TURQUOISE 3

Turquoise 3

NEW YORK RAILWAY

▲▲▲▲

How good this carnal fire

Where the liberty flag flies

The morning sun rushing hope

▼▼▼▼

The turn of our innermost feelings

Please assemble on the tarmac

Let the firefighters wrestle the hydrant

▲▲▲▲

Form an orderly queue and listen

The peaceful narrative soliloquy

The band-aid, the mountain jagged

▼▼▼▼

And sleep a courtroom jester

Mocking both our reason and our tact

Within the folds of distress

▲▲▲▲

A window open leaning where

There is a soft bird yearning

A faint hope burning

▲▼▼▲

writtenbyedenbray21.05.2013

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LATRICE ~ HE SAID I WANNA BE BOB DYLAN

Latrice

Bob_Dylan_Collage_by_DizzyEmotions

The night has tumbling skies

as auborn red as Lilly’s gorgeous hair

so barren the awful sentiment that hits

and harms two fateful twins bonded

Pearls and advantaged peoples

share the amalgam of constraint

twisted, warm and fataled by

the erroneous pressure of form

Belittled, bedraggled, frustrated

where are the moments of extremity

that elude our wildest aspirations

or formulate the dawn of our preposition

 〒

Bella, Tarim, Phushellia and Madre

so simply contented are opposed

by the context of their unborn attenuations

or the altruism of their conformity

So ultimately translated and bereft

from the endeavour of our collusion

perfectly entwined, assimilated and adored

translated for a later generation

Nothing so noble as to separate this moment

or call vacant the fellany of new certainty

where only migrant peoples occur

or the trials of aptitude fade incandescent 

writtenbyedenbray16.05.2013

1may-09-bob_dylan-calendar

 

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INDUSTRY SPECIFIC CONTENT

INDUSTRY SPECIFIC CONTENT

220px-ChapmanSwiftsByKatSam

Amid the misery of human exchange stands the white hope of reason

The heroes of history’s collusion not only those who endure but those who care

I paint letters 3 foot high on the wall where terror hides for the gentle mind

of certain clean hands, compassion, tear-stained, steel-capped and blooded-granite

Diamond flies, the space fleet of a babbling brook or a red stained, trickling stream

which flows from the heart of human endurance and desire – almost sensual

Such open-hearted passion that buries your own dead tho’ not time enough to lament

Curse the chatter of bare-faced monkeys and the smiling grey-green lizard for their deceit

but curse the more the mighty men who contribute their marvellous reason

We who stand on your grave to make sure you never r0se nor ever metamorphose,

nor yet your skeleton and scattered disciples perpetuate your particular reincarnation,

Legions of shame-filled neutrons whose cancerous cells reek with morbid attenuation

where women’s grace should turn an altered gaze, the milk-paps talk of their creation

not squandor or lust with incest, disgrace and callous loathing, what they alone can hunt

It was at this point in the narrative I even thought I heard angel voices and wondered

should we throw ourselves on the ground Michael or simply appreciate this mind racing

The track before me concealed I saw not, a chicane where two religions meet and a voice

speaking behind me gladly saying there are but two ways you may travel, one is long

and rugged the other mountainous with much to overcome and avocado turtles who sleep

They have been here since almost the world begat them and we who fret and libate

would do a wholesome better to honour those than many a human deity that charm

with dishonest priests and costumes dressed in black, orange, blood and white

Palodium the Pantomime horse approaches, two honest scarecrows dancing in the wind

I caught the flare of your up-turned dress, I saw your legs and your wonderful smile

We have more to us than this basket of ripe plums, strawberries, blueberries

Moments alone, when we may undress and rebuild our lives as people

We have seen an orange sun, heard a donkey bray and sat watching and listening

a circle of Vaux’s swifts cavorting, planing over that same grass where war bodies lay 

