BOOK
OF LOVE
AND WISDOM
Ian Kellett
Moongoole Collections
MOONGOOLE
Old Goole
Goole
Yorkshire
ENGLAND
First published 2008
This collection copyright © Ian Kellett and
MOONGOOLE 2008
Smashwords Edition, 2011.
© StormSage Central Publishing House
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the above.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.
Front and back covers
© Ian and Kellett 2008
Contents
The Light At The Top Of The World
Directors, Producers And Crews
The First And Last Bastion Of Contradiction
The Store Detective's Bargain Find
My Little Spanish Love Does Not Translate
Where Did Etiquette Ever Get Us
They All Want To Be In Our Gang
Oral Hygiene As General Well Being
Mother, Daughter And Hollow Host
The Attractive Gravity Of Matter
BOOK OF LOVE AND WISDOM
For me.
Apart from the very last sentence, and obligatory edits, this was written between November ‘07 and March ’08. Originally intended to be split into separate books but now left almost entirely as found, as the words seem to fit better. Not meant to be read from end to end as it’s liberally sprinkled with both my love and wisdom, what there is, so that when opened you’ll hopefully find either.
Ian Kellett 31.03.08
WELCOME TO MY WORLD.
When I make to reshape the universe
I will dress it with fairness
And settle that first.
Equivalent love will be next on the list
So at last in the vastness
We can start to exist.
Paraded across all the screens of the world
Will be systems of wisdom
For each soul to learn;
Invention, intention and experience
Will collide with the mindless
And nurture at length.
And little religions will wither away,
Unneeded, unheeded,
Replaced by good faith,
Whilst theories and science will prove or confute,
And abide when they mither
To wait for the truth.
The sick and enfeebled will feel no more pain,
And the old and emboldened
Will be uncontained,
And the fit and the firm will apportion their wealth,
And the young and unnumbered
Will honour such health.
And the feared institutions and sins of the past
Will recant their old mantras
And with death be outcast,
For the world will be wedded to its universe
And humanity dance
At the service.
NOT AS VAGRANT AS ANGELS.
And when you can’t cry
You play the tunes that help you
Find the attributes and drink a little
Further than those elevated mortals
Say you ought to even though
You’ve never met.
Once tears avoid you in the
World they tend to find you when
You’re not; nudged by a flickered thought
Or more substantial drought; fingered
By the things you never should
Have crossed.
And when awake and firm and
Set to look an anniversary in the eye
You find yourself unable as it weeps too
Much to see you and arranges the
Appointment for another year,
When levels settle.
So when eventually you face
What has imparted its distress or
Shed its untidiness on you too soon
Pull the flow tide plug that the
Ungrounded told you should be
Fit in place to float upon.
UAMHQ.
There’s nothing like a stormy forum
To air your grievances
And trickle down your trill;
It’s safe and sound and quite discreet,
And shouldn’t get you killed.
Although one time upon the board
Discussing Action Man
A tiff broke through the screen:
My friend mended another’s rant
And both resigned the scene.
When daylight followed thoughtful night
I logged on sharp and saw
A newly mooted truce,
But by the next it was withdrawn
And sides were introduced:
The moderators held the left,
The agitators’ right,
Whilst centre stood the rest;
A stone was thrown to start the fight,
But text caused more distress.
‘Twas then when all seemed lawless bound
And head for pastures new
That common sense was heard:
“You know your toy does not approve
Of such dismissive words”.
For there he stood 12 inches tall,
Emanating aura,
And larger than his masters,
Who all bowed low and swore before
Him not to court disaster.
WORLD OF ONE.
To strive
And never stop:
Amongst the bottom
Feeder’s drops,
Within the seagull
Soarer’s crop,
Below the sewage
And the slops,
Above the glistening
Roof tops,
Amidst the wreck
Of sweated shops
Or flowering
Of movie props
Where little children
Never stop
To question where
Their Moms and Pops
Come from once gone…
...A lull fulfilled,
Intensive cared,
A scramble stilled,
A silence shared,
A single hill
Where mountain prayers
Are swapped.
