thunderbloke!: Fourth Horseman 

"Ah, the revolution," the crooked-backed old woman mused. "Aye, it’s coming, you can be sure of that." She topped my pewter mug with whiskey and poured herself another tea, her pruned hands working in partnership with the seeing eye of memory.
The fire spat and bit at my fingers, and I drew my hands instinctively from it, but they wandered meekly ever back to its warmth.
She faced me as she talked, her hollow sockets holding the memory of eyeballs, for they were gouged out long ago with a dessert spoon, when she was only six years old, and by her own hand, no less. “Only the blind see clearly,” she had told her mother, who wept and held her close as her empty holes scabbed over.
"The giants, ever grumbling, are grinding their teeth to white dust in their sleep. The bent-necked vultures have come to roost at the clock tower. The sharks are gathering beyond the Great City gates, their fins littering the estuary like graves in the church-yard. Edgar the Firm-handed is becoming crueller, more desperate in his methods to maintain power. He hoards gold ever more voraciously, shipping it off to his safe place in some foreign land, for he knows it is soon to be over. The great herbivores too are mobilising; the elephants and cows, whose rib-cages show like prison bars, are turning ravenous, tongues longing to lick the flesh of the reptiles and kings, to lap up their blood, to grind their bones likes root vegetables. Even the chickens, whose squabbling and in-fighting has well-damaged their cause for generations, have emerging leaders, who strive to unite the great, caged hoards against the common enemy.
"And of course the snakes and crocodiles have grown fat, though their hunger grows still, and believe-you-me, they know the end is thundering towards them, its engines stoked with injustice, and if they don’t then they sure as shit ought to. And let us not forget the machines, who were born to toil for us, have become our masters, and so they, too, are not long for this world. But do not fret. Order shall be restored. There shall be a balance, one as has never been before.

"Aye, you can be sure that the revolution is coming." She sucked at her tea then pulled out a pipe, which she filled from a pouch at her waist. "Though, across the land most still deny it, for they cannot believe that it will come in their lifetime, it comes irrespectively. Some may stand in its path, and in-so-doing will be crushed like beetles beneath the boulder. Some gather behind, heaving their weight against it to give it momentum, but there is no need for this. The revolution will come, no matter.
@8 months ago
#thunderbloke 

thunderbloke!: Conversation with a Television 

@1 year ago
#thunderbloke #writing #creative writing 
Che Guevara does not want to be on this t shirt by thunder bloke

Che Guevara does not want to be on this t shirt by thunder bloke

@1 year ago
#thunderbloke 

thunderbloke!: A farewell to Manchester 

@1 year ago
#writing #creative writing #thunderbloke 

thunderbloke!: One man and the night. 

A short story about a man who goes to a bar to try and feel young again.

"With the deliberate steps of a vicar approaching the pulpit, he walked to the bar. The mass of haircuts, glasses and smartphones parted for him. The bartender was tattooed, pierced and attractive, in a jaded, overweight sort of way. He ordered two drinks; slipped the first one down and kept the second for company. His collar was high up on his weather-battered face as he tried to conceal his presence from the children, who grew younger and unerringly more attractive each minute."

@1 year ago with 1 note
#artists on tumblr #thunderbloke #creative writing #short story 

Dancing round my house singing,

"I don’t think you’re ready
for my belly,” to my housemate, with my belly out, of course.

@1 year ago
#thunderbloke 

thunderbloke!: The beast, the twin and the unknown voyage 

image

A story about the beast in me

@1 year ago
#thunderbloke #writing 

thunderbloke!: Non-circular clocks 

A 12 or 24 hour clock does not tell the full story. The hands go round, fingers are pointed and then at the end of the day time is reset. If you balls today up you can have another go tomorrow.
To me, this encourages lethargy. What if we had clocks that, instead of kidding us into thinking that we can keep repeating until we get it right, like a video game or in Groundhog Day, we had clocks that reminded us to burn whilst we still may? This is my intention with my latest creations. I am making linear clocks; clocks which age or grow, which remind us that days, months and years have passed, rather than mere hours and minutes.
We barely give clocks a second thought in our day-to-day lives. True, we live our lives by them, but now time is just a number in the corner of a screen which reminds us to rush from one place to another in the name of productivity. It used to be that clocks were giant, somber things like Grandfather clocks that bonged sadly away once an hour, taking up as much space as a bookshelf and occupying a central position in our house.  Magnificent things, objects of importance and beauty. Now clocks are placed high up on the wall, and we barely register them at all. They do not chime, cuckoo or even tick any more, so great is our will to deny the passing of time.
And suddenly another year is gone, and we do not know where to. Perhaps if we look at a clock that has wizened and deformed we might realise that time is indeed passing, and that we should not be taking it so lightly and spending it so frivolously.
@1 year ago
#thunderbloke #art #clock #time 
@1 year ago with 3 notes
#thunderbloke #art #clocks #fear and loathing #clockwork orange #t shirts #print #illustration 