writtenbyedenbray24.04.2013

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BOTTLE OF POP

BOTTLE of POPDavid-Bailey-Jean-Shrimpton1

I was the figurehead you were the mailer

When sober men met to discuss the future

Of inspiration that divides without taking sides

The elegance of women always paves the way for

pain resolved, leaders panned and scribbled in

who take a cue from the monkey still in the zoo

or write poems that deny us through and through

He saw what I saw and I saw what they saw

The can of garbage and some ever-ripe strawberries

Dress cleanly in an olive oil cup the weathered salad

so fresh and filled with both ignominy and goldfish hope

who bought childrens money and rescued seals

☁☎〠☗

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BEMINE 1940

Smashing_barbed_wire_with_trench_mortar_shells

BeMine

Harry Fenza, fourTeen lady horses and a night of clouds and ginger

He took time considering his options as the curtain rose and HE swore

He realised his time on earth was limited when the grey LIMA found out

About his misdemeanour and the frail error of his certain ways with loyaltY

並並並

the RoYaL sadness left him – a glass, a bottle and a notebook of ideas

He tidied his bed, shaved, dressed as sharp as a barbers cutthroat

Considering the weather it sEEmed a good day to die, if lonely

The VINYL turned slowly leaving a trail of auburn memory and bitumen

並並並

Onc night in Buxton with french fries and vineGar remained salty

For the Sailor of seven seas, who’d learned to live with the hard knocks

On a dance floor, in a room of partizans, at his mother’s side mourning

The finality of ‘division’ is a sort of death after all, so kiss the kiss and walk on

並並乩並並

I met Harry once only and his window smile was wild and scared me

But good men always carry a frozen air of uncertainty and hurt

It’s that, some take for a mystery and pick LiLLies to lay on the hard ground

Of flowered paths, tanks, & wire, dead ponies, sniper fire

並並並並

writtenbyedenbray⓺.⓸.⓵⓷

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IZON …

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izon

(here in the boxcar)

. . . ” .

He only saw white, wishing more they had taken time

Bartholow’s Stand, the small brow of a hill, remote but lonely

Crashing waves always remind us of eternity, or death

. > . . .

Death is never lonely, only coldness, only the west side of Aga Hill

Or that feeling when you see ribbons streaming from mornings’ mountain

I could have hid my eyes, wrestling with loves pang and regret

. . ; . .

and that, never might be, question,

but you carry a torch to see where your going, not where you’ve been

looking back never requires vision only white-walled tyres and hooch

. < . . .

I whispered my inhibitions so many the times

If I thought it would release me, the priests window?

If I carried enough tallow, or chickens eggs for a supper?

 . / . . .

The evening train, packed as usual makes hardly a sound

drifting through, drifting and I catch sight of daisies in the sun

me and stencilled cases rough, knotted, full of brown bottles

here in the boxcar

. .   . . [

0' Marianne I never told you and it hurts

were always passing through spaces like warm blood in veins

or like clouds swept by rain and memory they are so cold with ice

] . .   . .

You haunt me so I don’t want ever to sleep

Lest’ I miss you when your spirit passes in the hall

or we meet out in the street in that dream where I’m falling

. . . = .

I still carry a blunted pencil, a torn, printed flyer with notes

they are the ones where I wrote I love you and then rubbed it out

that message bites the more against a hollow chest

. . .  ` .

So many things hidden and then a small grey bird

a phone ringing, a dream full of stagnant water closing

and Marianne, honest, happy and standing

here in the boxcar

. . . . :

writtenbyedenbray24.03.2013

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experiment F

‘… you only get one shot!…’ and ‘… drunks may never lie but they sure do exaggerate …’ and other unrelated quotations 

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experiment D

‘… you only get one shot!…’ ‘i’d rather be an astronaut than a sailor’ … and other unrelated quotes

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INSIDIOUS AND OTHER INTERESTING WORDS …

DEREGULATION ~ DON’T GET ME STARTED

I dunno if I am whistling in the damn wind, getting too old, barking up the wrong tree or just taking life too seriously but I am seeing something insidious wherever I go.

I used that word ‘insidious’ of a workmate in jest, not long ago. I use words like that occasionally. Words you have to spellcheck. Well she didn’t know what it meant and hey ‘insidious’ – that is a hard word to describe, especially when you are trying to make a funny gibe at someone. I’m still not sure she got the humour intended even after I had explained. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea? Maybe I didn’t explain the word too well? Anyway, she doesn’t talk to me as much as before but well it was just a joke and yes it sure is a good word!

There are some things that say it for me and you can’t tell it any another way. It’s like a joke you have had to explain can never really be funny, a cartoon that leaves you confused, just didn’t do it for you or whoever really loved a picture they were told was good.

As the guy in the cinema queue in Annie Hall the movie says, ‘Its gotta hit you on a gut level’ and like Woody Allen’s character Alvy Singer, rejoins later ‘Boy what I could do with a sock full of manure right now.’ This, because the guy in the queue keeps speaking his dogma and personal opinions within Alvy’s hearing.

‘Some things are better felt than telt’ … is a saying.

