Mark Reed

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Sat, 21 Apr 2012 16:06:00 +0000

New Times New Forms....the Millenium is picking itself up off the floor and gazing around what does it see....?

Conundrums but hope.

Abstraction may be the only way to make sense of it all. Enjoy these abstract photos

Memoirs of a Confused Spaceman #2

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 19:59:00 +0000

Savagery as art intellectualised

Is one of those spinning thoughts where supernovae are no more

Than eye candy

an explosion

Switched on by dieties

With not much else to do but

Float and game and think about

Savagery as an art form as a

Chess piece perhaps a rook in the shape of a skyscraper

Humans reaching for the stars whilst staying

Firmly rooted to the ground in Terra

Deep in Terror firm

Where savagery is a totem

Of art appreciation

Spinning

In a gallery halogen light no more direct light

On the canvases because of the risk of photonic

damage

Clutching a rail on the side of the spacecraft

My own totem

My only home so far out here in space

With a starfield as my canvas

Enveloped by stellar phenomena

Clothed in many colours we will never

Ever see on

This spacewalk this floating to a state where

Savagery is less of a political statement and more of

An artistic one free from ideology and sense

It makes sense of the anarchist’s symbol I painted on the back of my suit

It is my gesture to the stars

A small one

But I think God understands

September 2011

Briar Rose and Spanking the Maid by Robert Coover

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Wed, 15 Jun 2011 19:09:00 +0000

Robert Coover is probably one of the most accomplished writers over on the other side of the pond who tackles the myths of America in a cerebral, yet still accessible way, without falling into the trap of writing 250000 word epics about life in a small town, whilst trying desperately [usually in vain] to be the next Great American Novel.

To my mind, playing around with fairy tales is therefore a perfectly logical way to tackle that illusive concept of The American Dream, and that is exactly what Coover does in the first of these two novellas.

Briar Rose is a take on Sleeping Beauty, and although on the surface seemingly 'all about sex' in classic Freudian mode- many of the metaphors are laden with sexual references- it is actually much more than that. Everything in it is a dream, but that only successfully helps one to get into the mind of the dreamer, and it is full of wider meaning. Sleeping Beauty for example dreams of being defiled by her own knight's and castle keepers....a comment on the exploitation by Corporate Capitalism of us all, in the guise of it being in service to us, anyone?

There is a rich seam of other, similar metaphors in this story which leaves one intellectually stimulated but not overly dulled.

The second novella, Spanking the Maid is again, on the surface, a more straight-forward master and Servant tale. The master sets tasks for the maid to do, which she tries her hardest to complete to perfection; but the slightest failing meets with punishment, and the more she is punished, the more she fails to meet the masters exacting standards. The result is that she feels a growing freedom from her overbearing, almost impossible work obligations, and so actually starts enjoying the 'punishment.'

All of this interestingly has the opposite effect on the master, who becomes more and more involved in the technicalities of the punishment ritual to the point where you end up wondering in the end, just who is the master, and who is the servant.

In a number of ways this story reminds me of the excellent film `Secretary,' where the exact line between pleasure and pain and dominance and subservience, when analysed in more depth, actually breaks down into a web of mental and sensual complexity. Where this tale differs from 'Secretary' though, is the almost suppressed denial of any overt sexual activity. Even body parts, such as the maid's bottom, is given euphemisms such as her 'sit-me-down.' It's as if the protagonists are trying to put the act of sex into a box. The process of that however, leads to ever more degrading acts and Coover conjures up some quite affecting imagery to illustrate that.

So, although a very competent and classical examination of sado-masochism and, expertly, rather successfully titillating as well, the novella still manages to be more than that. Coover is investigating deep seated human characteristics of obligation, worship, obsession, denial and the limits of sexual pleasure we all, deep down, are fascinated with exploring. To my mind, he pulls it of brilliantly without any pretension, and leaves food for thought long after the story is finished.

