Tag Archives: dream

Guilt

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I’m eating her away with the filth of my mind:
at once consuming and consumed.
I relish in the torrent of her flow, from a height,
her head, cascading.
I wonder at the slight valley,
which runs between neck and shoulder socket,
almost broad, almost muscular, always sensual.
I wonder as I drink the unblessed blood of Christ,
the draught that would still water be without Him –
it is not the best till last, but nearly,
it is not the end because the sulking lady’s skinny.
I am devouring the room with my ego,
and the room smiles, stretches, and…
once more enslaves me

©TheHairyTeacher2014

Easter Passed Over

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When the Friday claimed good is nigh upon us,
and the last cold snap of winter falls all round us,
when the expectations for a Spring sometimes grow too strong,
and the sullen mood in the shadows of Old Man have gone on too long
then all that’s left is positive spirits
all bottled up in reserve for this
and when finally the blossoms come.
We’ll fall elated – reverently dumb.

©TheHairyTeacher2014

Doubt

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I have been here before –

falling somewhere between desperation and reason.

I have even tried to justify my every step:

“no need, unless you know you’re wrong”

and so, yes, the voice doth preach,

and the ears will recoil,

for I am not about to listen.

Remember this –

I’ll only learn in this state

If it’s not guilt or some other fanciful delight you speak of.

I am the product of other people’s tyrannies.

I have, for too long, stood in the shadow of other people’s choices –

I am suffused to doubt

and bolstered up to clarify

that ne’er again will there be

that ne’er again for me, at least,

No surrender –

No surrender –

at least as long as I can see the boundaries.

The risk then less

I shall bravado fly

till truth be told.

I’ll fear again

The honest murmurings

of doubt

and place the ‘tough guy’ in the box –

the redundant hologram

it’s what I am

or would be

If I had to be

but I’ve invested too much

in believing

that it’s not

all as bad as that,

and that, if I choose,

I can contribute to this better world.

I will become the sum total

of fear, subservience, doubt, cowardice et al,

till it is further understood

I’m here for me

at first

I’m here to live,

not die.

I have questions –

beyond gravity –

which interest me.

I’m more concerned

and yet…

And then this doubt –

It is my life!

©TheHairyTeacher2014

UrNotMe

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The trouble is you never want to see it my way
You always want to have it your way
like a broken down record you’re stuck in the past
skipping and scratching along Old 55s highway.
you asked me to be your crutch
and then you left me in the lurch
you asked me to be your guide
but you never acted such.
You dealt drinks like a croupie
smiles like a film star
but now that I know you
I can only say this:
Your heart holds nothing but that you wanted it that way.
The pain that you’ve chosen you designed all anyway.
It may be you lost control
It may be you’re in a hole
But the fingering of records of our past
will not make the moments last
but the delving into the stream
will not reverse this dream.
And you might well call it a nightmare
you might even shout traitor
you might even be right when I never tried to save you.
But it was never about me, but you,
and what I could bring along.
It was never about us two
but whether I would sing your song.
And from a distance I read about the pain
and when I returned I experienced it again.
but I was no longer convinced,
I was no longer so sure
if the friend I once had
was my friend anymore.
And when you held me in contempt
I swore I could never forgive you,
but I did.
Your number erased from my phone
came back all by itself.
I remember the gig where we took to the floor
spooking all the natives into the shadows.
And it all could have been good,
it all could have worked,
but instead I had to fight them off as they dragged you out the back door.
Instead I had to bleed while you escaped once more.
Instead the one who’d caused the pain was the one to suffer the least all over again.
Instead the ones around you wilting were held dear
and I just stood there,
I just stood there.

©TheHairyTeacher2013

Balcony

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On the morning balcony
the pine tree guard looming all round
at the outpost of my vision on his perch
the dawn patrol is headed by this silhouette
somewhere far off his follwers respond
a chorus of recognition
nearby some jackdaws squabble over pittens
their squawks and chatter no less meaningful
a fly, persistent, buzzes by
and almost unrelenting before he moves off
the garden in the cooling shade
already feels the pending heat
the air moves sluggishly:
another hot day’s coming.

©TheHairyTeacher2013

All About Atmosphere (The Budapest Jazz Club)

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When I first arrived in Budapest the Budapest Jazz Club was situated on Múzeum utca in the popular university area which spans the 5th, 8th, maybe even 9th districts of the city. It was near that area where an Irish pub consisted of putting the word Irish before it and the streets had yet to be pedestrianised. Now that the area is looking good the Budapest Jazz Club has upped pegs and shifted residence to the 13th. It’s still up and coming Hollán Ernő street style but somehow this district, this part at least, and my favourite, is more becoming of Jazz Club mystic post smoking ban.
In the place where once the Odeon, an arthouse cinema stood, it has changed little albeit better music emanates from the speakers mid morning.
It still retains the arthouse feel and along with the other arthouse cinemas that have fallen foul of progress, or other conspiracy theories, imagination has been employed in order to maintain quality, at least the quality of difference.
With regular concerts and an early morning, 10am, opening this serves to be as much a library as a theatre. It’s a cool place to hang out, literally during the almost unbearable summer’s days and it serves to enhance the spirit for those more musically curious.
And for those who’ve just popped in for a coffee you are in a good neighbourhood for some good quick eats if things turn peckish.
Disfruta la!