I love sayings, colloquialisms, (boy, only one letter out on my spellcheck on that one!) and I love learning new colloquial expressions too, because even though I can only barely speak English, Scottish and Irish plus a little Glaswegian and maybe a few other rare and special British dialects (clue: there is a joke or three there .. see it doesn’t work does it?!) I really do love language …  Language is communication! .. Language is dynamite!

♪♫♬

Two weeks in a Virginia jail

For my lover, for my lover

Twenty thousand dollar bail

For my lover, for my lover

And everybody thinks

That I’m the fool

But they don’t get Any love from you

The things we won’t do for love

I’d climb a mountain if I had to

Risk my life so I could have you You, you, you…

Everyday I’m psychoanalyzed

For my lover, for my lover

They dope me up and I tell them lies

For my lover, for my lover

And everybody thinks

That I’m the fool

But they don’t get Any love from you

The things we won’t do for love

I’d climb a mountain if I had to

Risk my life so I could have you You, you, you…

I follow my heart

And leave my head to ponder

Deep in this love No man can shake

I follow my heart And leave my mind to wonder

Is this love worth The sacrifices I make?

Two weeks in a Virginia jail

For my lover, for my lover

Twenty thousand dollar bail

For my lover, for my lover

Everyday I’m psychoanalyzed

For my lover, for my lover

They dope me up and I tell them lies

For my lover, for my lover

And everybody thinks That I’m the fool

But they don’t get Any love from you

The things we won’t do for love

I’d climb a mountain if I had to

Risk my life so I could have you You, you, you..

Lyrics to the song ‘For My Lover’ by Tracy Chapman

♬♬♫♪

There are other things you shouldn’t touch but do not mess with language … or take words out … or re-write words … Are you listening America?… Yes, you can add words and maybe some words might be simplified but only if there is good and valid reason.

‘Just because you can, doesn’t mean you oughta …’

Well this insidious deregulation is affecting everything now. Even the sacred cow is suddenly fair game, even though she has always lived out on the street in open view. Who knew that eventually visitors to countries where there is a custom, might challenge her right to even be there, should that particular sacred cow be a country’s flag on a pole, a long-standing, local or ethnic practice, habitude or the chosen national religion. It doesn’t matter that some care less for their own customs than they should. Even true ‘sacred cows’ wander the streets of India uncared for, unloved, to feed on local refuse which you might say is not what a sacred cow should have to do.

I think maybe respect is what we allure to here, although even that particular word might need some re-definement from the deregulators curse. Respect does not mean a feigned honour, just because it is old, but an appropriation, an appreciation and a recognition of a things true merits, based not only on its current status but also its particular historical relevance and I may add ‘reverence’ at the risk of any implied alliteration. Now that is a whole bunch of look-up words for some people and I do not mean to sound patronising.

I see that hand at the back and yes I knew someone would make that comment. What happened to the ‘it’s got to hit me on a gut level’ remark?’ I hear you say and ‘I thought you were against people telling us what ‘is good’ and therefore worthy of our respect?’….

No, what I am saying is this – We do not have to enjoy something ourself to recognise its value or its place in history. This is, after all, why we have National Exhibitions, Art Galleries, Opera Houses and National Theatres, to preserve and honour our National identity, history and culture.

The deregulation I object to, that insidious thing this piece came in on, is the one that is affecting not only a few abbreviated words and Americanisms that may have crept in on the back of our Microsoft and Apple Software ~ Why does my spellchecker continue to give me a dotted line under words like ~ honour?!  

No, this insidious thing I am talking of is moving into the realm of our popular culture and can affect things that aren’t 50, 40, 30 or even 20 years old. These things have it seems, not even earned a mundane – ‘O well it is pretty old’ kind of respect. They are unfancied bull calves, game for slaughter, processing, recycling, even vivisection of the vulgarest order

If its not brok’ why fix it?…

Why do advertisers process ‘favourite tunes’ for their advertisements and re-record classic pop tunes with bland vocals and homogenized, even soulless soundtracks? Why do they even take just the melodies from memorable chart songs and make different versions, that are vaguely recognisable for background themes. Why do tv programme planners take classic or historic novels, even recent successful drama series  and fit them with modern sub-plots, current speech, terminology and up-dated story lines. Is nothing sacred? No, it seems it is not and this for me is the insidious heart of the problem, for history is being aborted at birth, like unwanted leverets or kittens were once bagged and drowned. The culture of today suffers no pretence of leaving a legacy for tomorrow. It is an existential nightmare which suggests a lack of value for the way we live and the art we produce and unless I am the only one dreaming, it speaks of a soulless mentality that  says that we who are alive today have nothing more to bring to the table of culture and artistic accomplishment, nothing of any real value that is

. ♨ .

