Entangled, overwhelmed, a picture in mezzotint

dove grey – bordered in the usual way

of men and women and games they play

Of piano-moods or senseless abandon

where the wicked transgress and say it is not so

^ ^ ^

The leaf-lawn green and sweet, a mothers smile

we don’t only talk in words, language, gestures,

mock perception or a hand to trace your face

The given moment sentient in the mind’s eye

not deep or dark but tangled like wool

^ ^ ^

And in one moment, mounted on horses

dressed in flesh, a mountain above easy feeling

we shake ofF the intrigue, guile and terror

And hold each other closer than our mother

bite, scratch and scrawl passions sanction

^ ^ ^

If lonely guilt were left in the darkest room 

and the strangers we become, last years Kodachrome

lying in a box, a cell of transparency

Every word full, close-ups, vivid pictures

and our honest selves introduced as friends.

^ ^ ^


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christ-on-crossGEORGES ROUALT

An artist who consistently escapes the critics preoccupation with labelling….

The artist, his painting, his philosophy are generally watered down to the lowest common denominator ~ not with Georges Roualt.

His work sits raw and pulsating in a complete classification of his own …

He paints his feelings, daubs his emotions, bears his soul, his inner self … he hides nothing …

He has no shame as an artist, no guilt appropriated or otherwise … His colours describe his own humanity …

His line is exaggerated, rough and uneven while at the same time tempered, deft, perceptive …

 He sees only what he wants to see and as a ‘great’ artist … a truly ‘great’ artist,

his line describes his personal vision,

he defines that line perfectly like a blind man feeling a woman  …

He makes love with his art and his love is awkward, fumbling over-wrought with passion and rough sexual energy … He dominates his work while showing enormous sensitivity that touches the raw spirit and the flesh …  

His work transcends time … It is neither modern nor traditional  and yet it speaks to both … roars, murmurs and moans …

Georges Roualt has absorbed his art like a parent Larus, a Gull species, as in his art he regurgitates warm chunks in palatable pieces that we ‘subadults’ may now comfortably gorge … digest … with no fear of choking …

Please give time to Roualt’s work it will hopefully touch you … make you a better person.



on the left ~ edenbray’s version of ROUALT’s superb ECCO HOMO ~ to the right



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People today get pretty paranoid about a number of relatively illogical things, depending on your point of view or your particular peccadillo. From the dangers of passive smoking through asbestos poisoning and wells disease to the many and varied phobias including the usual and familiar, like claustrophobia and aracnaphobia and on to those even more extreme than brontophobia (fear of thunderstorms) or mysophobia (fear of germs).

However damaging the subject of these rattlesnake fears may be to their victims, none of them can ever be as controlling or debillitating than the inner curse that is the nub of that mischevious little 5-letter symptomia known as guilt (Cue – flashing thunder and scary music please) … Fundamentalist Christians, Catholic priests, no doubt other World Religions Teachers, Psychologists and Phsycoanalysts would give you differing, although possibly predictable but non the less worthy responses to the age old question,  what is guilt?


Edenbray is not here today to either reiterate, confirm or critiscize these many well documented beliefs or respected, proven and accepted diagnosis. No, today I just want to take a cool, long and hard look in the eye of the little blighter. This annoying, secretive parasite of the human psyche that can grow to such an unhealthy scale that, apparently, it can help create mass murderers, serial killers and phsycoanalitic nightmares of the strangest order yet for the most of us (hastily he separates himself from the earlier list) has at least been the cause of not a few arguments, both inner and vocalised, emotional pain and angst and contributed to not a few very stupid actions and reactions. Am I the only one? 

Deny guilt has a say in your life to your peril my friend, for this devious little ‘shit’ will gnaw out your very soul right in the fleshy centre of that denial and at very least may ruin many a good afternoon stroll or a healthy game of scrabble. No, we are not all psychopathic monsters riddled with parent-induced or strict religious guilt but we do, all on some scale or other fall prey to that little demon known as ‘guilt’.

Random note :~ the word guilt rhymes with ‘quilt’ and this seems fitting as squares of guilt add together and eventually grow into hideous proportions in much the same way as a patchwork quilt??


