

 Let me flower over
 your skin, feather your
 flesh with red tattoo
 spindly tree ferning,
 fuse your sand into
 glassy tubes, twig limbs.

 Let me shower live
 electrons on your skin
 singe hair and clothing
 shred or blow apart
 your sensible clothes,

 explode your shoes from
 inside; magnetize
 your watch, cuprify
 brass grommets, zippers,

 while you sacrifice
 two dark oxen and
 round honey cakes to
 placate my moods.

via WordPress for Phone http://goo.gl/j6Fzhf