Wrist Easy

Here is a simplistic EDM made with a new software. It is a raw training piece made as I discover the capabilities of the programme. But nonetheless I think it is worth listing here.

Wrist Easy (edit 1 export 1) Music, words & picture ©2020 Christopher Thompson All rights reserved.

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Right Hand or Left? Nailed

On one hand, then again on the other hand,

One has shorter, one longer.

There are strings for both,

The same strings.

Over the ridge for some

Picking for others.

No time for a plectrum,

Only time to strum.

The guitarist,

The hands.
Copyright 2020 Christopher Thompson All rights reseved

Masks for the making of the man.

There are masks and there are masks! Our childish masks are simple, amusing, memorable for the future. Funtimes from childhood on which we look back with fondness and warmth. Lucky Bag or Christmas Cracker, it is unimportant to the instence of time. The joy, the laughter, the love and the giving, these are the real wholesome reasons for masks.

The there are the masks of youth. The masks used to strut and attract. The imaginative masks of the hormone driven players out to impress, out to undress? Some are harmless, some masks of deception. So,e masks of delusion, others sad masks whose real job is to reveal, reveal the reality and totality of deminished hopes. The face or the liar, it is hard to decide. There are familiar features true, but what or more importantly who hides behind this perticular mask? It is the aid to discovery some young grow to depend on. Others discard as stifleing hinderences to reality.

Finaly the death mask. Not quite as described, it is the mirror image faced off in the mirror. The familiar stranger. The one who has perfected t/he art of stealth. The mask that creeps. It is an unfastened mask, aa mask with a permenant link to your past. A weather storm mask with the likeness of a seafarer. Otherwise the soft feathered mask of a ladies man? Who realy knew? The sheer face of the the cliffhanger, the Eiger man. And the uncountable blemishes of a faithless life are triggered by the blinding burn of a winter sun, and an alchoholic lifespan. Here after sixty is the unscaled truth. Everyone sees with their face, they walk to look, they live to hide. The mask is a useful gimmick to the lad, but no hiding place to the man with more than a passing glance at the likely look of the death mask.

In One Leap – Staffordshire to Devon

It is more than simply talking. It is more than thinking about windows. Picture this, for here is where I’ve been and for all this while. Here is the very place I have recently left.

Here was never. Not settled but for ever similar to seeing through a looking glass, watching for a reflection of the mind. Like someone stretched, this is a faceless portrait, grainy, without grace.

Here I have the look of a gazed being, showing neither contentment or honesty. Here you see no glimmer, no proof of life, no proof other than perhaps a ghostly image conjured out of the realm of a disjointed imagination, A phantasm of proton gradient architecture, being just another needle in just another haystack, stacked at the end of just  another equation. And not even looking like a wordsmith, I command no attention from anyone. I figure in no ones plan. I configure myself in the far corner of existence. I arm wrestle my soul to the ground  every now and again and refract my marrow in Oxygen. This way I am become toxic and reactive even to myself. My words are thus ignited by the passing flow of Consciousness, and the blue flame of delight.

Here is where I am come to. It is not my grave.

©2020 Christopher Thompson (words and pictures). All rights reserved.

Picture 1, Cannock, Staffordshire.

Picture 2, Buckland Brewer, Devon.

Mystery

Here is the very green cut.

And the sap shows itself as a running

Clear juice in the vial of time.

On a gradient of eternal length,

Is balancing a Proton awaiting the descent.

A crib and a grail are the story

A mystery.

No matter.

Here is a servant dead,

The very force of life

Deadened and hidden.

Crushed under the weight of knowledge,

A childish crush, an evil.

And an old man held to account

By history and reflection.

I belong to the unsaughtafter

Those deemed forgetable.

Copyright 2020 Christoher Thompson all rights reserved.

I Missed Your Blink

This is no steam-room.
We have all gone cold,
We are in fact all gone, post coal gone, cold.
We throw only our shadows on the wall.
And it is not from the light of a furnace, 
But by virtue of our lantern of disguises.
These are our only sauce of our heat
It is not night time forever.

These canvass  were never for stretching.
I think out ~ loud, "Use yours as a veil if you want".
Mine is a sketch pad, somewhere on which to skid.
A sketch pad for my marks, formation marks, for my muscles.
Here in the boiler house
There is little room for flight.
Therefore with our heads filled with or, of, stream, 
We depart from each other at Sweet 16.

©2020 Christopher Thompson
All rights reserved.