A NIGHT IN THE LIFE OF SELENE & PAN

pan

Dusk, and a naïve, birdbrain Sun

parasol in hand, catchpenny frock

bids her disingenuous ‘have a nice night’

prances over the edge due south ever wondering

what fanciful dream slumber will deliver up

 

Dusk, and at the venerated owl’s first hoot

peppery Selene rubs sleepy dust away

stretches this way and that, yawns

readies herself for after dark thrills

only the impassioned Arcadian forest

can bestow, caring not that

the ‘water at the mouth’

peeping Tom moon

cannot help himself

but look on

 

Dusk, and a lascivious Pan

scandalous seduction in mind

fresh bib and tucker disguise

conquest long since singled out

emerald woodland bound

to the place where

Selene craves

 

Witching hour, a clichéd fluttering

of eyelids, wilful bedevilment

she runs and hides

hides and runs

Pan’s chase not a long one

it never is

he takes care, best he can

to undo that which need not be ripped

and rip that of little consequence

 

Dawn, a bleary-eyed peeping Tom moon

unaware he is an exhibitionists delight

stockpiles his ‘dark side’ secret images

takes a troubled, remorseful rest

fades into the light

 

A WORLD UPSIDE DOWN

Underneath the bridge of heartache the saintly take shelter

In the dark tunnel of delusions white-face clowns aim to provoke

There’s a Best Ragweed Hotel made up of just cardboard

Where a ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ Madam comforts the broke

 

On the merry-go-round favoured by ‘bruise easily’ lovers

The pipe organ plays cacophonous rhapsodies

Steam powered wooden ponies all bobbing for cover

A found out priest weeps, head bowed, down on his knees

 

The slick politicians go visit the frozen lake there

They skate over thin ice and frosty white lies

They dress up for the occasion blindfolded

Untruths easier to sell in hopeless disguise

 

The enchantress evokes her charms naked

She says, “It keeps all my magic aglow”

Her incantations as ever spellbinding

When there’s a poisonous hex to bestow

 

A gaunt phoenix stays put in the ashes

Too sick and tired to rise up again

Samson shaves his head before a cracked mirror

Delilah speaks not, she prefers to abstain

 

In a nest of unholy smooth operators

Sex playthings replace human touch

All one and the same to the titular bishop

And to the eyeless who don’t care all that much

 

I’ll take you there if you let me

I’ll show you a world upside down

You can wear only your choker of gemstones

Perhaps, maybe that blood red wedding gown

 

RED PLANET (a lyric plus song link)

george 

https://soundcloud.com/michael-steeden/red-planet

Red planet take good care of me

Make it better than before

I’m tired of what we’re doing here

Just show me the door

 

I think I’ll take that flight; I’ll take that flight to Mars,

I’ll leave this Earth behind, won’t even wave goodbye

 

I know there’s no coming back

Why would I anyway?

There’s nothing left here I want

I know there’s no coming back

Why would I anyway?

There’s nothing left to say

 

Red planet take good care of me

Make it better than before,

I’m tired of what we’re doing here

Just show me the door

 

I know there’s no coming back

Why would I anyway?

The end game now is playing out

I know there’s no coming back

Why would I anyway?

Here time is running out

 

On Mars the wind blows hot and cold

On Mars there is no war

On Mars I’ll never have to ask

“What are we fighting for?”

 

Red planet take good care of me

Make it better than before

I’m tired of what we’re doing here

Just show me the door

 

Sometime in the future

I might look up to the sky

Back at where I came from

At a planet cold and dry

 

I think I’ll take that flight

I’ll take that flight to Mars

George Blamey-Steeden 2014 © all rights reserved 

My songwriter son is gradually getting both his new material and much of his old portfolio of songs on to his Soundcloud page. However, this demo didn’t make the ‘cut’ purely because it is an acoustic ballad that, in his view, doesn’t sit comfortably with his multi-layered compositions.

I love it though and think it a crime that unless I ‘get it out there’ it will spend the rest of its days on an external hard drive never to be listened to again…hence it now sits on my Soundcloud!

If you, the reader, get a chance to listen then please feel free (if you like it that is!) to share on Twitter and any other social media that you think suits.

