August 21-27, 2000: Tim Leonard and Chris Walton


week of August 21-27, 2000

Tim Leonard and Chris Walton

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Tim Leonard

Bio (auto)

Vietnam vet, traveller, digital artist, visionary Published sites include: POETRY SUPER HIGHWAY (October 1999) STIRRINGS, ACID LOGIC, CREATIVENUE and a pending children’s book on EBOOKSONTHE.NET.

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Tim Leonard and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Two Bananas For Dinner

lost a piece of jade
wife moved to colorado
nobody in costume at halloween

full moon flies across black sky above market roof
where young lovers hide in shadows
a fish seller sleeps
two boys dance in truck lights

a woman with three bags of rice
sits by empty fur coat store
counting a grain

landless chinese man trailed by wife
tired of the city
labors their belongings
in plastic bags on thin shoulders

incognito nature shadow on the wall

blind man stumbles into sleep
a pile of rubbish at his feet

a man pedals past
husband & wife scavengers
stealing night with plastic bags
pillaging trash cans seeking coal leftovers
they can sell-or use

people with cancer talk
rolled in blankets on wood slats
a broken road their fragment of someone’s dream

old grey haired man
observes ghosts
dancing through soft night shadows
curling around dark thick shanghai

Ubud, Bali

Free form, free spirit in a free world,
Where will you finish your journey?

After rubbing you down with holy water, rice flour,
tumeric, salt, vinegar, sandlewood,
we put shards of mirrored glass on eyes,
pieces of steel on teeth,
a gold ring with a ruby on your mouth,
jasmine flowers on nostrils,
and iron nails on four limbs;
symbols of perfect senses-
reincarnation brings you back
stronger more perfect
Wrapped in tight ceremonial fabric,
we lay you on straw mat tied to bamboo platform
placed in a tower representing
underworld, visable world, heavens
behind rattan Black Bull beast
Village women in finest clothes,
balance offerings of fruit, rice, vegetables;
lead you through Pedang Tagal Carriers laugh, sing, dance, spinning you
in circles Crowds throw water on ancient image
They cut bull open at Monkey Forest and place you inside Brahmin priest in black cuts white binding string,
pours water from clay pots inside,
smashes them on ground,
sprinkles flower soil and family items inside Replaces Black Bull’s Back
Final Fire begins
Float to holy sky united to karmic force!
Is it true, this maya, this illusion,
This transformation, this celebration?

Chris Walton

Bio (auto)

Born Tynemouth, England, 1964; live in West Yorkshire, England I pass the time
The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Chris Walton and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

there she goes again

I think it was the thin onion skin of my eyes
that made you cry:
I wish you had pulled them from their sockets
peeled off
upon layer until
seeing there was nothing left
you escaped
your amber dress slithering at stone
as shadowed
you made your exit at the open gateway.

never eat a windfall cherry

her eyes darkened
and were full
of promise
her mind happiest
when touching his hair
happier now than ever
his eyes lightened
and were full
of nothing
his mind the same now
touching this as anything
the dame now as ever
both waited
and wait still:
two lives
found amongst cherries
picked up in the garden.

seven wasps feeding

there are no mushrooms in the garden instead
I find
two wings
rib cage
7 wasps feeding
bright orange
under green dusk sky.

Hungry by a Rock

Hungry by a rock
Gilled as a fish in this morning
With no clocks:
Deaf to the hour
You wrap your wound
In wet paper
Burn your voice
In the guarded ground
Look for gardens
And armour
And masks
Which present you a mouth
And a pathway
Where your ghost
May press a fevered imprint.

Thistle: Erect-Surprised and Blooming Violet

Left standing there
Just dark
Amongst the mosses and lichen –
Could hear her voice still
Through rocks
Echoing from where she was For him, no meaning in a voyage
‘No matter what.’
For her: ‘I gotta go home.’

‘Which flower expresses days gone by ?’
No answer:
With her red face she was destined
So, flower, cure me if you can
And still we proceed with our love problems
With dry, invisible shudders:
Big lumbering things on our thin roads
Under slow clouds
We rush through here
Gathered from the fields We don’t know where our homes are
And the landscape is pale
And there are
Limits to the imagination
And the landscape is
‘Which flower ?’
I ask Answer:
‘Thistle: erect –
Surprised and blooming violet.’

