Blue

If I only knew…
What went on inside
or behind closed doors
If I had been with you
for longer
Then I would love you more
not less. I would have loved you the best.

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ChamelNEON Blue

ChamelNEON Blue

If you ever are passing the pet shop on Coventry Road have a look in!
Inside you will find creatures of the most amazing kind
Ones that sit and stare and others that want to eat you
And then there is the big bright McCaw to talk to
and say you have seen all this stuff before anyway.
But there is one attraction that will leave you breathless and want more
Its green and gold and blue and yellow! Not to mention red and Bright orange then NEON blue.
It’s the ChamelNEON, very rare from Peru!
It’s so bright that you can save on the leccy
and watching it change colours is better than the telly.
You can even take it on holiday! Just take a passport sized photo.
Yours for only £159.99 but you need a tank too.
And It won’t fit in the loo and you need heating too.
But it’s worth it just to see it shine and glow in all your guests faces boat races.
Lets face it, It’s unique. And therefore…well that’s up to you… but clean for you it won’t do!
So if you are going round there anytime soon then take a friend and share and even take a photo!
To commemorate the time you saw the ChamelNEON blue!
Poem by Andrew Watkins. Do not copy or use without permission.

Little baby

You always prevaricate me into something else
One minute I have good intentions
The next I am examining my navel
What power have you to distort and distend
(when all I wanted was a friend)
From a position of responsible humility
I appear reckless and spendthrift
What powers have thee over history?
From a position of seeking knowledge
I am forced to be a maverick
What is this strange power over me?
Is it that I am a baby and you a wizened crone
or is it from the time I said ‘Mom, I don’t want to come home,’
Now the cat is out of the bag and I wonder
Will you track me down and make me pay?
Or will I live to fight another day alone
And then like Charles Bronson walk you home?
One thing is sure there will never ever be another
like you Mom, Father, Sister, Lover, Brother.

by Andrew Watkins

Family Dinner

Authonomy is something to Aspire to
While meaning down in the stew
in the gravy where the meat separates
and the vegetables tenderise.

Entire nations of Mars Attacks
live down there polishing their spaceship
and maintaining death ray guns
whilst enjoying the rich aromas.

Someone is stirring the pot with
a wooden handled spoon whilst
humming a tune and glancing
around the room

The front door opens and clicks
shut with authority. It’s the mailman
come home and he has a parcel for his wife.
Outside the windows clouds gather in gloom.

Toy race cars and my little pony enjoyed in their fantasy worlds
by youngsters, learning to use their minds
As they crash through barriers whiny and shrill
the sound of normality comes from a shout

Dinner is Ready!

When the house is bathed in midnight oil
and the only sound is of breathing then the
mouse opens one eye then another and creeps
out of his hiding place cheese in mind…

 

Inspired by Authonomy Gold Medal Winner, Richard Ankers.

It’s Death: The Waiting

It’s the waiting that’s worst

for me anyway. Not for the poor sod

in hospital dying on a cliff edge.

And those with him knowing but hoping

to tear up on the inside and peace. The great Picard In The Sky says

‘Make it so’ and the life support is turned off and the pod ejected into space

to end up orbiting a small planet or moon. I am thinking in a minor key.

But I think to survive. I cannot stop thinking because of death despite

the convention of reflection and grief wherever that may lead me like a horse down on a carriage to a dirt track country road that has many turns.

Okay. It’s Okay. Life will continue. The beat will go on but our band will be one less lest others join the throng. The past will come to bear.

I will have to meet that face I despise and fuck death aside like a broom that has no bristles.

People will sit down and I will lament A knife unknown a life not trodden yet and wonder is this more than people dealing with it?

The heartless story will go on and with a wounded pride, I will take my place at another death eaters mass.

Death On the Moor Chapter 1

I’m scared of polyphony. I mean real orchestral stuff in forte or fortissimo. It’s the connection’s of it. It’s connected to my head to my heart, to my body, my soul and I was stupid enough to invite it into my room.

I know what I mean and it’s only because I am broken rejected and annoyed that I feel this way. I would not be overwhelmed  by polyphony if I was deaf. It gets you any other time.

I don’t get this way with the plastic arts. I need a moment. Everything aches and the music is like water stinging and soothing. flowing over a dead stag in a mountain stream. I am the stag, dead, geddit?

See my favourites for edifying glory in decomposing flesh and rotten bones and heads hung up my the hair severed from the body and then painted putrescent green. Grinning skulls. Deaths faces. The dead reborn. Hades incarnate. Yellow pus puddles on my bed and pillow and in this mess I lie every night waiting for Him  to come and take me, cleanse me and lay me down in pastures green.

I say a silent prayer and press play on my keyboard.

Do lead from the front with a double handed sword or do I concentrate my weaponry into Mana and healing?

The sulfur smell returns and suffocated by its yellow stench I return to my duvet and black infinity of doom sleep.

A crows foot is in my hair and its a bit too close to demonic magic for my liking but its only my mother bringing me hot milk and cookies. I stick chewing gum to the brim of her witches hat as she bends down to kiss me good morning. Yo! Hello! Now she helps?!

It’s the high road for me or maybe I’ll stay in bed today. There is a sheep carcass on the upper field that needs dragging down and disposing of. Shouldn’t be a problem for someone …with my fangs! It’s the jaguar they say roaming again taking pleasure in its kills, never eating anything except for the brains after it cracks open the skull with three-inch incisors. Dark cat! We need llamas on the hills say the farmers down the watering hole. Midnight hunts armed with shotguns and torches. good for tourism and reporters looking for a story but nothing in it for us except the flock of course -brings the community together, a crisis.

Our rooms. our boxes. are connected by electricity and wi-fi and we live apart. We share a letterbox and bathroom and kitchen, living room and bills.

On the hearth is a message on a clay tablet. It reads

‘Remember what’s most important’

We will be there on Christmas Day remembering what’s most important as we open presents drink wine and beer and wallow in the family small stuff.

I hate it. I like Doom metal, death metal, black metal anything like that.

There is a full-sized blow-up Santa that I painted my choice of colours last year in Copic Markers. Doom black. Pus Yellow. Flesh pink. Hair brown. Stubble black. Earring gold.They were the best pick of colours from the range. I have it in my room right now. I carry it around. We will be going out soon. I have to be ready. I need am an umbrella. I need walking boots.

Good army boots.

I pull on my German winter combat parka and adjust my dog tags. Then the phone rings. It’s Myra My girl.

We are meeting tonight in the pub then going out then back into the pub for the knees up. Luke and Colin our friends will be there. Vodka shots.

We kiss goodbye over texts and agree to meet up. She is such an artist. I love her.

——-

Chapter 2 of Death On The Moor here

Chapter 3 coming soon