Spindly &
light weight
in all but impact;
complex and vaguely French
visually

Lucidly liquid
wondrous explanations
of the prosaically usual
evoking
something essential

Revolving the silver ring
around her so
delicate finger
with her thumb
even that was enough

Summer print simple
red red lips
& unceasing eyes
the scent of taste
& the precision of an artist

He couldn’t imagine
how to love her
& so he very much liked
at the appropriate distance  
without regret

Mechanical love made
Breakfast consumed
In silence
Commute never commuted
To something tolerable
Suit creased
Like experienced skin
Tremor grasped
Into fist
And denied
Tired tired eyes
Hole in right shoe
MOT due
And years to go

Her reddened eyes
reopened
it seemed
like she had been crying
but she hadn’t
Not a tear
But for that moment
as she refocused
approaching awake again
It seemed like sadness
burdened her
had surrounded her sleep
sending phantoms  
to populate her dreams

I don’t care
About your perception of my
Saccharin sentimentality
But I know
That on the day
That humanity kills the last Tiger
That the beauty in the world
Will have gone
Our science-fiction
Will start to be fact
And magnificence
Will be only ours to create
Melancholy though it will be
If we are to be Gods
And make this world our concrete
Functional costed playground
Then the poetry will need
to be damn good
The music  
Better
And we will need to
Reconnect with something
That will make it all
bearable  
forgiveable
and worthwhile

Some places have more history
More echoes of things past
Than here
Some places are where gods were
Passing through
Leaving traces
Some places evoke and provoke
A sense of of substance
Substantial moments
Ripples in the plane
That resonate

Some places are marked
By mans hand
Names and dates and hearts and truths
And some places feel right
Feel comfortable
Appropriate
And some places
Keep close their secrets
In the depth of dust
Some places even possess you
Calling you back for more
Making you remember
Their history

As free as a paper bag
in the wind
As welcome as a sun rise
after night
As refreshing as a wave
breaking cold
And as capitivating as a spider
making silk
That’s you

Tell me please
does the grey granite faced
northern heather scarp
or the smooth enchanting
Carrara marble cherub
move you to awe?
Does nature only
wintered weathered
sheer and simple
eclipse the man made
man handled
alabaster angel?

Bleak beauty

Tell me my friend
does your head turn
as the high cheek-boned
short haired
practical passes
a flash of scarlet
lipped?
Or do you arrest
as a foundation creation
glosses across your horizon
loping on heels and too knowing?

Bleak Beauty

I must ask you
my brother
When you cause to sleep
does Hathor
appear
and does
the gentle
perfection of her
supra-sternal notch
ever stay with you
til morning?

Bleak beauty

She was intricately
deliberate
with textures
& attitudes
& colours
combined

Conciously
random
when bathing benignly
in media
materials
& moments

Strong
yet so vulnerable
in just the right
measure
ethereal
but grounded

Beautiful
blue wide eyes
opening
to order
& closing
to sleep

Satisfying seasonal
sensibilities
bushy bright
and so dressed
with ceremony
and love
being celebrated centre
of attention
baubled and draped
with gaudy glitter
trusted with gifts
but only for a day

As mood and
circumstance change
no longer loved
or needed  
left to thirst
age and die
coldly discarded
in a road side gutter
thin and losing dignity
then shredded into mulch
or hacked to ugly pieces
and burned
so goes another commercial
Christmas

A myriad
of subtle stuff
a deep and long sigh
a strangely
well chosen tune
considering his history
the right wine
(full bloodied)
in the right light
(half)
with the right aroma
(lavender and ocean)
And view
(a sunset)
With sounds and sights
(gulls and grasses)
and the touch of
thick well worn cotton
culminating in a memory
I keep close

Dysfunctional
this is not functional

Functioning badly
at best
not clear why
of course
until after the
functioning has ceased
long after