 

LITTLE MISS ATLAS

atlas

Combustible the bitter heart of the abiding cynic

she who choose to migrate toward the nothingness

bearing a hat bursting full of peripheral care not secrets

leading a sacrificial, solitary life seated outside the threshold

of the enticing black canvas upon which far-flung shimmering stars

in all their naked glory are pinned for the indulgence of the beholder

instead she chooses not to sit by the ornate façade looking beyond

merely content to be left alone in the fading light facing that aspect

in part begging it yawn ajar, yet terror stricken of catching even a glimpse

of that which her biased, queer point of disadvantage had declared sacrosanct

such is the way of an acrimonious girl concealing a broken heart and no future to speak of

or seemingly so

for she had overlooked resurrection of self comes from beyond

is triggered randomly, an alien prompt most often and that only our ghosts

are forever becalmed upon the shadowless dark waters of deaths lake

far beyond the horizon of the living realm of breath-taking magic

 

Café cappuccino contemplation outside in the sun and a hatpin to poke at the infectious void

“That is some redoubt you’ve built around yourself…what’s all that about then?”

She tentatively looks up, noting a dapper young man with ushering-in sorcery in his darting blue eyes

tries ever so hard to studiously ignore his opening gambit to no avail

an intense desire to merely say, ‘Fuck off’ beyond her invention

“Hope you don’t mind if I perch here at your table, the rest are full as I don’t know what!”

Her mannerism conveys that she accedes to his appeal with more than a little hesitancy

“Got the world on your shoulders then Little Miss Atlas?”

She speaks not, certainly not the ‘It’s none of your fucking business’ that buzzes within

 

More often than not the relentless tricks ‘time’ plays are the cruellest of things yet not so this day

this day the exception that proved the rule, for ‘magic’ is the one thing that would always trump ‘time’

as ‘time’ itself would reluctantly concede if pushed, and pushed it was as the ‘Little Miss Atlas’

throwaway analogy struck a chord, brought out a simper, then a smirk then the full blown laugh

that had been minded to escape restraint since back when a new day’s promise was still a delight

‘It’s none of your fucking business’ no longer buzzed within

Come autumn years the two were long since one, magic had indeed trumped time

 

IN THE CAFÉ OF LOST INHIBITIONS

chaperon

In a sunken blanched sky the very worst omen, blessed white doves of concord all flown away

Nothing up there beyond sickly grey clouds, save for in near the distance the dark birds of prey

The candles of enchantment snuffed out across Paris, the day the Jackboot marched into town

Hurry and hide well that old accordion, forget not to keep secret the brides wedding gown

Out in the street a stampede procured of blind panic, they fly the coop, put up the shutters for now

No more cobblestone coffee for the vanquished, one day to regroup, make resistance the vow

In the café of lost inhibitions, where the generals boast of treasures they stole

Pick and choose from a menu of fresh flesh, baked in an oven of burnt book’s charcoal

For their delectation a gifted musician, plucking reluctant chords from harp of heart strings

Be it Berlin, Vienna or Warsaw, under the stark spotlight a caged hostage sings

The gypsy girl undressed fit to die for, made but to dance for the detachments delight

They offer up a gratuitous encore, and then toast with drink their ambiguous birth right

Here in the moment they party, more Schnapps, more champagne on ice

No farewell kiss, no chaperon for the dancer, her fate sealed on the roll of a dice

ECHOES FEND FOR THEMSELVES AFTER MIDNIGHT

avant garde

Interlaced tongues sweetest tortures, and for you a crown of hawthorn

Come mornings lame duck situation, at first light a passion stillborn

Your carriage awaits full of treasures, a catalogue of what was before

Love letters returned back to sender, your key on the hook by the door

You split with a satchel of shared dreams, and a trunk full of burning desire

In your wake left a parcel of memories, and finger band of barbed wire

Those bared paintings of you in the grand hall, the place where all sinners got wed

Now hang on the walls of a bedroom, where all our spare tears once were shed

Words aimed below the belt and pulled punches, a ripped bodice, a craving that devours

Then the affirmation of stained sheets, hungover from the afterglow hours

You travelled back to the place where you came from, climbed dizzy heights just to be

Once more with your come-hither lover, and the times you say were carefree

In the white room where virgin bride’s makeup, paradise only a scissor cut away

Yet for you just a bouquet of snowflakes, that would melt lest you forgot to pray

Remember when I gave you the emerald, you said just, ‘thank you, see you around’

Then you laid claim to my heart, to my hunger, left me for dead instead of spellbound

Echoes fend for themselves after midnight, come back to deafen at the first light of day