Coover is now being recognised as one of America's greatest writers, and not before time. He has always struck me though as more of a Eurocentric writer than an American one, and I think these two novellas illustrate that aspect of his canon perhaps more than any other. If you are new to Coover though, this neat volume is as good a place to start as any and well worth a read.

jazz workout poetry black keys white screen movement #5

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Thu, 30 Dec 2010 18:07:00 +0000

life through music sketch

a life in music

plonk a world out of a keyboard

surf emotion through a keypad

reach

not for the stars but

for

a sod of earth

find a musical scale

on which to weigh

your ounce of blood

and soil.

Medical Services, Hermosa Beach CA.

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Tue, 28 Dec 2010 15:34:00 +0000

and so you come to me like I’m the doctor

oh yes your dispenser of comfort services

your veritable protector of the lame and there

you shine

as if the palm trees are offering you a personal service

a service of shade specifically designed for you

and

you make no bones

you declare

that all the city roads were built for you oh yes

to carry you my way on hyper-heated pavements cast with exclusive carriage rights

for your inflated, corrupted heart oh yes said without rancour

two skipped eye lash flickers the last Days of Succour

no irony utter candour take this not that:

Me: mad flash wheeled dog weed euro-trash.

You: Texan Rose electrolyzed chrome neon pink

paint job galvanization anti-rust guarantee

and

once we sat rotating on a carousel in a car shaped like a tea cup oh yes

a hand picked rose Sung yellow sheet metal small white daisies templated

on thin curved steel from Allentown PA a nice battered riveted plate

a long way from east coast cloud and grime and we are next to a spinning,

grinning Dumbo

The simple velocity was enough to bind me to you, oh yes

simple times convex emotions whirling us in some

Carthusian orbit observe

Me: The Denialist a lost uncertain superhero looking for a
comic strip to haunt.

You: the wanton hedonist

looking for

a safe house

maybemaybemaybe

a warming glass perhaps oh yes

of Merlot to wash down the pills

you come to me

like

I am

the

doctor

the weave and stagger of a saxophone thick in the hot desert air straight out

of The Mojave

smelter

blasting

and you hang on every note whilst still fingering your keys

and I saw you there in

The Salamander sat at the bar,

smooth legs and denim spray on shorts men transfixed by a red wet look bra top

with dykes flitting at your elbows wishing plotting

you laughing oh yes glittering giggles aloof but wanton snickerings

full on lips stretched tight

over expensive teeth that got you that part, you know the one oh yes that one

in that TV mini-series a big break from the skin flicks in beach houses

on Hermosa Beach and villas hired by the hour in

Santa Barbara and lock-ups over in Watts

and

AND

I knew of all that but you knew you could rely on me to keep it quiet

and oh yes I’m watching you now with my lazy eye

as you stagger-swagger with diabolical intent to soul- steal

from the already sad and depleted to filch and chew indolent senses

and why not oh yes

you

come

I’m

the

doctor

still your erstwhile dispenser of remedies for the maladies

clawing at your brain

me oh yes all shiny spic-and-span paint on new world grin learned well

from knowing colonialists slapped on with skill across old world lips given extra dimensional interest by European louche and you

dizzying your senses bug glass black eyes

oh yes

telling me you hate daylight and bougainvillea and

garden lions you need me to shroud you and

make the sun go away maybe a few weeks in

the mountains a timber lodge play acting at being

a nice husband and wife with regular jobs

shop in Big Bear City remember East Cinderella Drive?

Perhaps pretend we are out of Fort Smith AR

or is that too parochial maybemaybemaybe who knows

but it’s not no way and is it not obtuse to be wondering if maybe

perhaps somehow there’s many a million like us right now ensnared deep within this

metropolitan cage?

No doubt oh yes on street light aluminum barbs and concrete pegs and

razor sharp roadsign devices designed to extract contrition oh yes

probably

in a city that wouldn’t be here if not for a fantastic thirst

so go ahead return home where all your drugged trajectories end

like a badly fused bomb dropped on expectant

civilian populations oh come nuclear heat please do come

when is it going to be me when is it going to be me

So.