Slow Clanging of a Bell

The slow clanging of a bell
Overtaken by more fast clouds Each space where sun touches
The thin onion skin of eye
Is but the tick inside the grey tower
Or the quick rustle of leaf in a constant wind
The trees are black
The sky is blacker
But though the sky screeches
Hedges float like seaweed
In this darkening day
All this
And the darkening gateways
Chinks of light from thin doorways
Always pushing
Pushing against the rise of night
On the muscle of hill, beyond
Tiny like a camp fire from the moon
Or a streetlight in the dark desert
A girl walking
Yellow umbrella dancing between a network of branches
But the sky like hair blown
And the rain falling
Move on
As the tower ticks
And the bell
Like a ghostly ship in fog
Bangs on.


Bathed in humid air
We pick bright weeds at dusk
Collect blocks of flaking rotted wood
And wander across disused factory floors
We stumble over scattered bricks
Through neck high nettles
And smell the thick autumnal pollen
Thick as we are drunk
Our shins are scratched
Our clothes are clicked and pulled
By skeleton branches
And our chests rasp in nicotine rapture
Finally, feet resounding the red brick passage
We depart into the darkness
of the mind-skull
Of the humming town.

Prison of Silk

Let’s go and see the prison of silk at the edge of the woodland !
Where the berries light the heath and the spiders string the leaves together
We will walk through the dew
Soft feet treading on thick grass which cuts without bending
But softly and finely like a razor blade in a lover’s mouth We will walk through the place where the spiders string the leaves together
And we’’ be soaked in silk and rain and dust
Hear the strings wind and stretch but hear no snap
Except where dry burned out hollows erupt from another corner (They’re always lurking
Like a single twined lover in an alleyway
A cat walking by
And men leaving for the heath land and fire in the air;
When necessity demands that scrub be scrub and kept that way )

Walking on the heath the only thing that snaps is us
Collected together like twins from the alleyways
Emerging on black burned and sullen heath
Sky silver as mercury Slow Wind with Feathers Falling

Calling my slow brain
Binding me in silence
The furrowed heath
Breathes slow wind
With feathers falling
We lie below low brambles
(And time’s pattern of happenings
Like feathers shifting
From the hunter’s prey)
And boys’ laughs echo
Above the river
And the patterns dance
As we mime our love
Beneath the branches
And see the heath dance
And hear the pant of the hunter
Tracing his path through furrows
He is here:
Behind the fence we breathe slow wind
And bind the boys in silence.


Polythene moves like sky –
Razor sharp;
Unfurled stars and cold waves
Flag clear space breath;
And in deep pools
Pure blade satellites flash red:
The ecstasy is begun.

Fast to Water

Fast to water
The soul-white sole sticks
Without a ripple –
What kicks !
And dense flies biting
And hanging as the world
Spins round:
Wrap around this sacred well
You fishermen and dippers
Join the fool
And hang your socks
Make a wish
And fish for kippers.

Going for a Tumble

.and tumbling into the field on the hill
and trembling at the sky
and mumbling a tune in leafy shade
and interrupting the wind with a whistle
and hoping for a tumble
you will find
a shield on the sill
trembling under the weight of a fly
and a waving moon in foggy jade
and an interrupting blind man with a thistle
hoping for a tumble .

Everywhere in Suburbia

Everywhere in suburbia mothers steer small children:
Abortive fight amid large flowers and dying light bulbs Polished door handles embrace husbands
Brilliant vegetation glistens around my thighs
And passing drivers are naked and lean from windows
Smiling messages to unknown lovers Thoughtfully
Families move tea sets, press bread,
Walk on wall to wall pile
Startled and twisted I make a house call
On an over fertile mother
And feel the power of being trapped in this nondescript town “I carry memories of these places in my vinegar bloodstream,
I am a river of fish and wish to invade your brilliant senses,” –
Unwilling to confront she points me off
To the neon coated town
And deserts me
One of her lost children
I climb into pink mouths in waiting rooms breathing like a beast
Marooned amongst townspeople in green and gold light
Stumbling excited and possible
Lights draining my eyes –
I know I will be drowned
Each face presents hope
And chambers for fish to pout
But well pressed suits perform in subtle openings
Where eels mimic Sunday morning suburban sex
With an over fertile mother
Her blood running to vinegar
Drowning me in silence
As the flower beds tear the whirling air.

