England    1965 -    
Previously my life was complex, I helped make it that way; now, I keep it simple and fun.
Previously my life was complex, I helped make it that way; now, I keep it simple and fun.

Second season dating,
through vodka eyes
and weed-wise middle age
she wonders
if she could still touch,
like the early rays of morning,
borne in loves first kiss.

He entered in a gust of gosh!
hopeful as a player
playing the long-ball game
and with a face she could have licked,
like Autumn;
a tad over-ripe
and berry punch red.
She wished
she hadn't cut her fringe so short
for it smacked of Magenta Devine,
black too,
as the darkest depths of winter.

Brass tacks
of blind daters
standing out
like newbies at the ice-rink
where you fall and if lucky look up,
relieved not to find any ceilings.

Dec 27, 2016

Audrey has hit her parting period,
comfortably poorly this eventide dusk.
There, by way of bare birches,
nature's breath blows a slow breeze,
and the low sun styles its ways
in long shadows and dimming rays.

Dec 2, 2016

And in the break between bands
she gives pause to fleeting figments,
train reactions and reenactments
that wind down her narrows of suppose
while her date speaks bourgeois
through a slanted smile that when loosened
hangs like some broken sign.
For the virtue of eyes
that sometimes doubt the existence of her dreams
she salutes to the old school, grateful
for the punches of truth from an inherent nose
that can smell the scent of a crowd
And for how their looking for meaning
would always have been a search
for a similarly, lost melody.
Such streams of quirky solitude
where she runs, for pleasure;
tending toward joy across a hand brake
of drunken, goodnight kisses.

(''a modicum of discord is the very spice of courting'' Nicolas Chamfort)
Nov 15, 2016

Punk never died in' 79
it still lives
at the derelict
warehouse of my youth
in this peninsular of pain.
Another beckons
from the Balkans
and in inspired action
of attraction
I book a couchette
on the Belgrade to Bar
where there's a certain
coastal wind
that stirs a collective unconscious.
I'm out
at the opening
with its uncomfortable
my ears to the calling
of the ancients
who must surely know
what lies
on the other side
of things.
Mountainous Montenegro,
with its savage beauty
at the places
where the edges crash.

I wonder,
will my senses tingle
at prospect,
of fanciful flights
and of being had
high and horny
by the curious Cuban
across the carriage
in whose eyes
I'll see pass
a storm of clouds
as he comes.
Would we drift on song  
to the distant sounds
of Serbian urban folk
until I'm roused
by the pull of my tides
neath a moon
full and looming,
like a confusion
in the crowd
where I can't set still
in a wash of agitated water.

Nov 6, 2016

She broke from rhythm,
all angst
and awkward dancing
on a swelling undercarriage
of supposes;
there's been a rattling
in her Renault
that she pretends not to hear.

Oct 31, 2016

Willow leaves yellow
Tresses snarl in autumns squall
Her pale hair windswept

Oct 24, 2016

Morning broke mauve,
hungover from the night
like the rising bellied dockers
of our terraced, sea streets.

She'd set to make tea,
tiptoeing on the tension
of a tightrope
between their fractious father
and mothers contorted indignance.

In her over-caution
she did spill milk,
a perilous slip
that saw her nightdress lifted
and legs tanned with temper.

Perditious paths under purple dawns,
where we were taken in hand
by the crooked and the cold,
chastened in our kitchens;
in churches of ruination.

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