Throw your keys on the kitchen counter.

Demand OJ laced with Smirnoff.

Bark an enquiry about where the fuck is your Halston bikini.

Coming to me after a forty-hour AWOL jag

as if I’m the doctor your own little book of

calm a good man in a storm and

….observe…

Spilled purse by a burnt out toaster next to

an erratic splay of over-ripened bananas:

cellphone credit cards Rizlas ancient battered

tin of grass packet of Moroccan small red box

of E’s condoms all of your own remedies you don’t need

me fuck me study the storm clouds rolling in off of the Pacific oh yes

your wish of vanquished sunlight to be granted

by dancing electric weather so:

go pick your keys up from the driveway I haven’t made it hard
for you I

haven’t thrown them

into the bougainvillea for example and I have emptied your

purse in the Roadster on the passenger seat

I haven’t made a mess so:

drink your screwdriver then cruise where ever you wish,

smoke weed on Sunset seeing multiple lanes

and shimmering bars and

just get out of here

not even the allure of those tight

negligible hot pants can make me forgive

not anymore just get out of here

and this time stay away stay distant find another cosmic state

get lost in Paris paint in Bruges get your feet tattooed in

Casablanca dive into Venetian canals late at night bemuse

the Caraberieri just go your own way erase me from digital awareness

coming to me,

I’m the doctor.

Personal Banking

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Mon, 25 Oct 2010 17:50:00 +0000

There’s a demon on my shoulder

and I tell It to fuck off quite a lot

but it stays there, like a blemish

in some faded movie. I am aware

now that its strength lies not in a

specific geographical location,

but in its mental hold; it is like

an old friend who keeps calling

and nagging and you oblige and

do as It says, but screw up and

end up in a world you do want

to be in.

And you curse.

And you swear.

Swear about self-will,

but know- come the call- you

will do it again.

And other controls...

Like the mind zaps, you know, like:

‘I manage You. Only I can

direct You in What To Do.’

And 99% of the time it’s right. It wins.

Then It laughs.

And then it struts along my shoulder

doing some bizarre disco dance

And then it crouches and hisses

And once again, I curse politely

And I say:

‘but we have no contract; I want to

play no more part in the continuance

of this circumstance.’

And then of course the cackles grow

to crackles of spit and flame. I am

told I do not have the proclivity

for change:

my angel is skewered, manacled

with industrial chains and the demon

is laughing in her face:

on the edge of hell in sweat,

limbo dancing.

but

I don’t give a shit.

I do not care anymore for Its hollow

salve.

It is in error, it has wrong stepped.

It’s time is up.

One day.

One day soon.

And no, really, I won’t gloat when

the bastard reaches Its nemesis...

or maybe...its nadir...

…I am brandishing my shiny

new chain cutters, the first step.

And for one thing I can be sure, when

It’s own fire is turned upon It, I sure

won’t be reaching for

the fire extinguisher.

The Pursuit of Truth within Modernism

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 20:24:00 +0000

Modernism is that most ubiquitous yet at the same time, paradoxically, an elusive term. Many people believe they know what it means, but pushed to define it, they soon flounder. Isn't it to do with 'being up-to-date?' Well, not really. In that way, the term is very much misused these days- we say we live in Modern Times, when by the real definition of 'modern,' we don't [well not in the West anymore, anyway]. Modern as a word, has become the victim of it's own essential conceptual power, practical application and subsequent over-use; it is used now, still, in the place of the word 'contemporary,' when that latter word is a more accurate verbal describer of our times.

Modernism emerged in the 19th century as a volatile, multi-faceted movement- it's constituent thinkers and practitioners were often at war with themselves as much as the outer world establishment they were actively challenging and opposing- that developed out of the Enlightenment, taking on a very base, practical Materialism as the foundation of its artistic and political agenda and, that was an important aspect of modernism: it's intent to synthesise both art, and politics.