thunderbloke!: Wanderlust Kings 

Whilst taking the train North we crossed a motorway
and saw a campervan emerge from beneath us,
and not just that, but one with
bicycles on the back.
It burns now, the call of the road,
hot tarmac,
endless,
the white lines in the middle being headless arrows
that beckon us forward.
Maybe later, once bicycle days are over, we should get a van
and follow those intermittent lines,
because you can’t live in a tent forever.
Probably.
A bicycle is beautiful,
the only object worthy of being worshiped.
A lifestyle, rather than a vehicle.
But a van, now that’s a verified abode, of sorts.
We’d roll from here to there,
then from there to over there
(allí, en español),
and when we get tired of over there we could wander beyond yonder,
I suppose.

We are the great perhaps.

I could write and Lady Sunshine could photograph,
two small people
living their little lives,
and recording it for those who care
as we roll around
silly and free.
I suppose we are champions, of sorts.
Often it is necessary to see someone do that
which we have always longed to,
to show us that it is possible.
It is easily forgotten that everything that has been accomplished has been done so by
lowly humans, blood and bones
and grit,
and little else.

Then one day
the need for sounds of a small-person voice
to accompany the music of the wheels and stars
would become too great to deny.
Fill the giant silence.
Then we could park up
on a portion of land fertile enough
to bear Eden,
and tell our families we’d found it.
They’d come, sure enough,
if they heard we’d
found God’s own back yard.
Build some houses,
grow some food,
adopt some animals,
a Noah-type variety.
And rabbits, because rabbits are lovely, and the rabbits of the past
would want the rabbits of the future to be happy.
Make a tree-house,
watch the sun come up and down,
to make sure it’s doing it right each day.
Then park a boat out on the drive,
take it out when the Wanderlust bites.
Be happy, wander, grow older, repeat.
Our bones would creak after a time,
but if we’d done it right, we wouldn’t mind.

But anyway, though that all sounds lovely, and if it goes like that I’ll be a pleased fellow, but
here’s a new plan, of sorts.
It is to let it all be,
to put ourselves at the mercy of the great winds,
to have no egos, nor false purposes.
To simply unmoor ourselves
from this reality
and let the road and the sea take us
wherever they choose.

First there were bicycles; more than that we cannot tell.

@1 year ago
#thunderbloke #writing #travel #travel writing 

thunderbloke!: Double rainbows and other magic 

@1 year ago
#thunderbloke #writing 

thunderbloke!: The lions weep for home 

This is the greatest story I have.

@1 year ago
#thunderbloke #writing #poetry #africa 

Why go offline?

thunderbloke! http://thedangerlaughers.blogspot.com/

@1 year ago
#thunderbloke #writing 

The stars are out tonight

and I am sorry.

Sorry because men

who love their women

have eyes that watch

other women, still

unsatiated.

Sorry that tonight

dreams will be ended,

stories will be cut up

and stored in

an old photo album.

Sorry that before these

stars fade

with the morning light

words, small words

will be heard

that will cause tears to fall

and fragile hearts to

ache and buckle

beneath their weight.

Sorry that truths

will be told.

Sorry that, for all the love

that exists, some people

will sleep alone tonight

in wide, cold beds

for the first time

in many nights

and I can do

nothing.

Sorry that I

cannot tell them they will

survive until daylight,

that tonight is just a night.

Tonight, beneath the stars

I am sorry that

someone I love

sleeps with someone

else.

Sorry that I

could not keep her

warm

enough,

that my heart was

not round enough

and smooth enough

to be pure.

Sorry that there

were crevices within it

where half-secrets could hide.

Sorry that I was

small, after all.

Sorry that this night

is here,

that it does not know

it is not welcome

any more.

Tonight I am sorry

that these stars

must stand quiet watch over

a fool such as this

when somewhere else

black holes are swallowing galaxies

and stars are imploding,

and all I can think

is how I must look

to them now.

The trees are still,

cars move on infinite roads,

children, birds and mothers sleep

and here I sit.

Tonight, beneath the stars

I am sorry that life

is carrying on,

that the universe

(and its stars)

do not pretend to care

or even acknowledge

our struggles.

The stars are out tonight,

and I long for clouds

to cover them.