You leave behind the one you tormented, to stand by him who you would betray

KISMET & CONCORD

kismet

His only regret?  Without hesitation he would answer with acerbity

“Inventing the curse of time. Better it was when standstill prevailed

Freeze framed existence requires no sleep, no sustenance, no swords”

Yet time had been within his gift to the cosmos and whomsoever else

pinned in a monotonous state of being, beholden to the conscious precursor

requisite, who had eyes that saw what they saw and dexterous fingers

That he had unwittingly unleased such a calamity haunted his reality still

 

The wisp of a girl who would tempt fate had forever sought stark anonymity

it was thus that she was never without her silver Volto Masquerade Mask

such is the way of contradictions to one spawned of the immaculate union

of ‘Time’ and heavenly ‘Circumstance’ his lover. They had named the girl ‘Kismet’

a proud partisan of where all is foretold in a place not suited to giddy libertines

 

Backside upon kerb, under the shade of a million new red leafed sycamore

puncture repair kit, profanities, dripping sweat, at wit’s end, Kismet’s preloved

crappy old push bike had let her down once too often. It would have to die

 

“Need a hand?” so said the unshaven young man with a swollen black and blue eye

“Don’t concern yourself the bike is destined for execution” 

“That’s a shame…why the mask? Unlike me following last night’s altercation down the pub I’ll wager you’ve a pretty face behind it?”  

“Believe me when I say you would neither understand my reasoning, nor I can assure you, would you want to know” 

Locked temporarily in a pregnant pause he blinks first, ‘Didn’t catch your name?”

“Didn’t tell you…Kismet if you must know” 

“Want to know my name” 

“Not really, it’s of little consequence to me,” benevolence alien to the dispassionate otherworldly girl of predeterminations horoscope

 

Yet Time was on his last legs, running out of steam, a lost key clockwork mechanism

the chaos of Time’s death-throws would emasculate fate, soon what the future held

would be known to all and sundry as would migrating sanity to those who had loved

Kismet, as was her way clinically considered the unshaven, swollen black and blue eye boy

whispered ‘benevolence’ over and over, contemplated the relevance of both as one

 

“Maybe you can help repair my tyre after all…yes, a sound idea…your name also” 

“Promise you won’t laugh? Concord, although my mates just call me Con”

 

Spontaneously, in mystifying defiance of destiny Kismet removed her mask

tilted her head searchingly, gawping at Con, cross-legged in the road affecting

the repair and mulled over as to whether or not an impromptu puncture repair

and a coupling of fatalism and disarray would ensure her regretful old father Time

and those he had awakened a few more living years was the good thing it felt to be

 

Some decades on, and an enduring devotion salvaged from a turbulent intimacy later

Con caught up with an aged Kismet now living in Paris, asked if she had any regrets?

“Giving up my mask and revamping the temporal model. My father was correct with regards to the latter”

 

A PROMISE MADE, A PROMISE KEPT

matilda

Yesteryear as yesterday

Distracted fingers entwined

New love’s prerogative

Precursor to cravings fulfilment

Any time, any place, any how

Crescendo’s promise made

Crescendo’s promise kept

“Just the new-fangled micro battery to fit old chap and she’ll be as good as new…they won’t need replacing for years by the way”

Not that he had any conception of the whys and wherefores of modern science yet Harry had been true to his word and was to bring his dear Matilda back to life. Moreover, she would be even better than before, maybe immortal even though if the truth be told she couldn’t be that much better in Harry’s book for he always had her marked down as perfection its veritable self

“Please don’t think me weird…tell me you don’t”

The scientist paused for thought, “Well Harry this is, and likely will be the most unusual commission I’ve undertaken, yet in the circumstances, no I think you a shrewd, clever fellow. To have kept Matilda’s body on ice all these years waiting, praying even for technology to play catch up and to bring her back to life fulfils that misty old dream of yours I’d say” 

In his heart of hearts Harry knew the inordinate fee he was paying the scientist ensured such no doubt disingenuous civility. Besides Harry still felt weird yet duty bound to keep that promise he made Matilda in love’s first glorious flush namely that he would love and care for her to eternity and back. That she had died in her prime and that he was now an ancient old crone mattered not a jot for Harry was a man of his word when all said and done, and boy how the pair of them had cherished each other

“Ready when you are then Harry” 

“Go for it”