Before the immense economic and social upheavals of the 19th century industrial revolution in Europe and North America, art had been a very codified activity. From the building of the great cathedrals, to the mannered art of the Renaissance, through to the portraiture and Arcadian landscapes of the Regency period, the artist/artisan had had a prescription to work to; the end result, whether it be a stone finial or a large, usually biblically based wall painting, was achieved within set technical parameters, social mores and expected output. The skills were often handed down from generation to generation, the end result measurable within set, pre-conceived ideas of 'correct' aesthetics and acceptable subject matter. 'Taste' was a veritable, definable even quantifiable arbitrator of human assessment.

Modernism set out to dismantle this century's old idea of taste and 'acceptable' art. Modernists believed that art could be taken out of it's cultural context and the human condition expressed in a pure, abstract form, and it could be practised by anyone. In terms of conventional, visual fine art, the invention of photography obviously aided the cause for the acceptance of abstract painting into the mainstream-still life's and convention portraiture became rather lame artistic pursuits when photographs could do the same job [albeit crudely of course at first].

And so Modernism inevitable developed it's political profile and agenda; it became to symbolise a particularly egalitarian and then socialist movement. It was of the people for the people; we were all artists making our own unique impression upon the world regardless of class, colour or creed, and although this may at first appear to be the celebration of the individual above all else, it proved more sophisticated than that, in that it believed in the erosion of class boundaries, the elevation of the lowliest of men to greater heights, and the demotion of the highest of men- in particular those who had the temerity to place themselves in the position of having the right 'taste'- to lower levels of greater humility.

Modernism set out to be the Great Leveller and to a large extent, it succeeded. It's power and reach rumbled on into the sixties, expressed perhaps most completely [and brutally] in the monolithic social architecture of that period. But we are hardly in modern times now. The cult of the individual sans community commitment has our society in a vice-like grip; contemporary art is seen as 'post-modern' now, which means it is arch, knowing and more often than not, cynical. Modernist purity of thought, action and art in all it's holistic glory and thorny confrontation has all but gone underground, and I believe that is a great shame.

But surely, as our currently unsustainable economy and society teeters ever more on the edge of collapse, it's day will once again return....

Greetings and Felicitations

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 20:13:00 +0000

Welcome to the spanking new, rejuvenated Mark Reed blogspot. It is a companion place for my Skemster blog [link below] and concentrates on the more enigmatic spheres of my work. Dip in and enjoy.....

'There Is Another City'
[2008]

Mind You...

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 20:02:00 +0000

Well I am having second thoughts about winding this baby up...it may have some use yet now that I've got my head around the new blogger template thingymegingywhatsit. Probably can use the pages on here for various stuff so a reprive may be at hand...you no longer need to sob into your lace kerchiefs...this may just be the place for getting wierd :)))

A Time for Migration

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 14:49:00 +0000

This blog is now being wound down and all new activity will ocurr on my shiny new Skemster blogspot. Here's a link: See you there!

http://skemster.blogspot.com/

England Debacle: Verdict = Rubbish

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Sun, 04 Jul 2010 15:33:00 +0000

Fabio Capello says Germany has a bigger population than the UK so therefore has a bigger pool of players to choose from. Population has nothing to do with it. China wasn't there. Uruguay and Paraguay have populations of 4-6 million and the former is in the semi-finals. No, it's about individual quality AND a commitment to team play.

There is something seriously wrong with the prima donna player culture these days and not just in England- most of the world's top players have been rubbish at the World Cup. I think they are so keyed into their club structure [and its pampering] they are not just unable, but not really bothered about the national team effort. I really believe the Rooney's of this world are just not bothered about playing for their country- it's become a chore- it was written across much of the England player's faces.

This may sound harsh but it needs to be said and addressed. An England team full of players from the Championship would have done no worse; in fact its a fair bet they would have done a lot better. It's time for England managers to accept just because a player is highly paid and successful in the Premiership for their club, does not mean they are an automatic fit for the national team. Capello must cast his net for players wider with a commitment to TEAM work as its basis, not just club effort and celebrity.