©TheHairyTeacher2013

Paradicsom-os

Paradicsom-os

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The fact that the Hungarian word for tomato and pardise (paradicsom) are the same could indicate a reverence paid by the Magyars to this simple fruit ( or is it a veg?). Nevertheless tomato isn’t something I’d usually associate with a chocolaterie and yet here I am, still uncertain.

Hidden away a little off the synagogue in a passageway between buildings, joining Károly körút with Semmelweiss utca, this place could easily be overlooked and yet the Tripadvisor has been and gone. It presents itself up front as all sweets and coffee: the glass casing at the counter filled with little treats and ice-cream scoops, while behind, the caffeine cardinals lie in wait. Along shelving scattered here and there, there are other curiosities, bottles of spices, bags of chocolate buttons, and other such marvels. It’s almost chemistry, even alchemy, and now as I sit here ruminating the paradicsomos csoki teaser I’ve just recently indulged in is resurrecting in the aftertaste whispering sweet nothings to my soul…a taste of more for sure, though I think I may resist in favour of sanity. Already the odd rush of a strong coffee coupled with the overtures of cocoa and tomato have me screaming of the tragedy of man.

A pleasant retreat it’s hard to imagine the bustling junction some twenty metres away and in the heart of the fifth district, come tourist time this little haven may indeed become one’s salvation in an escape from the heat and the hordes.

©TheHairyTeacher2013

The Horror

The Horror

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The pleasant day expressed

in the smiles of passengers.

Babes asleep, breasts all pert,

the Spring-time thickening.

The on and off from stop to stop

I smile inside – it’s life.

But what bitterness has brought me to this juncture,

where I peel back the pleasantries

and vent again, once more:

the words contorted – I am afraid

for I’ve had dreams

of which I cannot speak.

 

©TheHairyTeacher2013

The cider lout rules

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Year 3 of an eternal programme to get things to perfection in all ways cider-ly. First 2 years had the highlights and the low-lights, the last batch actually gassy and sweet on opening, while the previous year’s sour torment was over-ridden by the fact that there certainly was an effect, even if this was just a fast track to poisoning. Later harvesting versus earlier harvesting is also in debate this year with 3 specific time periods pencilled in. Today, 12/8/12, being the first of these with the windfalls all to choose from. The next harvest will also be windfalls and…while the last should be tree picked. Either way this year will see the introduction of the red apples from the garden too. Sweeter to taste let’s see how that translate into brewing and end product. Fingers crossed.

(T.B.C.)

Las Ramblings

Las Ramblings

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“A villamoson…nem hallom!”

Well we certainly could hear her but gladly she made this her insistence point and hung up. The idea right now mid-Friday afternoon – just having been to the doctor with Tara, my own chest paining – of having to listen to this woman would have been frightful. Frankly, I needed rest. I’d slept some last night, but rather erratically. Tara being feverish – fighting a throat infection – tossed and turned the whole night through and was tracing buses and trams and trains across the ceiling by the skylight. My first impression had been that she was still dreaming. Now I’m more inclined to believe she was being just a little bit delirious. Nothing like a fever to push the mind to other streams of consciousness…

Arriving into Barcelona all those years ago, 44°C on the roadway sign, me huddled up in a thick blanket shivering with a soul deep chill, I can only reminisce to the comedic concerning my mind’s wanderings.

The gay guy at the petrol station who would have gladly taken me home. No doubt he had a cure for my fever.

The campsite we stayed at where I marked, like a wagon rut, a trail between the tent and toilet, each time a pot to hand in case both ends decided to erupt at once. They didn’t, then, to my knowledge but I’m certain they would have had I forgotten the pot.

What a place to have been. An arse-hole ripped from posterior propulsion, sitting grimacing, looking through tear-filled eyes at a lap full of vomit! Not that I was getting the satisfaction of a projectile puke by then anyway. Bile, and blood vessels bulging – ah, what sweet memories.

As for the city itself, well, I have the occasional figmented memory, flashes, though in all sincerity, beneath the brief returns I have at once an underlying and overwhelming appreciation for the toilets in that city, especially the McDonalds on Las Ramblas!

Oh, how the mighty had fallen!

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