THE WONDER UNKNOWN.
What is beyond my
Understanding enhances
The universe,
Taking me beneath the sheets
Of its invisibility and
Disturbing the dust of
Substantial work surfaces
Whilst fashioning my footsteps.
Sustaining the hopes I have
Of seeing it all quite clearly
Someday; addressing the
Loss of compassion, and
More than the ordinary, in
Those late autumn hours when
The sun struggles to enrich me
And the colour of space suffocates
Its pale displays of light.
And when I fail to grasp
The latest measurements or
Misread once again the first I
Saw, or misrepresent them both,
I can rejoice in the knowledge
That all of the world’s finest minds
Feel the same when they look at
The very small and very large
And realise how very
Strange they are.
INCHOATE.
In fancy how one longs to be rid of a year
When it’s perished contents
Don’t know when to end;
Whilst aware in the wake of their passing
And drowsed in the fullness
Of Sunday’s best dress,
Or wished to be missing a further parade
Performing to order
Its water torture,
When those who have little of their own lives left
Would sacrifice loved ones
For a slacker’s chance.
How careless with hours and their subsidies,
Spat lightly behind us
And dust blinded,
Or cancelled before they’ve had time to coalesce,
And framed us a picture
Of wonderful shores;
When travel is farther than stars from our minds
As statements of intent
Were recently sent
By pity who parleyed the best table seat
And scribbled the minutes
For its delegates.
MY FIRST WORMS.
I had parachutes inside,
Or were they butterflies?
Either way I knew
There were a few
Wriggled up
And tickling
My hide.
Though I never took to flight,
Or falling from on high,
But I suppose
They weren’t to know
Stuffing up
My stomach
In the night.
I lost a little weight,
Although I always ate,
In fact I craved
For more each day,
Figuring
They’d give
Another plate.
But other things gave first,
It seemed I’d been coerced:
My dog had kissed
Me on the lips;
My Christmas
Gift
Was cursed.
WHEN MY REDEEMER RE-DREAMS ME.
And then I’ll die,
And all the sadness felt in life
Will no doubt be amplified
By it’s resonance in death;
My dear departed panning me
For suffering their loss too much
Instead of applying all the lessons
Of their lives and times.
And in that death
The further journey I
Assumed my passing would beget
Will instead avail itself of me,
And carve in flaming words
Conditions of my membership
Until I readily agree the terms
Now singed into my skin.
And of that charred
And branded contract signed
No crack will stay or scar
Remain to indicate my mark;
Only a fresh birthed blemish
To carry through another incarnation
For my soul to slowly itch
And mull over its meaning.
And in that life,
That second grounded
Conduit whose walls will thrive
With elements of what I used to be,
I may at last concede my will
To something more contented
And care-taken by a role fulfilled
That once before was vacant.
MOVING ON.
It’s been 25 years
Since I discovered solipsism
And I’ve never looked back since.
MIDWINTER 2007.
The chatter about;
The whispers of disparate tongues.
Offshore sounds of the morning
Inland after lunch.
The passing of unfastened people
With tightened feet
Well sprung.
Idle light filtering in;
The sun barely hung on the
Rooftops across from my window,
Tricking my lids,
Keeping me slept until teatime
By which time
It’s breakfast.
Eating by numbers
A meal unencumbered by
Me or my labour,
Unable to know what is in it
Unless told by the box
Of its flavour,
And folding the time
To the next
Tricky meal
By scribbling text
To offset its fever in me.
This island of mine
Is a slave to the tide
And grateful
To hold me
Over.
MERRY CHRISTMAS.
It’s not nice...but it seems to be the only cattle
market place there is out there. I've just got
home from doing the shopping thing with my
daughter, and I'm fuc*ing glad to be sat back
down on my flattened arse in front of the
computer screen...it's a nightmare...queue’s
everywhere, shitty looking folk with armfuls
of tat that their kids won't give a shit about...but
simply have to have...fat fuc*ers stuffing their pie
holes with more crap...and everybody's fuc*ing
bald these days... (no offence to any bald/ish/ing
members) but no ones got any fu*king hair anymore...
they all seem to have been to the army barber.