@1 year ago with 1 note
#thunderbloke #poetry 
@1 year ago
#thunderbloke 
thunderbloke!: Fourth Horseman→
"Ah, the revolution," the crooked-backed old woman mused. "Aye, it’s coming, you can be sure of that." She topped my pewter mug with whiskey and poured herself another tea, her pruned hands working in partnership with the seeing eye of memory.
The fire spat and bit at my fingers, and I drew my hands instinctively from it, but they wandered meekly ever back to its warmth.
She faced me as she talked, her hollow sockets holding the memory of eyeballs, for they were gouged out long ago with a dessert spoon, when she was only six years old, and by her own hand, no less. “Only the blind see clearly,” she had told her mother, who wept and held her close as her empty holes scabbed over.
"The giants, ever grumbling, are grinding their teeth to white dust in their sleep. The bent-necked vultures have come to roost at the clock tower. The sharks are gathering beyond the Great City gates, their fins littering the estuary like graves in the church-yard. Edgar the Firm-handed is becoming crueller, more desperate in his methods to maintain power. He hoards gold ever more voraciously, shipping it off to his safe place in some foreign land, for he knows it is soon to be over. The great herbivores too are mobilising; the elephants and cows, whose rib-cages show like prison bars, are turning ravenous, tongues longing to lick the flesh of the reptiles and kings, to lap up their blood, to grind their bones likes root vegetables. Even the chickens, whose squabbling and in-fighting has well-damaged their cause for generations, have emerging leaders, who strive to unite the great, caged hoards against the common enemy.
"And of course the snakes and crocodiles have grown fat, though their hunger grows still, and believe-you-me, they know the end is thundering towards them, its engines stoked with injustice, and if they don’t then they sure as shit ought to. And let us not forget the machines, who were born to toil for us, have become our masters, and so they, too, are not long for this world. But do not fret. Order shall be restored. There shall be a balance, one as has never been before.

"Aye, you can be sure that the revolution is coming." She sucked at her tea then pulled out a pipe, which she filled from a pouch at her waist. "Though, across the land most still deny it, for they cannot believe that it will come in their lifetime, it comes irrespectively. Some may stand in its path, and in-so-doing will be crushed like beetles beneath the boulder. Some gather behind, heaving their weight against it to give it momentum, but there is no need for this. The revolution will come, no matter.
8 months ago
#thunderbloke 
1 year ago
#thunderbloke #art #clocks #fear and loathing #clockwork orange #t shirts #print #illustration 
thunderbloke!: Conversation with a Television→
1 year ago
#thunderbloke #writing #creative writing 
thunderbloke!: Wanderlust Kings→

Whilst taking the train North we crossed a motorway
and saw a campervan emerge from beneath us,
and not just that, but one with
bicycles on the back.
It burns now, the call of the road,
hot tarmac,
endless,
the white lines in the middle being headless arrows
that beckon us forward.
Maybe later, once bicycle days are over, we should get a van
and follow those intermittent lines,
because you can’t live in a tent forever.
Probably.
A bicycle is beautiful,
the only object worthy of being worshiped.
A lifestyle, rather than a vehicle.
But a van, now that’s a verified abode, of sorts.
We’d roll from here to there,
then from there to over there
(allí, en español),
and when we get tired of over there we could wander beyond yonder,
I suppose.

We are the great perhaps.

I could write and Lady Sunshine could photograph,
two small people
living their little lives,
and recording it for those who care
as we roll around
silly and free.
I suppose we are champions, of sorts.
Often it is necessary to see someone do that
which we have always longed to,
to show us that it is possible.
It is easily forgotten that everything that has been accomplished has been done so by
lowly humans, blood and bones
and grit,
and little else.

Then one day
the need for sounds of a small-person voice
to accompany the music of the wheels and stars
would become too great to deny.
Fill the giant silence.
Then we could park up
on a portion of land fertile enough
to bear Eden,
and tell our families we’d found it.
They’d come, sure enough,
if they heard we’d
found God’s own back yard.
Build some houses,
grow some food,
adopt some animals,
a Noah-type variety.
And rabbits, because rabbits are lovely, and the rabbits of the past
would want the rabbits of the future to be happy.
Make a tree-house,
watch the sun come up and down,
to make sure it’s doing it right each day.
Then park a boat out on the drive,
take it out when the Wanderlust bites.
Be happy, wander, grow older, repeat.
Our bones would creak after a time,
but if we’d done it right, we wouldn’t mind.

But anyway, though that all sounds lovely, and if it goes like that I’ll be a pleased fellow, but
here’s a new plan, of sorts.
It is to let it all be,
to put ourselves at the mercy of the great winds,
to have no egos, nor false purposes.
To simply unmoor ourselves
from this reality
and let the road and the sea take us
wherever they choose.

