Ali B's blog

Party Monkey woke..stretched and yawned rubbed his eyes with his furry paws..a half smile playing upon his face in honour of a half remembered dream..( it was something to do with finding a banana palm, that grew the fruits with a soft chocolate centre)..tiptoed over to the window, and slowly eased his head through the gap in the curtains....Then, with a high pitched yelp..turned tail and dived straight back under the covers.

All that was visible, was a bump of shivering duvet...

"Oh come on "PM"!..what's wrong?..what is it now?..it's not that bloke with the "eye patch" again is it?..I told you about him!,..you know he's not a Pirate!..its not that rather rotund young man with the strawberry blond follicles is it?...you know FULL well that he is NOT an Orangutan..true his knuckles do scrape the pavement a little..when he walks down the road..but, hey!..play the game, PM!..lets have a little social decorum and respect here!..eh?..soooo...whasssssupp wit yo simian ass,..my cheeky chimp chum?

With that..a little paw emerged from the bedclothes pointing in the direction of the window, there was nothing else for it, I had to take a look .I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the horror that lay beyond the drawn drop of the drape.( "drawn drop of the drape "eh?..woooohooooo!...get me!!!)....I closed my eyes..and with all the elegance and control of an incontinent Morris Dancer...threw back the curtains...I made a couple of wild slashing motions with my arms..( eyes still closed of course...any passing pedestrian, would surely mistake this for a rudimentary form of demented Tai Chi..so I was covered there)...I eased up on the wild flailing..and..slowly and painfully opened my eyes, my countenance adopting the furrowed topography of someone who is inflating a balloon...and the balloon is full..very full...one more breath..and  well,..it could be OK..on the other hand it might explode..( you get the picture!)...my vision swam murkily into focus...upon ...nothing!...absolutely sod all!...apart from a miserable grey, rainy ,British summer day.

Then I understood!...PM had simply had enough of this..he had sat with me through our pictorial adventures on ipernity!...he loved to see all the places in the World and all the lovely people!...he would dance and spin!..sometimes even perform high quality mimes..when he would see something he liked!...Here, it always seemed to rain...PM could not go far, for he had no clothes...he was a poor Party Monkey..abandoned at birth by some  "Full on, giving' it the Big One...arse 'n pockets,spin missile of a semi torpor, lock up your daughter, white powder snorter, shit reporter , slack smack whacked Silver back with a bad track........ record."..or something similar..along those lines...

I had found him in a flower bed..talking to a Song Thrush..it was raining...

I took him in   dried him ,sat him in front of the fire in a tiny towel ( left by the previous occupiers of the flat, who just happened to be Ninja Midgets)..then baked fine and tasty Monkey Pies

He would come with me to the Pub and the locals took to him well and he would enjoy himself..even managing to secure a regular spot as a Monday Night DJ at the Station House but!..it was when we were switched to ipernity, that PM would go monkey nuts!

One day, we were on a friends page..when PM tugged my arm..and pointed to the wool and knitting needles that were shown in a picture..I did not understand, so I moved on..but PM became agitated..but still communication was sketchy, to say the least.

Simians are, of course highly intelligent mammals, and it was not long before he had mastered the rudimentary vowel sounds of my language..( good job too, or this particular piece could just run and run)..but it was still something of a surprise, when he climbed upon my shoulder ( as he is wont to do  when the pics are up)..and whispered..."Pretty Lady Knit me Rainbow?"....and.."Please I go to Mr Tobacco?"...well!...I didn't know what to say!..I supposed, that all I could do was ask!

And there you have it!...the beginnings of the "Party Monkey World Tour"..Asa, has knitted a beautiful little jumper ( with "tail space" I might add! )..and dT, has agreed to take him to some famous sights in the States!

What WOULD be wonderful, is the possibility of seeing how far the little fellow can travel around the World..perhaps we can all shake" PM" by the paw....take a couple of pics of him in our home towns?..

its just a thought...it just COULD be..the best journey ever undertaken!...it's all our journeys..all our lives,

Big love to Asa and dT, for seeing the fun and potential in this!..( just keeping my fingers crossed that he makes it across the Pond!)

"...people say we Monkey around"

Go on Party Monkey!..Live the DREAM!

Cheers!

Ali!

Where the small hours rest

in the second hand soothing

of darkest address: frost crawls.

Having crept down the lane

on a serpentine silver

to pilfer the vaults of an Indian Summer,

in crystalline raiment

the scatter glass pavements

succumb to its covering sprawl.

On shellac returns of lamp delta falls

minutiae maraud in bitter sweet symmetry

shattering petals, encasing in glass

the Stella shot run of the vine.

A glacier tourniquet scuppers the mold

an accomplished assassin of natural device,

with icy indifference it hushes the vixen:

The Moon, for the life in her eyes.