Uncle John’s gone
Heart
on Sunday
in his shed
He left his stamps
to Sam
He’ll sell them
and his neatly folded
nicely worn
shirts and sensible slacks
will soon appear in Age UK
And Auntie Lynn
will maybe have
twenty years
a widow

People take ownership
of your words
your memories
and make them
theirs
  
Subtle shifts
in intonation
detail and substance
Not untrue
not really a lie
but not yours
Not anything that
has your essence in it
And they weave you
into them
through those fond
‘remembered’ words
and false
fabricated moments

Taking something
from you
labelling it
in their own hand
blotting the ink
dry with integrity
absent or not
they parade
that part of you
appropriated
Like a head on a stick
a scalp on a belt
or a heart on a sleeve
depending on their need

And you can’t reclaim
something stolen as softly
and stealthily as that
it would be churlish
it would be cruel
Perhaps their desire
to have you
as a jigsaw piece
of their making
in their sky
is the greatest compliment
and is worth
becoming part fiction
condoning a myth

I over heard
a doctor
on TV
who said that we
don’t really die
we just rust away
from the inside
which was news
to me
but on reflection
it makes such sense
so best we all eat
anti-oxidants!

Thank you
For not remembering
for not sending vouchers
for me to choose
something I like
or cash
for same

Thank you
For not dropping in
and presenting
hollow sentiment
before leaving for
something
more important

Thank you for
not forgetting
For finding a bright penny
from my birth year
for good luck
and that book
I once mentioned

And thank you
For spending time
understanding its value
and gifting me
your smile
a birthday
treasure

I’ve been picking away
metaphorically
I think
at the edges of my skin
for a while now
trying to find the end
of the coil of string
that I dream about
Excited by the thought
of that moment
when I begin to extract it
slowly
very slowly
feeling it unravel
collecting it between
finger and thumb
slightly damp and bloody
still white  

I see others
scratching at their surface
trying to find the same thing
I am guessing
trying hard to experience the removal
the extraction of something self
yet other
I walk behind the crowd
amongst their cigarette butts
wrappers and chewing gum pellets
I see
yards of string
some knotted
some platted
and some rolled into a ball
I collect them all
dry them
and box them

I still dream
of my skin
the string
and that feeling of
excruciating pleasure
not sure what it means
if anything
not sure what I learned
but the tactile
facile
act
of drawing out
that which is within
unseen
itching and coiled
stays with me
and by inches
satisfies

Think about it
The breadth
Depth
And length of it
This human condition
All of the buried skulls
Had smiles
All of the powdered hearts
Loved
We haven’t invented anything human
Any new thoughts
Something close to your every line
Has been said before
Many times
In many languages
We flatter ourselves
Many fold

Out of time
to do that thing
you always wanted
to do
because
that other thing
that you should have
had checked
is serious
and those people
who meant so much
have passed on
moved on
or moved away
out of time

Paying hapless homage to your gods
to your demi-gods
to your latter day all saints
With your Primark prayer flags
gloriously wrapped about you
You wander through empty streets
empty High Streets
Towards the stained glass sanctity
of your worship place
Your prayer less
Hedonistic
Playground
High on powders
Pills and potions
Drunk on over priced beer
Shot for shot
for shot
Laughing like madmen
Crying like angels
Dancing like tomorrow will never come
Flashing your white teeth
Trainers
and eye balls
at the moon
Howling
for some kind of salvation
for some kind of future
Angry for the promises broken
marriages and hearts too
Finding time to spend time
on doing nothing
Finding energy to enjoy
what could be your last kiss
what might be your first love
And all the while knowing
That someone let you down

The cicatrise of damage
Slowly softened
Worn smooth
By wind and weather
Water and tenderness maybe
Was once raw red and obvious
Now blended
Into your skin map
Your patchwork of encounters
With knife, heat and gravity

Some strange nobility
And ownership imparted
Not in your DNA
Inherited
Or chosen
But somehow valued
Like an old photograph
A Braille memory
Absentmindedly revisited
With evocative touch