6 o clock dandelion
fluffy wish wand fairy dusters
filled the fields where
wild flowers fizzled
over a rough green sky.

Twas there they convened
framed by a doorway

a triangular composition

with gods light shining
on their grey and balding heads.

the oratio ad contemplatio

of an evening.

grant me the awareness so that i don't call my ex 'asshole'
after parting painfully on a street
that i don't waste my energy conniving ways
to hurt him even more,
amongst which include
rotten texts
returning gifts,
imagining his feelings finding them
on his front steps
in a bag,
that i pull the plug, fuel and batteries
on fantasies that include obliterating him from my
life forever in one
big, jabby
sweep.

love letters on facebook are just not the same
many years later, you'll search not in vain
for pieces of paper all crumpled and spent
to remind you of lovers  that came and went
now its all passwords and clicking on keys
how can there be any mystery
while we scroll through our LED histories?
whats happened to pondering, to stories absorbed
where is their space in this illuminated world?
space to leave letters under dark beds
or maybe deep recesses in the back of our heads
space to understand a begining and an end
space to let go of a magic weekend
space to know whats gone is gone,
shove the box away,its time to move on.

you were a jungle bird
in high heeled shoes,colourfull clothes

the rest were dressed like black crows
jaundiced beaks, mean souls.

Here the people are the landscape
their gestures the missing trees
I've had GOD BLESS YOU, shouted at me
and three date requests, and it hasn't hit
9.30am yet, this is LA
where the homeless and mentally ill
are quick pilgrims to your heart
and where men polish stars, on the streets.

10/12/2008, FOOD

Tom Yum Soup
how you held my hand
growled in hunger
how I didn't know
if we were a couple

15/12/2008 FOOD

how happy I was
to convince you to diverge
from healthy eating
Vanilla cream and wafers
the occasion of it

21/12/08 MISC

a tinsel hoop
and drawing pins
for a sock to hold
a chocolate reindeer
at your door...

in the new year
we were a couple no more

serve food
with broken hearts

pack shelves
with broken hearts

take your order and smile
with a broken heart

remember this
while your curled in bed

the door closed, your back
to the world.

standing like my father
staring into nothing
no, not nothing
usually something
boiling,spuds
the kettle,
water.

I was shocked then excited, when she came to the door
asking, have ya got any food for me or maybe somethin more?

so I ran to the kitchen, skipping my feet
wondering what in gods name a traveller would eat

kidney beans, coconut milk, marmalade, rice
so unsure I was, I had to think twice

so I settled on tomatoes, relish and canned
and ran up the hallway with both in my hands

well, she opened her bags and I popped the stuff in
making stupid remarks about taste buds and tins

and I wanted to chat to her and I wanted to gawk
but she looked right and left, and then she was off.

would we sit across from one another on trains
with bars of deep purple Cadburys
chocolate squared by your large gentle hands

with one bottle of luminous Rock Shandy between us
my crubeen'd feet cocooned in crumpled skin
colored tights, now lodged between your legs

now resting against your penis, a natural gesture
as our growing years, would this be
companionship at its best?

Sometimes
I imagine,
low flying gulls
pilfering dreams
then selling them
on Leith walk
for 1.50.

She was as crazy as a Norse horse
with a wild bleached mane and madeye's,
always willin to do anythin for ya
with a ''come on then'' her moods would drive you insane,
wrenching compassion and anger from your heart in equal parts,
spewing venom when talking of her ma,
it would hurt to listen, yet how easy
it was to see this sulphuric froth as just rage being
rage. In her kitchen she concocted overspilling potions
banana and coconut breads, her time was your time,
her table always spread with baskets and jars,
valerian by the bottle she sculled to help sleep,
baskets with moss and golf balls, scottish tat in a heap
and beliefs, beliefs as worn and threadbare as the carpets
in her tiny, one beded orange doored flat
with a gerbil called punky and a hamster called pat, oh ya
and two chickens and patch, and then their was Jamie
who spouted that Halloween mantra ''crap bat''
we filled balloons with sweets and let the kids skewer
the hell out of them, it rained sweets in the corridor for weeks,
and thats what I loved about her madness,
that it dived and it did, and it speaked.

when I see newly

vacum packed, black
plastic haystacks

two things
come to mind

that they look
like fair smoked

round Gubbeen
cheese's and would Monet

have ever painted them?

Absentmindedly
I foreplay with nature
and finger the air, contemplate
that even the bananas
appear to be spooning
on the counter
while two oranges,
nestle in their woven
straw pod,for heavens sake!
even the pink pan and brush set
are celebrating their design
of fitting, matching,belonging,
together,and those ivory bowls
see, how one is carried,
the other sheltered,
and dont get me started
on the shoes, the boots
the pairs,oh my god
the pairs...

I had the good fortune
to visit it twice,
the first time
it was like the Marie Celeste,
dark with blue doors
and old coffee dregs shining on the base
of deserted mugs,
a full perfume bottle called Narcissus
glowed on a mildewed window,
for shame I thought sketches,
letters, catalogues
all congealed together
in sodden shop boxes

I wasn't supposed to be there

then again in a dream,
all the walls were dark pink
and shelves were filled with treasure
trinkets for sale, I stopped at a pair
of silver earrings
and crystaline figures
that danced in unison
gold and black drawings
hung the walls of a bedroom
with roses for a carpet
a melancholy light
stilled the air, I wondered
how in god's name
did he fit there,
that tiny bed

I paused here,
others came in.

showering love in your direction
is like throwing seeds at the wind
blowing them far off target
never resting,never taking root
no flowering heads to greet me.

Let's
get up earlier
witness more mornings like these
before breakfast

collect as many symphonies in our hearts
as we can, be like the sun
touching surfaces

lets catch glimpses of tiny fat birds
sunbathing on high wires,
be like cars sheathed
in crusted ice,
waiting to be born into tones
of different colors
by the warmth of the coming day

let's awaken to the crunch
of a silent frost of a morning

and sing.

my life is like this, she said


and she tore a sheet of paper


and threw the pieces in the air.

swirls of pollyfilla
with the texture of halva
and osais, the green stuff
florists stick flowers into,
birds wouldn't nest in it.