All the women have overflowing skin sneaking out
of openings in their clothes, and cheap slap scraped
on their traps, small wanting eyes and bingo wings...
what the hell's happened to our town centres; the
buildings have all been spangled and steam cleaned
but the people seem to have devolved....except for the
eastern European immigrants...who are, to a person,
better dressed and more beautiful...even the men...
AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR
Here’s to:
An uncertain housing market,
An impending credit crisis,
Job cuts,
Hair cuts,
Poor English sporting achievements,
Our greatest actors all aging and no decent replacements,
The lack of stars but not celebrities,
Insipid individuals in tracksuits,
Their kids addicted to trivia,
Or strangers in chat rooms,
Or killing each other,
Cut-price foreign labour keeping wage rises down,
Our leaders saying they're doing jobs we won't (for £5.52/hour),
The minimum wage,
Inflation (the average is good but this excludes mortgages and fuel),
Petrol prices in general,
The guilt of owning a car,
Poor public transport,
The T.V. licence,
The T.V. schedule,
The fact that gas and oil are depleting and we're standing on coal,
The whole global warming conspiracy (when the planet’s OK),
Interest rates (good if you borrow, shit if you save),
The threat of them rising,
A morally bankrupt political class,
A spiritually bankrupt nation,
Religious fanatics exploiting the vacuum,
The fact that organized religion has never been held to account for
Its crimes,
The actual threat of personal economic bankruptcy,
Supermarkets pissing out cheap food,
Being unable to piss in the street due to CCTV,
CCTV,
Cheap food,
The lack of Import/Export figures anymore (no Customs & Excise),
The ravaging of Africa by it's own rulers,
Our ineffective response (most of it is in the Commonwealth),
The E.U debate,
The E.U.,
The idleness of our kids' world when they have more than we did,
The possibility that they'll never be able to afford their own homes,
Or to keep us,
And the realization that we'll have to fund them forever,
An impending American election (when isn’t there.....),
The fact that you can’t get a decent education these days,
The fact that you don’t need a decent education,
Realizing the NHS is ill,
The threat of pandemics,
Disease in general,
Aging coarsely
While all the beautiful women are getting younger,
The next generation of DVD player,
Mobile phones fucking up conception,
Mobile phone users,
Mobile phones,
Tobacco banned everywhere but sold in every store,
Booze given away at Christmas,
Boozers not giving a fuck,
(That’s everybody then,)
Having to pay to see the boxing,
No games consoles available at retail price,
Postal strikes,
Shite postal service,
Unanswered posts,
New fucking years.....
HIS GRIPPING HANDS.
His first hands were fixed
And unable to hold onto little more than plastic;
A thumb and single finger
Open to embrace the basic;
A second hand flung wide
In neither gesture nor salute,
Barely capable of play or
Similar contributions.
His second set were pliable,
Able to cradle more though over time quite brittle,
And would split and snap back
As though snipped by a villain;
Still better at their work
Than tiny eyes could imagine,
And paving the way for a
More active frame.
His third and final hands were both
Firm and flexible, and if they occasionally retained
The memory of larger items held
They soon returned un-maimed,
And lasted longer than before,
Carrying their perfect men
Into a new century where
Copies couldn’t touch them.
TO THE IMPENITENT END.
Never give up;
Fight them
Fall then
Frail,
But never lay off.
Do not reconcile
Yourself
To
Their
Celebratory show.
Always resign on your own
Again
And again
And once more
For your verity’s sake.
Cease disagreeing
And
You
Stop
Being yourself;
Begin implementing
And
You
Start
Being defenceless.
Never ever stop
In the
Face of
The hail and
The failure indentured.
HER FOOTPRINT’S CARBON.