The Hare March

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 16:10:00 +0000

Watch the March Hare tremble
offering conunudrums not solutions
catalysts and confusions bred
in the tall grass
where the legions of forest animals march
threee abreast willow on tight pigskin drum
enamoured by Spring
enbolded with the bravery of fresh renewal
the atmospheric supercharge for the animate
cell division regardless of root or foot or wing
where all is forward looking and the March Hare rules
with a crown of clover
overlooking
a pasture of endevour.

Continuity

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 20:39:00 +0000

Torn space through the prism of a legend

where the dogs run through confused light,

where the twisted fallen trees beckon,

where the tracks of an old route laboured

by miners snakes, stumbling over

the rusted iron stanchions of an old gate.

There’s a glade where nothing grows-

where the aliens landed.

Lights dancing through the confused trees,

sprites of old, peering around damp nettles

and piles of dog piss wet leaves; let’s dance

around the place from whence I had the

calling, dreaming of a new life

amongst the stars.

Night Night

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 17:25:00 +0000

Can darkness ascend

It certainly can

It creeps up from the black earth

It seeps out of the pores of plants

As bushes and bracken thicken

It billows out of the bark

As trees inflate

And cars in the lot are more easily found

Defined and located by a Keyring fob bleep

whilst in the confines of an artificial stone wall

perimeter enclosure [kept tight]

night is banished by people armed with urban angst

faux dreads kept at bay in the light guilt-free glee

cavorting high on electric light

parades of confidence bubbles of fluorescence

night is history for now is the end

of history

away from a primitive home of nature reliance

and even beyond the freecrete wall out there over the ridge

there is a beauty bound in battery light

watching the motorway with my hands on hips proud

its upward curve an automated stream

an annotated flow of red tail lights contra flowed

white headlights in an organised synchronicity of organised lanes

everyone toes the line no room for rebels there

not down there

strict discipline to avoid all out chaos

even in the night

night

and it can still win we all know that

chances still stalk the light

the night sprites gather and sit astride two hills

my candle held high and space has done a volteface

it is here with me on the ground now

but the sky is lazified in a dull glow

and Cassiopia is there but low quite low

not much else to see through the light pollution

hee hee

a new venerable invention of the rocket age

we can now sully the stars themselves with our light

even the black night the

night

polluted

my candle blows out but I am prepared

I have a light

On my mobile phone it is a handy appliance to have

My own weapon of light

Clean and cold and to the ready I can call

Bombay if I wish

Or a distant war zone ring a Disney phone tune

Somewhere in Khandahar perhaps

And I head home

Wary of traps.

Take It To The Stars

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 17:24:00 +0000

Fighting the undertow then landing on the beach

scratching at the sand.

Fighting distant memories of that Captain on the bridge

of Le Jeune Fleur, laughing,

head thrown back, tacking an arrow flight straight line as

we rode the following sea.

‘Take it to the stars! Take it to the Stars! A crackled voice over the radio jibes,

cajoles with razor while noise, Jobe on the sister boat

holding the line just below the seething crest,

taming the tide for a time, but time, time,

time ends.

Babyghosts [draft]

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 16:53:00 +0000

Babyghosts

My lover lies floating

The loch a smudge the castle a crag

A palace daub palette cracked

Dreaming of apache feathers

Muttering a desert road trip tale

Mescal and ale

[distant weak American stuff too light too fizzy and]

To think of the hunting lodge beyond straggling the mountain

back along the winding track

creaking jeep screeching brakes

Lost seagulls

this warm evening soporific shore

of pebbles and gutted trout and how she laughed

When I couldn’t kill it

and how she decisively spilt its brain

with a sharp little rock

And she tells stories

wondrous angled fables

time lost in a pewter urn

Ashes

deconstituted

her voice is firm as if reading the script

Live for the first time

scowling at the prompter

confident in her skill

[Get beneath the character do not so much be it but enhance it with a life of

otherworldliness steeped in ancient stagecraft and]

