A meditation on wonder whilst knowing the end. Or: Johann Bartholomeus Adam Beringer is dead!

I've tried to write something beautiful. It just about caused me go mad with the headaches. I'm not cut out to write beautifully.

This is...
A meditation on wonder whilst knowing the end.
Or: Johann Bartholomeus Adam Beringer is dead!

Narrowest morning:

Paint blot moon in the cyan.

Sun blazed rising on a razor.

Swept pastel ribbons of cloud

gently compelled to flutter.

Storm line settles some distance away.

The cemetery always

in the grip of some chill.

It might be how it’s exposed:

On the hillside; trees far off.

Nylon flowers serve better here.

Concern glowers from oblong dull stones.

Bones lay evenly for all.

Lay flat a hand: see it.

Restful peace: a harmony.

Never lift another book.

Not another desirous grasp.

Let me pass without a touched wonder!

Lace of theories

do gather in the cemetery.

Colour of snakes’ skin.

Sharpness of citrus.

With chisel cuts to the day.

The truth: “No happiness before death”

There: a moment where,

wishing failure on despair,

dreamt stood on dust plane.

No soul shone round fair.

Compassion was my Hell

Birds left in massed shrieking squalls.

Bridge arched in wood.

Creeper branches arborescent.

Red berries dropping

like notes from piano keys.

Onto deadening wires.

Their music ruining everything.

Blood pouring out.

On paper, blood-slipping,

words shifting as they soak.

Dropping like red berries.

Gloominess of thought.

Not particularly caring for this beauty.

Romantic Masochist (Valentine mix)

Photography by @tellthee

Love Truth Love.

Poet's desk

I like this. It's how I want to be sometimes, writing for Greville and the Tombstones.

Many thanks to Jeanie Laub for finding and sharing this with me.

The Glorious Verse sleeve art

@tellthee created this appropriate sleeve art should a CD of The Glorious Verse be released. Which it wont because #thereisnoCD #thereisnoband

All the same, this is wonderful.

The glorious verse

This started out as a series of unconnected lines I wrote.
This is as close to a philosophical tract as I may muster.
I imbued it with malice.

The Glorious Verse...  

If I can’t get a muse,

An archenemy will do for me just as well.

I walk beside the river,

Through the membrane, fingers reach for me.

I’m a collection of atoms.

Put together to witness astrophysics and cruelty.

There's a crack in my ribcage

To put a cassette in, to playback my same position.

Like a pinned moth on a board

I’m uncomfortable and in need of a physician.

[Break]  

In this lecture theatre

We are both the studious and the studied.

A flash of the Pale Cutter's needle,

Neat stitching transforms us into what we are. 

A last exhale

slipping its mooring rope, roadkill, a cadaver.

[Break]  

If I require a reason,

I am surrounded by a past so have to not seek any further. 

I know, I know, I know, but you
and your woe can go right on ahead and fuck one another.

I try to claw at time.

Tremble as she shapes her legs along her parallel universe.

[the glorious verse]

I'm well aware.
I'm only too well aware of this.
After love there is loss and God only knows what we miss out on.

I’ve found no redeeming qualities in moral redemption:

They place a jar, ring a salt circle, make a flame small.

I've discovered no hopes in falsehoods masking desperation:

A world of physical tenderness
is the most mournful gift to the lonesome of all.

And I know about it,
I know only too well all about it.
Won't expect your mercy in your all enduring judgment.

And I know all about it.
How people shift into better; into worse.

When she steals my gaze in amber, I hear the glorious verse.

Christmas Tombs card

Wishing all adorers of Greville and the Tombstones a very gentle festive time.

May ghosts come to settle by candlelight.

May bones be placed in your stocking.

May there be a new year for you.

Card design by @tellthee

Ghosts are real

This is... Ghosts are real

Dead relationships are dead.
Ghosts are real.
Haunting the old haunts.
Some people contact them.
I don't believe in them.
Ghosts are real.
Dead relationships are dead. 
They float silently by my eye.
They never age, but rot.
Ghosts are real.
Dead relationships are dead.
I hear the shrieks.
I hear the sound trees make.
Ghosts are real.
Dead relationships are dead. 
I think I must be dreaming.
I hear them in my bed.
Ghosts are real.
Dead relationships are dead.

There's another ten verses I could tell, but everything I've said covers it just as well.

A Perishing Lament

Greville and the Tombstones are not very good at Halloween. But this little one seems appropriate for reading on a Halloween night. Listen and you might hear it through the wind, through the window, through the wall, through to morning.

This is:
A Perishing Lament

It’s not what fleshes our costumes.

It’s not the glow of a lantern,

flickering a face through a windowpane.

It’s a peculiarity which consumes.

A gothic, sloshing, formed within.

It’s an invisible foreboding without name.

It’s joining in a parlour game,

All silk dresses, paraffin lights and warm. 

And sensing not all is tomfoolery intent,

Disguised by cinder toffee scent.  

And the spirit moves on from you. 

And the spirit moves on

Because of what you have done.  

Watching players all sat in the round.

The Medium’s fingers of reed,

Flickering in refined ethereal breeze.

Listening out for your mortal sound.

The channelling is meant to mislead.

The panting in breasts as breaths freeze.

We’re joining your parlour game.

All creaks, knocks and earie manifest.

And moaning out eternal undying torment,

It’s a perishing lament.

And the spirit does rest with you.

And the spirit does rest

Because of what you have done.

S-booky decorations

Composition and photo by @tellthee

Wishing everyone a very spooky Halloween.

Terminal agitation

I wrote this fast in a bath. Greville and the Tombstones appear to take the most melodramatic baths.

This is:
Terminal agitation

I cling to the side of the pool.

My naked body in supine pose of the tormented Jesus.

Knuckles grooved rivets.

A fleshy sac: loose yolk exposed.

My modesty slapped in oil.  

I consider dying.  

It's been two summers.

It’s been so much longer now.  

I wanted ovations.

Men punching the air.

Women falling into arms.

To be beautiful forever.

I wanted certification of life.  

I consider dying.  

I’ll not find ways back.

I’m alright with how I am now.  

Blood lacerated in the dance.

My hair, slippery and lank from the steaming pool.

Hanging willow branches.

Creating little concentric ripples.

Vulnerability coiling fingers.

I consider the pain.