Of all of the things
She would ever become
A fire
Was not
What she wanted,
But her bakelite surface
Was glittering some
And beside her
The stock
Appeared daunted.
So I bought her at once
For an elegant crumb,
And they tide her
And I
Was exulted,
And the pitch coloured
Creature was quickly back home,
Residing
Where once
She had haunted.
MOVING NO FURTHER ON.
I suffer from ex girlfriend syndrome:
Can’t live with them,
Can’t let anybody else.
WE.
Who were born in the sixties
And didn’t tiptoe but strode across the globe
Like a blind colossus
Consuming twice the
Resources of ordinary folk in the process.
Who fucked up and framed the
World for it and suddenly realized that it couldn’t
Be un-fucked without us,
So made our lives better,
But only to the belittlement of others.
Who were too busy for our
Wives and husbands so bedded a second
Or third to commend us
And guarantee we’d be helped
Whilst baking the cakes we refused to eat.
Whose work ethic was invented
By those who intended to employ others to do it,
So we eschewed it, and accrued
Opposable wealth which was spent before bills
As we became bargain hunters and antique mongers.
Who disliked the senselessly
Needy intensely for expressively feeding our egos;
Those look at me praise me behavioural
Shapes they would make were not fit for
The saving regardless of wages enabled for them.
Who defied all to deny us,
And because of it cannot come down from the hills
That we built for ourselves.
Never forget it’s a very British film
So don’t be surprised if there are no survivors.
THREAD ENDS.
You thought that life was more than birth and death,
And tidier than those two sums combined,
But wonders such as these bear more than breath;
Long guaranteed and double counter-signed.
And willowing the fibres you possess,
To separate the crude from the refined,
Will not begin distracting all the rest
From noticing what’s left of your design.
So take a little needle from the pack,
And borrow from the finest ball of twine,
Inlay it with the prettiest of tack,
And sew the sides around your border line.
WORKS.
The torrent of piss
From my youth
Has turned into a trickle
So what further proof
Do I need
Of disease?
A pain in my side
Where a liver runs through?
Or kidneys denied
The power to sluice
By a stone
Of atonement?
A shovel of shit
With a rich vein of blood?
A scratch that won’t itch
When you know that it should?
An inflated
Prostate?
A lump and a bump
That weren’t bitten or bruised?
An opposable thumb
That refuses to move
And tempts
More extenders.
Creeks in my knees
And swollen big toes?
An untoward sneeze
Or a cough that won’t go
And knells
A development.
A head full of solemn
Untenable thoughts?
The swollen old columns
That carried the fort,
Now crumbling
And numb.
A heart fatter still
With unmovable greaves?
A burned murmur chill
And pulsation of thieves
A pace
From arrest?
Cold cancers unknown?
Blood vessels bypassed?
High pressures or low?
Or sickness amassed
On the booziest
Cruise?
An immoral diet?
An unsocial club?
A lack of alliance
To consummate love,
Once tenderly
Spent.
And now my ablutions
Have stopped altogether,
And with no solution
I fear poor weather
Will whittle
My rituals.
THE ACCEPTING.
Such is the way
That they live
That every day
They forgive,
But they forget
Why they do,
And so regret
Is removed.
With collars raised
To the wind,
Bravely unfazed
By its sins,
Following signs
On the ground
Laid down behind
Those unbound.
And all that’s left
At the end
Are thoughts of death
To amend;
For life is slow
In defeat,
And does not go
Easily,
As marks are made
In the mind
If not repaved
Over time,
So any truth
That remains
Is smoothed anew
Once again.
HER SIBLINGS.
Too consumed with their own feelings,
Loved up by life,
Driven by those vehicles
That never quite arrive.
In their domains enraptured,
By their rewards enclosed,
Wage slaved down the paths
That have no exit roads.
Incapable of remorse,
Unable to grieve,
Sepulture whores
Who’re the first to leave.
And the last to pass advice,
Terminal suggesters,
Though always with the zeitgeist
And quick to pick investments.