She says:

I dream of times when men fought each other with honour and respect

Eye to eye

Paying each other in blood, sweat, tears, sobs, cries of triumph, grunts of shared humour

Bereft of ambivalence

And I say:

Maybe I am Jason but lost, lost sailing the Pillars Of Hercules never to return

A wronged legend

That only I can put right

Aegean Sea correct

a long way from Greece here by the Loch

with fresh opened trout

Siphon some petrol off the Jeep to light a fire

laughing at the taste of gas acrid in my mouth

I fire off some rockets I find suddenly beneath dirty tarpaulin

They burst over the darkening water

we are drunk now

She says:

I dream of my lover returning from The War

His armour cracked and battered his chainmail split

His sword dragging in the fresh loam behind him

Leaving a trail, a rut of valour

As he tacks his way back to me-

I say:

I wish for salience. I wish to have a ship.

More than that row boat. I wish to be engulfed by Creature

A Crying Creature

The Creature of The Loch

And then some

Babyghosts they are here, she laughs

They kiss me and suck on my toes as I speak-

And I think:

There is sport to be had

In burning down the boat house

We have petrol and spark

Such is the terror of life.

Poem in 100 Words

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 12:11:00 +0000

Leper Hospital Ruin, Elm Ridge

A cross once hung there on the wall.

All that remains now is a burnished outline

on crumbling igneous stone, quarried from

the Tees-Exe line. Mulatto stone,

time as no friend. Tumbling ancient brick,

red lumps and shards, no good

for anything. We pick through

dandelion and thistle-

a ruined keep in waning time.

You my love are the expert,

a geological feature of certainty.

I am the temporary marker.

We hold hands in the ruin, this old box of death.

Roof long gone, a grand gesture

of soul release, as lazy grasshoppers

scratch in the evening, warm and sublime.

Another Poem in 100 Lines

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 17:00:00 +0000

Rain Pressure

It’s 2.00 a.m. and there’s a

thunderstorm outside.

I lay on my bed and watch

the flashes light up the room,

blue-white electric light and the

the thunder rolls over head [it’s

above us, it’s directly above us].

The rain the rain the rain

The Rain: it’s noise a natural

crazy static, it fazes and buzzes

me and kicks straight into the

burnt neurons of my addled

scorched head.

Wide awake I get up and look

out of the window; down in

the street below I can see Barry

washing his car.

The street is a river, this horror

of a storm actually has waves

and swirls, this is Real Weather

and I remember that he had told

me of this before, yes I remember

now, he’d told me that whenever

we get these upper registry storms

[that’s what he called them, upper

registry] he legs it out into the

street and gets going with the

old shampoo.

I watch him.

Old tee-shirt and shorts,

west coast beard circa 1976

and it is all, all

of it, caked to his skin.

Windscreen bumpers

reg. plate side

windows

wheel hubs…

and he looks happy.

He is grinning. He can’t see for

pouring rain and he’s happy.

It is now 2.09 a.m.

The storm is set in for some time:

a great cleanser,

atmospheric colon irrigation.

I mooch around the bedroom

for a while, feeling charged,

excited but uncertain.

I go downstairs and

open the back door and

I step out into the rain.

Within seconds

I have another skin

of cool,

fresh rainwater.

Enjoying it

I go and sit in the middle

of our small soaked lawn,

legs crossed.

I lift my face

to the charcoal sky

and feel like a fool but so what,

I’m enjoying it, and

I’m not sure how long I am out

there for but as the rain pressure

falls back I become aware of her stood at

the doorway, arms folded.

She is studying me,

saying nothing but through

what is now light drizzle

her look says it all:

You’re crazy.

You are mad.

What the hell are you

doing out here?

I say nothing, for there is nothing

to say.

There is still, I gauge,

a fair amount of rain pressure

in this particular registry of

meteorological conditions

contributing to background audio

air static and, in addition,

I’m still pretty drunk.