Hey hey Woody Guthrie I wrote you a song

About a funny old world that’s coming along

Seems sick and it’s hungry, it’s tired and it’s torn

It looks like it’s dying and it’s hardly been born.

. ♨ .

‘Don’t re-write what I have written’

While writers, screenwriters, film directors and ghost-writers turn into revisionists and have fun ‘deregulating’ by rewriting the greatest of books and movies, not just changing a few words but whole characters, situations and basic story-lines to suit a new generation I sit back and wail, thinking that one day people will be denied a history of anything at all. It is hard and sad enough that the revisionists of today like a swarm of locusts or computer worms are set to eat out any politically sensitive material they can find, are conversely quite comfortable to introduce amoral, often hedonistic and if not atheistic then certainly religiously agnostic standpoints into stories which originally reflected morality as it was perceived at the time it was written and not as it is today.

In the underrated film ‘Reds’, directed by and starring Warren Beatty as John Reed the American and Communist sympathiser and activist, there is an awesome scene where Reid protests to the Bolshevik leaders who have been censoring his material and using selective editing, ‘Don’t re-write what I have written !’ he declares and repeats.

Communist and Marxist politics have always supported the idea of changing a Countries ideological and cultural history by rewriting swathes of history and literature. Consider the Cultural Revolution which took place at the behest of Chairman Mau in China. Yet, we in the west are seeing only a similar Governmental initiative and trend perpetuated before our very eyes or perhaps a little beneath our very eyes, as if we cannot think for ourselves, censor what we read and use the good and evil of the past to formulate a proud history of our own.

The Watergate scandal of the 70′s spawned a million Conspiracy theories and helped develop a general mistrust of governments either east or west, while today we have inherited a pervading sense that things today do not need to be even so hush-hush as those cloke and dagger, dark days of cold-war spies and propaganda were.

Governments today seem to achieve similar results far more openly and all under the necessary ‘banner of freedom of information’. There seems no need to hide what the ‘spin doctors’ create and the ‘tail that wags the dog’ has become just another colloquialism that although born of deceit is now accepted as the very collateral of political machinations in this 21st century? Of course there will always be another million conspiracy stories circulating and a lot should be filed under ‘Hoax’ but if I’ve called this right ‘my gut feeling’ tells me that all that this current cultural malaise reveals is that Governmental weakness has spread far and wide to the common people, an epidemic with a ‘trojan horse’ that carries a certain lack of respect for our own national identity and popular culture itself.

Of course one would require greater evidence than a few low-grade telly ads and a couple of shallow tv series to support my thesis but the failings of the many lie in the details of the few and we may only read the symptoms as best as we can.

The fact remains that art and culture, rank as low as I have known them in my time and that is a worrying symptom enough.

I finished this article earlier >> AND YOU CAN FIND IT IN MY RECENT POSTS MENU ON RIGHT ENTITLED – ‘DEREGULATION DON’T GET ME STARTED’ – HUMOUR ME GO THERE – CLICK ON AND READ THE ARTICLE AND LEAVE A COMMENT = YOU WILL MAKE THIS OLD MAN NOW VERY HAPPY

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written byedenbray February 2012

2nd FOOTNOTE - 28.04.2013 – The recently released series ‘The Untold History of the United States’ is a marvellous antidote to the problem I addressed in this Article and programmes like this are in my view Unmissable and Required Viewing. Governments would do well to add such material to the National Educational Curriculum. 

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OBSERVATION OF THE SHRINE

OBSERVATION OF THE SHRINE

‘It is true Demerticles, It is a lot easier to get the world out of Jesus than Jesus out of the world’ – I bundled a snatch of 20 dollar notes into her soft and grubby hand, took a Peter Stuyvesant from my jacket pocket and having lit, I drew the smooth, nicotine draft deep down into my lungs; then to expel that same warm, comforting smoke  - I did not care – this was my decadence and I was happy to lose it all – I had always wanted to visit Russia and now this was my opportunity. I felt for my ticket, bending the crisp corner between my index and third finger – It felt good!

The chill wind, blowing through me and I craved a tall, stiff glass of Stravropol. I never knew a time that my morale was so low or slow and then the blue and cream bus came into view with the icy rain drifting.

‘Marilyn, now I must say goodbye’.      

thumbnails byedenbray 15.03.2013

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