It has to be remembered that bed linen may not actually disguise guilt but it could be seen to cover acts of unfaithfulness that might well ultimately lead to just one variety of guilt. So in my search to determine what guilt actually looks like I have decided to organise an identikit operation that hopefully might lead to an eventual IDENTITY PARADE. We can then stitch these patchwork cameo’s of ‘guilt’ together and then ultimately learn to recognise the traits of the insidious demon ‘guilt’.

Guilt never has a happy face

We may process what we know about guilt more by what we know it does not look like than what it does. For example true guilt never has a happy face, nor is it particularly attractive. It may smile but then it turns out more of a sneer. It can never really be beachball joyful.

When we have singled guilt out, isolated it, named it and shamed it we may begin to ask – How did we ever fall prey to its devious schemes and wiles? How did we let this little monster bully us, invade us, worry us, negatively influence us and ultimately dominate us.

Paragons of un-virtue will interlude they have no truck with the pious, self-righteous, shameless and shaming roadster. ‘I feel no guilt’ is the monogram on many a playboys shorts, embezzlers wallet, dodgy tradesmen’s van, shyster, con-artist or a bawdy tarts bra and knickers. If she wears any. To these and all those who manage to control their inner voices like Al Capone carrying a baseball bat, guilt is indeed an Alien and should I ever meet such an one, he’ll get short shrift from my maple sledgehammer for I’m certainly not one of those who might entertain the notion of change, open-mindedness nor someone or some thing influencing either my life or my actions.

So this piece is clearly aimed at those who do believe in visitors from out of space or at least have already met the slimy little monster with a head full of teeth whose name begins with a gee and ends with a tee.

Yes, guilt my friend affects us all I would propose at some time and while guilt is not beautiful, alluring, pretty, handsome or desirable it is not necessarily ugly either, in the same way as a malignant cancer’s physical appearance to the naked eye can be mute and non alarming.

The problem with guilt is that it nags like a puss-filled boil, an insect bite, a domineering wife, husband or partner. It chaffs and ‘worries’ us like a hungry baby, a pain in the groin or an unpaid bill. Until we meet its demands it hangs over us like a blackmailer holding the darkest of secrets. It sends messages with devious cunning that we uncover in the unlikeliest moments. It can make us act very strange and if we bury it deep it leaves molehills on the surface of our landscaped lives to prove to us it has escaped and is roaming ‘out there’, dangerous, naked and free.

Guilt is no respecter of a persons age, background or social standing and people caught in its spidery web resort to the strangest, wildest, most diabolic recourse to remove its incessant taunts. You might say its vengeance is extreme.

Guilt does not let you be your ‘real’ self

Guilt hides away in the crevices of the human heart and folds of the human brain and teaches us to do likewise. It is a skeleton in the closet, a ghost in the dark, a rat in the attic – appearing at moments when you think it maybe has gone for good. Guilt is your secret even though you hide it so well. Or think you do. You’re better off without it but how do you ‘out’ it and how do you get the alien ‘out of the house’? How do you set that particular demon free? It’s a dilemma and one that keeps a whole lotta’ people in work.

Psychoanalysts, counsellors, doctors, priests …. So how do we loose the fettered monster? Choose your poison? Maybe we should all be a bit more honest about the things that make us feel guilty. Drag them screaming out into the light of day and expose them for what they are. Make coffee-time with your friends – your personal confessional. Come on, get it off your chest you know you want to and you might be surprised where it will lead. Maybe people will find you a lot more interesting. It might turn out a real turn-on for them or maybe they will recognise you are human after all and a lot more like themselves than they had realised. Open the cage, step out into the light.

Right then whose first?



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We fold the flag away

either by length or width

never by height or colour


We listen to the neighbours woe

Cover our eyes gladly with the corn

That grows through our window


Swaying in the breeze gently

Golden corn we hold in our hands

The summer fun has begun


So sadly the flag now folded  

Of causes, conflicts and clatter

Things now that no longer matter




painting: by edenbray ‘the man with the wooden gun’

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Common People


The common man is hidden

He hides

Society once dressed him in grey

And navy

But now out of the magician’s hat

Badly free

Punctured skin and stored notes

NHS notes

Honey bee hives, sweet and gammy

Political votes

Enter the torn horse kicking gaily

a New Daily

Opinion shattered, warming sugar-sweet

a viral horn

TV people collecting crushed data ice


Nature as usual, nothing much said, led

Red river-bed

Back down in the verdant silver valley

Money talks



Note# silver eponymous for silicone in the context of the piece

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Have you made it yet to edenbrays growing list of modern myths and legends ???