How low lies the line

the thin separation

of earth and sky

far, far, beyond

the blending ambles,

the solitary gables,

where pylons descend

rolling their cables

deep into the heart

of distant cities.

Bellicose clouds

in league with the sea winds

wrest sapphire fragments

from sentinel peace

folding all in the pitying glamour

of harridan water on slate.

Here, in spartan gardens

Viper's Bu-gloss thrusts

bruised petals up

on rusted stantions

Melancholy anthems

flower and flow,

centuries of note-less turbulence

lent utterance by modernity,

plucking loose slung wires,

hymns of long gone mariners,

mutter through salted gorse

hurry inland, to rattle at

the doors of Norman churches,

seeking some last sanctuary.

Throughout all this

the valiant little

Star of Bethlehem still glows

its constellations cling toward

the frosted edge of gravelled bowls

where the Sun-pattered laughter

of children remains,

falling in keeping of bustling gulls.

The fingers cascade

down the vertebrae bends

the perfect destruction

of balance in question,

to gun down resistance

on Sundown parades

where, luciferan smiles delight.

Angelic incursions

in tongue unremembered

through portals of Cherry-blush

blossom in turn

stoking the fires

of livid compulsion

vortices spiral,

each-other to burn.

Through sensual redemption

all blood becomes sound

energy races

from primal enclosures,

standards are captured

and banished to basements

replaced by the want of the Soul.

Chemicals spill

from the mouth

of the moment

dripping in liberty,

gravity slips

relative concepts

abandon their charges

now lost in forever

we kiss....

In Mazarin acres

rare cloud draws breath

children's-book shapes

of aqueous grace

tarry on pondering waters

while reeds, hurled high,

in their Lincoln battalions

bow to the order

of warblers calls.

All ripples slightly

on shimmering wings.

From sylvan chancels

seeds advance

in downy droves

shepherded on zepyhr lifts

the gifts of next years hope

float by, to where the idle

 hands of Summer, brush

 the ripened pastures

down to dust.

What is she whispering?

Outside..

the brittle beech decor

rustles in shy applause

Inside..

unencumbered slumber

wins the aching World

to half made play,

Arcadian chapels

hover in folds

to form in the fields

of gathering grey,

and still she whispers

Damp calico dales

murmur and shift

in the twist of a tremor

a cold palm press

upon temples that pulse

for the touch of a presence

that passes high over

the way..

What is she whispering?

Witch-fingers lift at

the gossamer latches

saltwater patches

salivate free...

lasciviously

while under pearly

listing blinds,

stutter-dance eyes

scour windswept causeways

always searching

always waiting

for some unknown..

And still she whispers...

Resting late

part shaded by

the amber flutter

of breeze bent poppies,

a strand-line snakes.

Bottles, broken crates,

blackened bladder-wrack.

Paste emeralds are

the smooth kissed

shards of loose green glass

peculiar to this beaching.

Reaching through the rotting weed,

hurled high from the curl

of alabaster clasps,

lies timber.

Lent strange order

by a raging winter sea,

honed, bone pale,

turned by the rush

of the grain

in the gales, that

softened the cut

of its linear borders

to reveal the stories

of seasons.

In knots and circles,

topography swirls

layers of movement,

the language of climes

pines for the time

before felling.

Moribund, brittle,

forgotten, displaced,

cast to the spaces

no tree ever graced.

A memorial splinter

to forests gone under,

lies last,at the edge

of the World.

She crept beneath windows

curled ,deft, behind curtains

made mention in Moonlight

gave ground to

the certain

Lent cause to believing

gave  strength to the moment

unwound the mechanics

then

broke the components.

Brought keys to the city

and smiles to the children

took pity on failing

now one in a million

could never come closer

to all that she touches

such is the way

of the one

that we love.

We drowned, here today,

washed up

in ancient woodland

littered with flotsam.

We knew few colors

by name.

But saw how they

merged, flirted

embraced, to

sweet-talk the senses

to silence.

Last night,

the first Red-wings

sipped the late air

with the high

muffled chatter, of

Field-fares passing.

Morning came garnished

in far borrowed brilliance.

The place where we

wandered to drown.

Dear "Bloke in the lift ,who got out at the second floor"

Hi!

and ,THANKS!..no, really!... THANKS!...I and several others were going to the very top....and that absolutely reeked!...what the hell were you thinking?..more to the point, what the hell had you been eating?..that was bordering on septic!..the last time I had the misfortune to smell anything remotely like that, was when my friend Dan slipped in a pile of sick, while drinking cabbage soup..