So I just stand up and triumphantly

look inane.

Eventually she leaves the doorway.

The drizzle stops.

I squelch back into the house.

I throw my rain soaked clothes

into the Zanussi. I sit around for

a while in the dark kitchen

watching greys increase in lightness

of tone, their black percentages shed.

Eventually the sun shows some

vague interest in pulling

itself together for the day.

I stumble into the lounge and

laughing and giggling

and snorting,

crash out on the sofa.

A Poem in 100 Lines

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 16:55:00 +0000

A Period of Uneasy Truce in Yugoslavia I:

The Dissolving Federation

In the days before war

when all looked sublime

to foreign eyes

all sweetness and light

and no sign of even

the slightest decline

we got as far as Skopje

before a military guard

checked passports

on the train

olive green uniform

red star hat

gold toothed grin

and how we’d laughed

although the boys from Zagreb opposite

cowered.

Besides us a family on their way to Kőln

to guest work

their children amused

by our playfully

crafted paper toys

and we are co-joined

the four of us

four friends two pairs

coastal bound

intent to play

with western innocence.

Two couples bound by years of

shared experience

mutual arcs of life co-incident

clasped to the Croatian coast

diving off ancient

Venetian quaysides

into clear Adriatic sea-

be careful not to

put your feet on the sea bed

poisonous mollusks lurk-

seeing the sun bounce across

elegant bell towers

parking at the grilled gates of Kator

staring in at an earthquake ruined city

closed off as if a Hollywood film set

-Return of Spartacus-

drive into the hills

to try and find

outback Yugoslavia

deep in Bosnia

with cured meats

flat cheese

leaven bread

strong beer

midday glare

lonely planet self satisfaction

until the bus load of tourists

drive in

Germans and Belgians

now there’s a combination

and we suspect

a simmering tension

in Dubrovnik

between our friends

they are distant

as if they are two satellites

out of synch

closer to us in individual sex

than each other as if dancing

an unspoken uneasy truce

vaguely apparent to us

but we think-

just another tiff- for

to not argue

is to not have a relationship.

On the plane home

she cradled his head

in hers and they

announced two days

after our return

their demise

their new course

a set of separate ways

a pretence of togetherness

generated just for us

for the holiday

for peace and calm and

the minimum of upset.

And little were we to know it

[or perhaps we really sensed it

but did not want to know it]

we were to follow soon

a matter of limping months

remembering

the mist in Plat

it’s buildings

like ancient teeth

the bougainvillea like

fresh dripping blood

as the arc of our own lives

struck off

on their own way in life

never to cross again.

Autumn Aims

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 19:16:00 +0000

Well will be giving this blog a bit more attention now the summer is finally dead a buried. which is stretching it a bit- was the summer ever alive? More like a zombie have heartedly resurrected and allowed to stagger around a bit before it finally collapsed with a signed lack of interest somewhere arounf the cusp of May and June.

Whatever...

Testing ground for new work over the next few weeks, mainly poetry.

This weekend has seen some of my work exhibited by Forest Arts in New Milton, Hampshire as part of their Poetry Society 100 Exhibition. It runs to 17th October...have a look in if anyone is in the neighbourhood. I'll be posting up my contributions in the next couple of days, comments as always, welcome by posting direct on the blog or through email.

The Danger

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 19:12:00 +0000

The Danger [draft]

He was a substance boy

hard atoms

lava blood

brain hard wired to the moon

And she was a liquid girl

not much more than a pool

could evaporate to a speck

gold in the hold

hearts on the deck

Skewered

He lived in a town a

town made of gingerbread

in a town called Sweetness

She visited once and found it agreeable

although she failed to see

what all the fuss was about

but the liquiorice chimneys that was a nice touch

Gingerbread houses……

cool enough

until it rained because when it rained

it rained tea

she hadn’t been ready for that…

…and neither had he.