.. .

bob dylan


muhhamad ali

nelson mandela

mikhail gorbachev

herman hesse


marilyn monroe

francis ford coppola

jose mourinho

john smith

paul weller

woody allen

georges roualt

mick jagger

gary lineker

scarlet johansen

giacomo puccini

marlon brando

victoria coren mitchell

lionel messi

scrub that

it has to be ‘puskas’

Ferenc Puskas


must have lived in the 20th century .. .


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Eberus, a tall, lithe warrior dressed in fur and dusted by the plains of Maraballa, knelt and looked far beyond the purple hills of Sysophola.

His heart was heavier than the cargo of a sea barge drifting on the Aratteus after a month hunting and trawling for pescuthus.

He viewed the herd of Atruscean antelope that carried rich, dark meat, little fat and fetched good bounty at the Gerder market each 1st day.

Natreana had not spoken to him for 6 days now and this after they had shared that special moment while he visited, carrying forest truffle.

He nursed the knife her jagged eye lodged in his open heart, the wound where only torn emotion and passion lie side by side.

When they were joined by thought and imagination he knew her heart raced with his and by now he were chasing the insolent deer.

Who grazed on autumn coloured grasses, so trimmed, so languid, as Eberus who contemplated turning his  dagger inward to end his mire.

Why is love the hardest, the slowest and the painful night while as well it causeth the step to quicken, the countenance to lighten and smile?

For these thoughts the deer were now tripping, gambling, running and breathing free as the night prussian and dark fell upon them.



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I live in the somewhere else

in the in-between

I walk like a ghost

dream like a host

to an alien form

my allegiance torn

my purpose born

but not discovered 

¤  ¤  ¤  ¤  ¤  ¤

I am an ant on a trail

am a burrowed snail

of tortured moments shared

but not forgotten

for the perceptive

and the shallow

I am inward, bent

mysterious yet callow

¤  ¤  ¤  ¤  ¤  ¤

The interrogator’s smile

so back in style

now placed on file

like many friends and trinkets

who mention love

with a surgeon’s glove

then stand aside

to murder then to profit

¤  ¤  ¤  ¤  ¤  ¤


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O the beauty 

the beauty of words

¥  ¥  ¥  ¥  ¥


To end the dreary day

The sun brought fire

And smote the grey

Of the heavens away

In his desire

That the evening sky might glow as red

As showed the earth with blood and ire

The distant canon’s boom

in a land oppressed

Still spake the gloom

Of a country’s doom

Denying rest

‘War!’ – called the frightened rooks and flew

From the crimson East to the crimson West

Then, lest the dark might mar

The sky o’erhead

There shone a star

In the night afar

O’er each man’s bed

A symbol of undying peace

The peace encompassing the dead

¥ ¥ ¥

Guest Poem ~ written by RICHARD DENNYS

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ALBION : the rich man’s son




‘Fiddlesticks and fannies’ young Marmaduke

the king won’t speak well a’ yourn nor will he offer coin

he rewardeth only those who subjugate themselves

show proper deference to the throne and royal land


This island is shrouded in a mist of uncertainty

and horses stall at sight of the unicorn o’ bathed in blood

or careering as the ashen rider into a haelen’ storm

whence the Wallace and the Roy did gee’ na’ quwarter


Long-ships once came upon a hapless maid with child

who once called and her doting father answer

now his honour challenged, displaced wi’ squander

there still remain one chance for he to render


To ride the prince’s mount, the white horse regal

and clear ‘the heir’ of storm, of rock, of mischance

and to his own favoured arm bring forth her beauty

Unity ~ tailored, washed, pressed, laundered, referred


Then stepped forth a shepherd’s son with locks

full and gentle he and sporting yellered flowers

a dalliance with a restless cousin whose black mane

curved and plaited with meadow grass the colour of her eyes


These pair the only refuge now for Albion’s son

who heard from birth of succulent lands his rich father

held control and sway and where he dipped his soldiers

the yarn stretched and torn around his masters tartan shawl



ɣ ɣ ɣ ɣ ɣ

unicorn poop

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