University schooled,
And so polite with it,
But enamoured of fools
And club visits.
Dutiful people and
Anniversary lovers,
But only seen
From one do to another.
And absolutely useless with children,
Although they never show it,
In fact their either making them
Or spending so you know it.
And probably cash broke
And credit card supported,
And you just know when mummy croaks
They’ll be the first rewarded.
THE LIGHT AT THE TOP OF THE WORLD.
I’m not going back;
Not even when desperate loneliness speaks
I will not return;
If ever my absolute only-ness peaks
I won’t go cap held,
Exposing my top to the weather’s distaste,
Or kneeling for mercy
Disclosing the loss of her measurable face.
I’ll sit on my throne,
Pronouncing my county at one with itself,
And shuttle between
The housing and bounteous wonders of self;
I’ll lay in the shade
Of wisdom acquired from numerous wars,
And bathe in the light
That dismally fires my summer-less thoughts.
And draw in my form
When anything lit is extinguished at last,
And loll in the hall
Where denizens flicker like wishes dispatched.
And when darkness comes,
Providing the answers detested by them,
I’ll run to her torch
Applying for chances of vesture again.
THE FIELD.
It’s real and strangely beautiful,
How much you mean to me,
After all the wars have done their best to devastate us,
And orderlies have combed the front for wreckage and frustrations,
And tally men with keyboard fingers calculated failures
Against the balancing accords and their resort regalia,
Now sprung to bind the honour of our most contested trials
And hung above the lines of banners tossed to bless denial,
Resisting the defiance’s of once revered rules,
And sinister alliances of disappeared fools,
Who season their beseeching with a particle of fuel
To reason for impeachment on behalf of their renewal.
In feel and range and union,
And such as they won’t see,
Those long requited lovers banging pans inside our settlement;
The uninvited smotherers who cannot bide a better end.
Fitter in their golden days than plotting in their ochre,
And bitter that their resumes have not been used for stoking,
Believing in their influence regardless of suspension,
Deceiving every chance they get but hardly worth a mention
As finely applied liniment has slipped into the lesions,
Where time and tide once limitlessly ripped at our cohesion,
And weathered any heavy pressures rattling our way,
And fit again we’ll never let our battles win the day.
A DAY AFTER THE LAST.
A spire of mist lifted up from her small frame
And settled in welfare around my own;
Comforting some of the worries
I thought would never be steadied.
Suffering the space across from me, where she appeared
Complete and sudden as I looked,
She smiled with enlightened spirit
That quite belied the circumstances of the place:
The cornered edge of Plain Street that held me bruised
And blushing in its thin finish,
Sore deep in need of what there was
Of solace left in a world that I’d been complicit in.
Her tissue weaved its way along the terraced land,
Collecting a list of the sky’s misery,
Pulling me involuntarily towards
A more resolvable and existent surface somewhere led.
And, as followers do, I eventually went with intention
And a suitors clarity of action,
Deciding she knew more of me
Than I in all my memory could ever have recalled.
She seemed in all allusion human but without doubt,
Lacking earth beneath her feet
Or shouldered of a notion’s curse,
And full of what was needed for our concrete and our fields.
And I knew another day could make all the difference
In my circumstantial palace,
But now, if there were to be none,
Then all the changes will have to have been made.
DROWNING.
So if you buy a bottle at six
And empty it by ten,
And then can’t really remember
Where the time went
You’re in trouble,
And if you’re drinking
Liquid that quickly then
Maybe you should be in a river sinking.
OUR MAN.
