one undead sed to one too undead: "i dont need no romance sir, just a necromancer."
    Well, abracadabra with just an ounce of my magic
i produce half a cadavre and then the other half grab it and shake it until it blabbers:
"well im awake but id rather be underground with dead matter."
and though ive never been sadder i had to grab her and stab her a thousand times in such patterns
that all was left were mere tatters, talk about beaten and battered as all the pieces were scattered
(i made em smaller and flatter til they look good so i blabber): "you look amazing"- "im flattered"
she sed but that didnt matter. im just a cretin whos madder than Hell oh well whats it matter
the feelings of a mad hatter madder than other mad hatters collaboratively dont matter
in fact the maddest just happens to have had all his dreams shattered.
evacuate bowels and bladder. souls eaten, demons get fatter, eternal state of dead palar,
dying in Hell im a Howler. god damn.

January Colours

In the winter garden
of the Villa del Parma
by the artist’s studio
green grass turns vert de terre
and the stone walls
a wet mouse’s back
grounding neutral – but calm,
soothing like calamine
in today’s mizzle,
a permanent dimpsey,
fine drenching drizzle,
almost invisible, yet
saturating skylights
with evidence of rain.

February Colours

In the kitchen’s borrowed light,
dear Grace makes bread  
on the mahogany table,
her palma gray dress
bringing the outside in.

Whilst next door, inside
Vanessa’s garden room
the French windows
firmly shut out this
season’s bitter weather.

There, in the stone jar
beside her desk,
branches of heather;
Erica for winter’s retreat,
Calluna for spring’s expectation.

Tea awaits in Duncan’s domain.
Set amongst the books and murals,
Spode’s best bone china  
turning a porcelain pink
as the hearth’s fire burns bright..

Today
in this house
a very Bloomsbury tone,
a truly Charleston Gray.

March Colours

Not quite daffodil
Not yet spring
Lancaster Yellow
Was Nancy’s shade

For the drawing room
Walls of Kelmarsh Hall
And its high plastered ceiling
Of blue ground blue.

Playing cat’s paw
Like the monkey she was
Two drab husbands paid
For the gardens she made,
For haphazard luxuriance.

Society decorator, partner
In paper and paint,
She’d walk the grounds
Of her Palladian gem
Conjuring for the catalogue
Such ingenious labels:

Brassica and Cooking Apple
Green to be seen
In gardens and orchards
Grown to be greens.

April Colours

It would be churlish
to expect, a folly to believe,
that green leaves would  
cover the trees just yet.

But blossom will:
clusters of flowers,
Damson white,
Cherry red,
Middleton pink,

And at the fields’ edge
Primroses dayroom yellow,
a convalescent colour
healing the hedgerows
of winter’s afflictions.

Clouds storm Salisbury Plain,
and as a skimming stone
on water, touch, rise, touch
and fall behind horizon’s rim.
Where it goes - no one knows.

Far (far) from the Madding Crowd
Hardy’s concordant cove at Lulworth
blue by the cold sea, clear in the crystal air,
still taut with spring.

May Colours

A spring day
In Suffield Green,
The sky is cook’s blue,
The clouds pointing white.

In this village near Norwich
Lives Marcel Manouna
Thawbed and babouched
With lemurs and llamas,
Leopards and duck,
And more . . .

This small menagerie
Is Marcel’s only luxury
A curious curiosity
In a Norfolk village
Near to Norwich.

So, on this
Blossoming
Spring day
Marcel’s blue grey
Parrot James
Perched on a gate
Squawks the refrain

Sumer is icumen in
Lhude sing cuccu!
Groweþ sed and bloweþ med
And springþ þe wde nu,
Sing cuccu!

June

Thrownware
earth red
thrown off the hump
the Japanese way.
Inside hand does the work,
keeps it alive.
Outside hand holds the clay
and critically tweaks.
Touch, press, hold, release
Scooting, patting, spin!
Centering: the act
precedes all others
on the potter’s wheel.
Centering: the day
the sun climbs highest
in our hemisphere.
And then affix the glaze
in colours of summer:
Stone blue
Cabbage white
Print-room yellow
Saxon green
Rectory red
And fire!

July Colours

I see you
by the dix blue
asters in the Grey Walk
via the Pear Pond,
a circuit of surprises
past the Witches House,
the Radicchio View,
to the beautifully manicured
Orangery lawns, then the
East and West Rills of
Gertrude’s Great Plat.

And under that pea green hat
you wear, my mistress dear,
though your face may be April
there’s July in your eyes of such grace.

I see you wander at will
down the cinder rose path
‘neath the drawing-room blue sky.

August Colours

Out on the wet sand
Mark and Sarah
take their morning stroll.
He, barefoot in a blazer,
She, linen-light in a wide-brimmed straw,
Together they survey
their (very) elegant home,
Colonial British,
Classic traditional,
a retreat in Olive County, Florida:
white sandy beaches,
playful porpoises,
gentle manatees.

It’s an everfine August day
humid and hot
in the hurricane season.
But later they’ll picnic on
Brinjal Baigan Bharta
in the Chinese Blue sea-view
dining room fashioned
by doyen designer
Leta Austin Foster
who ‘loves to bring the ocean inside.
I adore the colour blue,’ she says,
‘though gray is my favourite.’

September

A perfect day
at the Castle of Mey
beckons.
Watching the rising sun
disperse the morning mists,
the Duchess sits
by the window
in the Breakfast Room.
Green leaves have yet to give way
to autumn colours but the air
is seasonably cool, September fresh.