You Sir, ought to check your linen at the very next opportunity..( if that is why you removed yourself from the lift,then...fair play to you) for God's sake Man!..there was a heavily pregnant lady in that elevator!...you could have killed her.

Thanks...but "No Thanks"..if you know what I mean...

Ali

A gunshot splits the air

resounding, whip-like

across the back

of morning,

milling Rooks

erupt in flight

spilling down from

tall thin trees.

Assurance

has been tangled with

now all abroad

this time

uneasy

skilled in deprivation

are the hands

that shatter Peace.

Those nameless hands

that claim the day,

that rob the complex

of its store

those heartless eyes

that aimed out life

those blackened eyes

that flamed the roar.

what vow knows iron

twinned with flesh

what conscience

has this beast

skilled in deprivation

are the hands

that shatter Peace.

September gone

a chance was met

a tuneful tryst

of some renown

blessed were hands

that never felt

the need to break 

the silence.

beneath the changing

of the year

as migrants chased 

the  warmth away

a murmur

stole among the fall 

that truth was here 

at last.

Upon the pane

the lines were planed

how far

beyond the script

they leapt!

to surge beneath

the epidermis

to where

the secret things

are kept.

Those that slept

were now awake

all dormancy disturbed

torpor slaked

by brilliant quakes

of delicate demand.

The grace of being

met the tune

that filtered through

the honest lines

synapse sparks

delivered warmth

to free the thought

of  frozen minds.

Upon the Morning

of our lives

the finest dawn

that ever surged

was that which broke

the sullen dark

and saw our dreams

emerge.

All abound in crimson throws,

low lamentations bid farewell

for beaten men

who, troubled, tread

for light has failed

to find them.

A morphine dulls

the sting of use

as fractured tenants

move away

three times removed

but leaving nought

save footprints

far behind them.

An eye-lashed Sun, throws a drowsy glance

through stenciled clouds.

A petrel patters on gilded rise

dispersing nuggets of shying light.

An island looms from darker quarters

lapped and stroked by friendly waters

how welcome is the night.

A pyrite Moon has cast away

through pearl littered heavens

and as she goes

the traveler shows

a chameleonic change

to white.

Phosphoric beams that

highlight themes of

difference in familiars

from milk washed islands

to silvered seas

so welcome

is the night

"How you loved me once",

he whispered

to those that gathered

around his bed

"You gave me strength

through your convictions

upon my mystery you fed

and I in turn,

would comfort those

who, while in suffering,

chose to turn to me"

"Conceived through need

of explanation

my kind in many guises mastered

bastard Lords of all creation

eternal minds,

or so you thought

from grotto walls

to burning growth

the ineffable, osmosing oaths

the cultured banners of excuse

the mansion-ed rulers

void of proof

for "Us" you fought"

"As ages altered

my kin expired

want mutated

as you flowered

knowledge spread

as awe retreated,

unseated were

the ways of old"

"Now stricken by

the minds that made me

my immortality

has left me.

With few to fan

the embers of my reason

I grow cold"

"So I ask of you

to turn and leave me

it was never "I"

that penned your creeds

it is "You" who brought

idolatry

to justify your

every deed

Now all is empty

in this space

nothing breathes

upon the air

and the lines

upon my fading face

are the features

of your disrepair"

"But as I pass

I leave you this

that is:

you know not "more"

but "less"

for all the gifts

that you were given,

so treasured under hopes

of Heaven

are nothing."

"Drenched in oil

rising seas

pollution

famine

war

disease

your "present"

not

a "vision"

The Gull goes safely there...

and echoes back the lilting cry

from far flung down the melting air.

Below the boiling brine will churn

as,gall, the sea and sky compare

but about the tumult

over noise

wheeling with both

grace and poise

above the Storm

that crowning voice..

The Gull

goes safely there

So calm for so late in the year

Dunes, the borders

the gardening wind prunes

this time silent

in keeping with all.

Even smoke is lazy

having nowhere to go

an inland plume from a hidden hearth

in an unseen room

successfully emulates the cirrate hues

tendrils entwine

all greys and blues way

into the calming reach

A far off headland slips

hardly noticed

into the slightest of swells

The Sea, itself a wealth

of differing iridescence

pools its palette

into languid rhythm

a pulse almost hidden

almost

along the beach,

activity peaks in the

wing-beats of Gulls

"Old Sailors Souls"

some say

as they make for the Maine

and are soon to be claimed

by time and distance.

While mists graze

on nearby marshes

in a quayside Inn

the lights come on

and through their glow

a figure passes

someone

on their way

home

Begin, beguiling day

let night rest in chambers

way beyond the lifting light

warm the Moon chilled air

and there, conjure up

the down-closed eye

return dream pieces to their space

while prizing strength

from comforts' clasp

now at hand

the time to take

the awaiting day

to task