Update

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 10:40:00 +0000

Well the website is taking shape. First pages should go live in the next couple of weeks if all goes to plan. There should soon be links to words and a picture gallery. Have a look over at Parachute Poetry to see latest 'happenings' as well.

Parachute Chapbooks

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 16:49:00 +0000

Well it's the end of another week. The Parachute Poetry Initiative is taking shape and has it's own blogspot now, see link in sidebar. I would hope the first couple of chapbooks will be ready for release in a couple of weeks and- quite literally- hitting the streets sometime soon after that.

Lazy Somnambulism

Warm morning air fills

this planet sleep room:

bed=continent

blue carpet a shore

hugging the ocean;

the wardrobe a dangerous

storm beaten rock,

its lighthouse long deserted under

mysterious circumstances

[many lurid tales told in the

tavern on dark starred black nights]

HMS Indolence on

this sheet, a sea sheen, a

veneer of cosy cool cotton

from the shadow of a pyramid;

slumberland

lumberland

a happy woodcutter-

wallow swallow-

ha ha ha

above, the pulsing chop of a

police helicopter;

below, chugging grass cutting machine

achieving incredible feats of trimming

on a 60 degree incline.

Birds tweet

So much for morning peace

as my love lies laughing;

I stretch my arms and zap the

badly dropped blinds

with a muffle mind and

an addled sniff, as I turn

over again-

across the sheet that is,

not another leaf.

When the Sun Came Down and Danced in Our Street

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 16:20:00 +0000

I'm in end-time production of a Parachute Poetry chapbook at the moment which will be unleased soon. Here's the title track:

When The Sun Came Down and Danced in Our Street

1: The Message

Talking about hats and tennis visors

can be frustrating

when no one is interested

so I sat on the warm door step and

decided to pen me a letter

and it went a lot like this:

Dear Winter,

there is no need to return here. You no longer have a home, well not one to speak of, so to speak. So please negotiate a deal with Spring, warm yourself around a campfire in a sylvan glade [but remember the insect repellant] close to an appropriate solstice and a convenient solution may, well be, that you find another planet to haunt. Summer is here to stay now. It has adapted well and we too have accommodated it’s needs in order to achieve a mutually beneficial arrangement. Many people are subsequently quite happy and you wouldn’t like it back here anymore, anyway. So Ciao baby.

Regards,

Thomas Street.

2: Strange Phenomenon

It was then that the sun rose above

the roof of the church at the end of the street

and the narrow terrace flooded with bright

hot light and the windows throbbed

the thin glass tensed as if suffering

from sudden birth memories

and a red ball bounces down the street

children laugh the sound muffled by the heat

their voices embraced by pure luminosity

an inner city solar flare emitted

for our street alone our street in glory

is picked up and placed in its own chromosphere

it’s own solar coagulation

of brick stone glass tarmac plastic wood metal

a modern fossilization where parallel gravities

shake hands a happy conglomerate

thrown overboard as photonic ballast from

the sun ship

and I stand laughing and

the sun winks at me and shimmies a little

then whoops something like ‘ariba! corumba!’

[it was difficult to hear clearly with the thick heat

and what with wearing my hat with the ear flaps down

and Brazilian rhythms on my ipod but I got the

aural picture]

and then with feather-weight grace denying it’s

undoubtedly bulky atomic mass and with no need

for a chariot of fire and clearly having dispensed with

God-like airs and graces the Sun jumps over the

church roof wearing Wayfarers

and a riot of an OP polo shirt

and Bermuda shorts that had frankly seen better days

and flip-flops that left much to be desired in the smart

but casual department but so what

at least I was there

it was me with the front page hold tight

swinging around a No Parking sign

the day

that day

when

it’s true

you had to be there to believe it

but what joy

when

the sun came down to dance in our street.

Work in Progress

noreply@blogger.com (Mr Parachute) — Sun, 12 Jul 2009 19:18:00 +0000

I hope to get this up and running soon. So much to do, so much to do...

Handy links will appear soon to some of my favourite other blogs at the the moment. Why not enter the madness...