Grey Coats

Grey coats walk
Wet roofs scattered reflect grey light
And the rain falls The distance is blurred
Cars slither on wet roads We sit quietly
Watch street lights flicker on.

Amongst Men

Clouds rush by beneath endless space
Paths between dark blocks of buildings
Shine silver light Relentless rain falls
Amongst men.

We are Friends Amongst Woods

Black leaves shine
Black trees fill this valley
But summer light shimmers elsewhere And as we sit amongst leaves
The sound of a thousand crushed bodies
Echoes in the woodland It is not a time of weeping –
We are friends amongst woods
And when the leaves are black once more
We shall return.

The Bright Moon Will Not Come

Life loses colour through grey windows The dust of a thousand years hangs in air The people on both sides of the wall
Peer from balconies
As grey coats move The bright moon will not come
And shine on us here.

Under Hanging Branches

I see that spring is here
And the pink and yellow blossom
Shakes on the boughs The potato planters are washing their hands
And new flowers push
From damp earth A new girl is born We bow heads under hanging branches.


Between the grasses the spiders string their webs
Between the hills the grass of valley spreads No one here since yesterday night Pity, my fire was big enough but is now ashes.


The dark swings hang slowly creaking
Boys and girls returned
Moon big and white and shining upon us
Sharp in the cold cold night.

Princes of Suburbs

The princes of suburbs lose their feet
In the pavements and alleys of cities Here the grey coats rub shoulders
And the wind is quiet.

Leaves Turning

the leaves are turning in the dusk
the north star shining;
my grey coat is pulled up tightly –
another winter is here.

Go Home

flock of black birds blown across black sky
dog barks echo down allies:
methinks the time has come
to take the next train home.

Goose pimples

nine o’clock summer sky shines silver
the sun behind the buildings now:
goose pimples erupt on a million arms.


furrowed field cut out of heath land
backdrop of hills fading grey to distance:
steam and smoke drift from scattered power stations:
I can see for miles and miles.

The Darkening Sky

the lad at the top of the hill has just lost his kite it drifts high now amongst the birds and the insect specks the string still in his hand, his arm still outstretched,
his face the colour of the sunset
as he darkens against a darkening horizon Dragging the Maimed Potatoes

Combining vines in the off set of morn
Packet of crisps held in pick hand
333 droplets amber upon the bough
Counted for those who entwine
Bye bye blackbird swiftly as a blade burning wind with flashes of flaps Clouds thread their way, crunching in the breeze Picking out slugs from paper teeth
Letting flies rely upon fast dust surrounding Resounding shout under amber lights of branch
Wine drunk in one guzzle
sweat dazzling slippery hands
Friends tinkering with artificial intelligence
Under the glow of an October wind
And the women like snow in the fields

Dragging the maimed potatoes

Heaped in a changed landscape
The same people
Spoiled now As lovers we go undone Heavy, our bodies arching in ceremony
Brains burning Young hearts poised we sniff the air, swing
Sardine cans on string, kick
T.V sets
Say simple things
Squeeze pimples
In temporary immortality
Box the cities in philosophies
Rise slowly
Shine beside trees
Demand protest smoke
And doubt if the propaganda
The moans
The warnings
The illuminated manuscripts
And skeletons crowding eternity
Will haunt the silence of the pillow
Behind the closed doors of the people
Heaped in a changed landscape Spoiled now,
We rent small rooms in six storey houses
Read newspapers
Friendly settled couples
Spend earned money on queer masks
T.V licenses
Spot cream, insurance
Alarm clocks
And cast shadows strategically in the light
And hope to find a hiding place from the changing of the landscape.

Large Yellow Tractors

I watch the girl from the window
As she walks into my foreground
Along the asphalt pavement
Around the edge of verge She bends to shift a shoe strap
To see
What the men
In the large yellow tractors
Have done to the verge.


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