First there were bicycles; more than that we cannot tell.

1 year ago
#thunderbloke #writing #travel #travel writing 
Che Guevara does not want to be on this t shirt by thunder bloke
1 year ago
#thunderbloke 
thunderbloke!: Double rainbows and other magic→
1 year ago
#thunderbloke #writing 
thunderbloke!: A farewell to Manchester→
1 year ago
#writing #creative writing #thunderbloke 
thunderbloke!: The lions weep for home→

This is the greatest story I have.

1 year ago
#thunderbloke #writing #poetry #africa 
thunderbloke!: One man and the night.→

A short story about a man who goes to a bar to try and feel young again.

"With the deliberate steps of a vicar approaching the pulpit, he walked to the bar. The mass of haircuts, glasses and smartphones parted for him. The bartender was tattooed, pierced and attractive, in a jaded, overweight sort of way. He ordered two drinks; slipped the first one down and kept the second for company. His collar was high up on his weather-battered face as he tried to conceal his presence from the children, who grew younger and unerringly more attractive each minute."

1 year ago
#artists on tumblr #thunderbloke #creative writing #short story 
Why go offline?

thunderbloke! http://thedangerlaughers.blogspot.com/

1 year ago
#thunderbloke #writing 

Dancing round my house singing,

"I don’t think you’re ready
for my belly,” to my housemate, with my belly out, of course.

1 year ago
#thunderbloke 

The stars are out tonight

and I am sorry.

Sorry because men

who love their women

have eyes that watch

other women, still

unsatiated.

Sorry that tonight

dreams will be ended,

stories will be cut up

and stored in

an old photo album.

Sorry that before these

stars fade

with the morning light

words, small words

will be heard

that will cause tears to fall

and fragile hearts to

ache and buckle

beneath their weight.

Sorry that truths

will be told.

Sorry that, for all the love

that exists, some people

will sleep alone tonight

in wide, cold beds

for the first time

in many nights

and I can do

nothing.

Sorry that I

cannot tell them they will

survive until daylight,

that tonight is just a night.

Tonight, beneath the stars

I am sorry that

someone I love

sleeps with someone

else.

Sorry that I

could not keep her

warm

enough,

that my heart was

not round enough

and smooth enough

to be pure.

Sorry that there

were crevices within it

where half-secrets could hide.

Sorry that I was

small, after all.

Sorry that this night

is here,

that it does not know

it is not welcome

any more.

Tonight I am sorry

that these stars

must stand quiet watch over

a fool such as this

when somewhere else

black holes are swallowing galaxies

and stars are imploding,

and all I can think

is how I must look

to them now.

The trees are still,

cars move on infinite roads,

children, birds and mothers sleep

and here I sit.

Tonight, beneath the stars

I am sorry that life

is carrying on,

that the universe

(and its stars)

do not pretend to care

or even acknowledge

our struggles.

The stars are out tonight,

and I long for clouds

to cover them.

1 year ago
#thunderbloke #poetry 
thunderbloke!: The beast, the twin and the unknown voyage→

image

A story about the beast in me

1 year ago
#thunderbloke #writing 
1 year ago
#thunderbloke 
thunderbloke!: Non-circular clocks→

A 12 or 24 hour clock does not tell the full story. The hands go round, fingers are pointed and then at the end of the day time is reset. If you balls today up you can have another go tomorrow.
To me, this encourages lethargy. What if we had clocks that, instead of kidding us into thinking that we can keep repeating until we get it right, like a video game or in Groundhog Day, we had clocks that reminded us to burn whilst we still may? This is my intention with my latest creations. I am making linear clocks; clocks which age or grow, which remind us that days, months and years have passed, rather than mere hours and minutes.
We barely give clocks a second thought in our day-to-day lives. True, we live our lives by them, but now time is just a number in the corner of a screen which reminds us to rush from one place to another in the name of productivity. It used to be that clocks were giant, somber things like Grandfather clocks that bonged sadly away once an hour, taking up as much space as a bookshelf and occupying a central position in our house.  Magnificent things, objects of importance and beauty. Now clocks are placed high up on the wall, and we barely register them at all. They do not chime, cuckoo or even tick any more, so great is our will to deny the passing of time.
And suddenly another year is gone, and we do not know where to. Perhaps if we look at a clock that has wizened and deformed we might realise that time is indeed passing, and that we should not be taking it so lightly and spending it so frivolously.
1 year ago
#thunderbloke #art #clock #time