He came to town,
And made some friends,
And their friends became his;
After all why not, he was vouched
For. Except this one girl who used
Any for her schemes and ruses: seems
She’d ask a few fellows along to reclaim
This or that she said was hers, when really
It was someone else’s all the while, and
They were there to fall and take the heat
Should things go south, which they would
Do once deeds were done and perpetrators
Run, as some were quicker. Anyway events
Occurred, and walkers caught, and fists were
Just about to be glad handed out when our man
Stood forth and took the wrap; you see the dupe
Didn’t know him, having only just moved here and
All, so when he asked of who he was, and where he
Lived, our guy gave him some cock and bull which was
Believed (as all the best dissembling contains a modicum
Of truth, and this did that alright). The tough guy let them
Off on grounds that visits would be paid to zip codes doled
In order to afford fair recompense. Fine said our friends and
They walked free without a beating. On their way they asked
Him why he’d taken on the task, he said “See, it’s like this, you
Did me a great respect by taking in my sorry self when I was but
A bum, and gratitude has never failed me, and if one of your crew
Was weak then that’s your beef with her not mine. Now I’m off to
See the fool, who I gave details to, and, if I’m rightly cued by you, I’ll
Give him what he wants and beat him easily and all his clout belongs
To me, as if a poker match was won.” They said it was, and that it
Would, and so the evening meet took shape, and sure enough our
Man prevailed, and to this day no one has ever threatened him,
Or his great entourage of friends again, and nobody ever asks
What fell that night when rendezvous took place, and
No one’s seen that female’s lying face since either.
DIRECTORS, PRODUCERS AND CREWS.
I always thought the
Man behind the eye piece ran the scene
And not assistants
Working on the details of the scheme:
Engineers grounded
In the sounds of stolen dreams,
Or technical
Apprentices awaiting some esteem.
But when I saw the
Ultimate accompanied short feature,
Detailing how the show
Was made for those sat in the bleachers,
I realised how all
The parts, and all their bits and pieces,
Are fitted in
To optimize the impact of releases.
But that is where the
Message makers seem to get it wrong,
Whilst editing the
Images and words to correspond,
For in translation
Other minions must have been involved
In order to arrive
At noise that that didn’t quite belong.
STAR STORAGE.
With her little titties pushed up
And her high beam forehead brushed,
Her corn silk hairstyle finely spun
And drizzled down like mush,
She was the tabloids favourite
At a time when sales were savoured.
A tiny actress in the soaps,
Supposedly a good one,
The object of rude team sport jokes,
About the girl who does one,
But that’s the way of things today
And transient celebrity:
A job, a wage, a drink before
The papers take fair notice,
And only start reporting more
When you have all your clothes off
And what is left of common sense
Is swapped for twenty pence.
2007-2008
And so we kiss another year goodbye
Knowing it was not what it could be,
But safe in the knowledge that it will
Reflect itself ahead for us to try again.
The days and weeks and months will
Still remain, though slightly changed,
But that’s what likenesses do in their
Attempts to lure you blindly in again.
And maybe it’s a leap year bouncing
Up to add an extra day for proofing,
Or a sporting celebration for the use
Of waving hands to occupy your life.
And the still unaltered future stream
Will measure you against its damned
Inevitable course that either with or
Without you will decide another life.
A page is there for you to feed it pen
And pencil marks hard wrested from
Computer screens where light leased
You every preview to wander round,
And more than ever now the level of
Allowance granted should be made to
Take account of the total natter added
From a life this coming time around.
FOOD.
He had one of those great unshaven cowboy faces,
Rustling in the morning breath of cattle;
Swathed by a chunky crew cut top
That emphasized his wattle.
The jumper tucked into the tiny waistband he paraded
For his neighbours on market day,
Regardless of the fact his gut
Ballooned it on its way.
Waddling on wooden legs, made knobblier with age,
Until their junctions dried and flaked
In less time than they took to shape
But not for size to take.
He tumbled to the stalls he’d worked since school
Cast him upon those dealers shields,
Away from all the chimney pots
And slavery of fields.
Which he, in quickly gathered shrewdness, took
To be the sign of his life’s calling,
And grouped around him fools
With tidings more appalling.
Whip cracked the labour of his task masters
Until their stings bit into bone,
Which urged their owners on
Until they’d made his home.
He was the last round farmer left from years past,
As workmen ran to office desks
And money left its system beds
To level the grotesque.
Once food was scarce but now abundant thanks