William is fishing the Warriner’s Pool,
curling casts with a Highlander fly.
She waits; dressed in Power Blue
silk, Citron tights,
a shawl of India Yellow
draped over her shoulders.
But there he is, crossing the home beat,
Lucy, her pale hound at his heels,
a dead salmon in his bag.

October Colours

At Berrington
blue, clear skies,
chill mornings
before the first frosts
and the apples ripe for picking
(place a cupped hand under the fruit
and gently ‘clunch’).

Henry Holland’s hall -
just ‘the perfect place to live’.
From the Picture Gallery
redolent in portraits
and naval scenes,
the view looks beyond
Capability’s parkland
to Brecon’s Beacons.

At the fourteen-acre pool
trees, cane and reed
mirror in the still water
where Common Kingfishers,
blue green with fowler pink feet
vie with Grey Herons,
funereal grey,
to ruffle this autumn scene.

November Colours

In pigeon light
this damp day
settles itself
into lamp-room grey.

The trees intone
farewell farewell:
An autumnal valedictory
to reluctant leaves.

Yet a few remain
bold coloured

Porphry Pink
Fox Red
Fowler
Sudbury Yellow

hanging by a thread
they turn in the stillest air.

Then fall
Then fall

December Colours

Green smoke from damp leaves
float from gardens’ bonfires,
rise in the silver Blackened sky.

Close by the tall railings,
fast to lichened walls
we walk cold winter streets

to the warm world of home, where
shadows thrown by the parlour fire
dance on the wainscot, flicker from the hearth.

Hanging from our welcome door
see how incarnadine the berries are
on this hollyed wreath of polished leaves.

On the way home
from senior school
you met Fay
on the corner

of the New Kent Road
and Meadow Row
she was dressed
in her school uniform

with a satchel
over her shoulder
a hand griping
the leather strap

her fair hair
neat and tidy
hard day at school?
you asked

as usual
she said
the nuns strict
and the lessons

mind stunning
and you?
a good dose
of brain washing

and the usual
morons teaching
you replied
pushing fingers

through your hair
taking in
her lovely eyes
the shyness

the way she stood
her small hand
gripping the strap
sed libera nos a malo

she said
what the heck
does that mean?
you asked

it’s from the Lord’s Prayer
Fay said softly
it means
but deliver us from evil

my daddy says it
often to me
you nodded
my old man wouldn’t know

what the heck
it would mean
if it bit his backside
you said

Fay laughed shyly
you liked it
when she laughed
like she did

it was like a small prayer
whispered
by a bright eyed angel
she looked back

at the passing traffic
the noise
the fumes
my daddy says

it’s a daily battle
against evil
he says one must
drive out evil

and the evil one
by punishment
she said
looking back at you

there’s plenty
of punishment
at my school
you said

not sure if it’s evil
being driven out
or the breaking of school rules
you said

do you want
to come to my place
for tea?
you asked

best not
she said
Daddy’s home early today
and he likes me

home on time
ok
you said
and you both

turned down Meadow Row
she touched
your hand
and you held hers gently

as if it were
a fragile pot made
from bone china
smooth yet warm

her fingers curled
around your hand
skin on skin
beautiful

with no touch
of sin.

La primera vez que me tocaste así,
Supe que ya había perdido.
Era la forma que tus dedos deslizaban,
Lentamente,  recorriendo
Lo poco que era mi cuerpo entonces,
Inexperto y sin sed,
Despertando curiosidad.
Ya no era yo.
Y la vez que pensé que hiba a ser la primera,
Y como me sentí, y como dudé,
Y como el miedo gano,
Y supe que te hiba a perder.
Y perdí.
Y después de 2 meses volvernos a encontrar,
Los dos con ganas de amar.
La primera vez,
Pensé que hiba a ser volver a ganar,
Y sólo te perdí el miedo,
Y perdí también mis límites;
Perdí las noches solitarias,
Perdí el rencor.
Y aunque te entregaba tan tiernamente,
Sinceramente,
Incondicionalmente,
Mi primer dolor, ese primer exquisito dolor,
Supe que, por primera vez,
Perdía conscientemente,
Que te perdía a ti.

Buttons,
and six hearts.

....theres blood in this.'
mike sed looking in his coffee, drinking from its cup.
'no theres not.'
sed chelsea.
she was scared for him. his questionable hed.
'the clouds are nice.'
he couldnt see them behind the huge peices of rotting meat floating in the sky.
'their a weird color..like an old bruise.'
she sed.. and he knew that she knew.
our ded cat smiled to death.

Amor non discitur, amor cognoscitur, sed id non animadvertis donec amorem invenis

She is the high point of the seasons bringing mellowness and relaxation to my world
With more beauty than October's sunset sky, she has an aura of charm, elegance and harmony
Her understanding nature brings balance to my life
She is the wind that keeps my fire ablaze with her divine smile, soothing voice, affectionate hugs and tender kisses
But cools my fury before all is scorched and burned
She is my world

Amor aeternus

dead...that's what you are...
dead...for all, you are...
clumsy hands are all that are
left for you...
mutatis mutandis,
praemonitus,
praemunitus eris
sed qui me dixit moritum
est hominibus?
qui me dixit, non est,
sed somnum habere?
and that waking up was a thing that just wasn't there...
but I WAS to believe...
yahweh...blasphemous..."jehovah's" children...
yahoo!...is yet, the talk of the times...
sitting idyllic on the brick wall...denuded...red all over...
are you out of your mind?...what's the matter?
...and the hose-pipe is set...the thoughts gush out...smothering you...
it's been the dark night's work...and I am sitting all alone...
thinking 'bout you...you, who's not there...
and never to have known you with days passing by...
I probably will never commit...
there's so much do now and such little time...
that I cannot forget...
what you were...you are...