With that the scientist affixed the micro battery, stood back, put the reassuring palm of his hand upon Harry as best he could and waited. In the event the stay was a short one. Matilda opened her eyes, looked this way and that finally focusing on the old man long since nothing more than just a head in a glorified glass jar, shedding tears of purest joy, strategically placed as he was on her bedside table right next to her. That she did not recognize him as her lover from times gone (how could she) did not bother Harry in the least. That she cast that captivating smile of hers he remembered so well in his direction made the whole enterprise worth every penny

“Shall I turn your life support off now Harry?” Harry did but blink an affirmative. He drifted off in the hope that one day Matilda would forgive this, his final indulgence, that she would see love had afforded him no choice in the matter

Crescendo’s promise made

Crescendo’s promise kept

 

GENRES OF SUICIDE

Death

Beachy Head has been done far too often

A squalid overdose has scant appeal

Jumping under a train is plain selfish

Just think how the driver must feel

 

A Swiss clinic can prove quite expensive

Although it does have a certain panache

Slashed wrists some think far too messy

And carbon monoxide’s no gas

 

A shot to the temple is instant

Yet to miss and pull through will not do

An arsenic laced curry stupendous

But there’s always the risk you might spew

 

A rope about the neck is so awful

Not worth either the pain or the fear

And forget not a note of remembrance

For those left behind you hold dear

 

So when tribulation consumes you

When you say, “I can’t take any more”

Maybe dream up a new way to end it

For what’s gone before is a bore

 

One must depart this domain with a swagger

Find an art form of which people will say

“Well he left this mortal coil behind him

In a most sumptuous, extravagant way”

 

Be sure that your method is painless

Be sure that there’s no letting of blood

Be sure that it’s not from a great height

Or else there will be a loud thud

 

So if suicides fancy should grab me

Take it for granted my approach it will be

To make love till my body can take it no more

And die in my bed, exhausted, set free

 

Oh what technique have I thought up

Oh what a farewell oh so grand

To take my leave not with a sadness

But ecstatic to have made my last stand!

 

 

OF WISHES & TELEPATHY

Processed with VSCOcam with b1 preset

Processed with VSCOcam with b1 preset

Barefoot shoreline empty wanderings

a beach all hers save the finicky sandpipers

cliffside and far off a cacophony of gossip

lapwings sharing rumours and allegations

fanciful sun and ozone prompted imaginings

an etched yet nonsensical modus operandi

as to the perfect plan to ensnare a new lover

 

Fantasy ‘Plan A’ unfolds apace with footprints in the sand

“I shall have Nubian slaves wrap me up in a Persian carpet and unroll me at his feet wearing nought but a smile…it worked for Julius Caesar when Cleopatra did the self-same thing. Then again I have a dust mite allergy…um…thinks…suppose I would look rather silly standing there stark naked sneezing and eyes watering…and where would I keep my hanky? Not good and I don’t know any Nubians or Roman Emperors and only have a tatty old rug anyway” ‘Plan A’ shelved

 

The freshest of breezes from the sea picks up pace

its bosom buddy immigrant cumulus waves a coy hello

temperature drops sufficient to chill Miss T-shirt and Shorts

“God I’m tragic…best head back”

As ever ‘Plan B’ contingencies are few and far between

thoughts interrupted by mountain bike man ahead

nearly on top of each other, wheels lock, swerves to avoid her

comes to a cumbersome halt, misses her by a hair’s breadth

 

“Crikey idiot, you’ve the whole bloody beach to ride that thing on, why aim yourself at me? You could have killed me!” 

“Sorry about that, didn’t spot you ‘till the last second, thought the beach was empty” 

He gathers his composure, she collects her thoughts 

“You’re new here…just passing through?” 

“No, just purchased the Old Vicarage in the village…moved down from the smoke” 

“Alone? It’s a big old lump of a property” 

“Yes alone and true it is a bit over the top yet I need space to think…to plan my stage act” 

“What do you do for a living then if I may be so bold to ask?” 

“Mind Reader…travel all over the world” 

“Wow” 

“Wow to you too! By the way with that allergy of yours, you need a carpet made of lab-developed synthetic blends, polyester maybe…whatever, a non-organic one that repels allergens…they roll up easily which is a bit of a bonus as well…afraid I don’t know any Nubians though” 

“How on earth do you know I have an allergy? You really telepathic then…been reading my mind…I mean everything I was just thinking?” 

“Oh yes” 

An all-knowing wink befriends the pinken glow smile she wears