The local duchess of importance
is the bag lady
she loiters unsatisfied
the rain is a ****** loss
it ruffles her hair
kept in place by rusting clips,
whatever goldmine
she was enamoured with
was swept away in the torrent,
she's more than partial to gain
but cannot recall dancing with a
forty niner
or freeloading in the blaze.

she still remembers her wedding day
the ring on her finger
for better or in poverty
in sickness or in health
Like a facsimile taking in an oath
An institution with poison ivy prescribed
Nothings wrong with the intuition
merely the players

Bouncy castles aren't in order
They are for the plebs at some Margate
two  night hotel
Cigarette stains gape on mildew carpets.
The Lager is like a noxious high
must be a Swiss import.
The air turbulence pumps Ballroom Blitz
The hotel owners son is taking us for a Glam ride
Latex overkill, not to mention his suicide bride.
She's waited so long to make her incorrect entry.
And one stray cigarette has burst
the initial plan
a children's party
Only the iinvited Hells Angels can make amends

earnestly he tells her from deep inside
the night carnival knows no slow of hand
love cannot be whispered
its as strong as the night is long,
a seamless canopy
a lichen bed  made under moonlight shadow
and  just three simple words
as tall as the sometimes mountain

Retaining my feelings and personal streamlight
can be  synonymous with a record player
start-stop, and cueing for  movement
but never repeat "repeat".
I could not necessarily afford to  retreat
into a  misplaced  time zone
and face yesterdays despondent pitch.

Prayers  inspires and boulders foil,
praise that grows
gives the greatest of inroads.
Under the trailing arches
only the assured prevail,
in platitudes they vouch
the greater gift bestowed.

You cast your name over
like silted reeds in the river,
on land
a thick covering of daub and wattle
sought your intention;
the wish to encase others in your space.
Such foolhardy fascination bears a cost,
like ubiquitous cochineal dye pools
Your dreams harbour barriers
as wide as your course strides permit,
the wilderness of banishment beckons
for as long as your  fortitude remains

This could be going to a poetry night,
run by the Chelsea fringe;
listening to a night of poetry
on gardening.
I hear of Oxeye daisies languishing on prosaic lawns
or Dogwood as beacons in the winter light.
Of course we have a ****** baked pizza
and some angel making apricots and custard for her favourite charity,
ensuring the rescue of recluse poets
along the cobbled way.

Crowded trains and incognito inspectors.
Neverdays happens all the time now.
It's a travail for the birthright few,
seeing changes
disneyland for newcomers
all our labours their turnaround
free movement.

The wind follows  its own course
brazen it  blows
much as our fraught relationship
that simply meandered away
like Cypress's on desert plains,
ill suited for the habitat
what germination there was,
was for the wrong climes

He gifts them Summer fields
and even fetches them twilight sun
stinting over rows of trees,
where  fireflies hover
and in the midst of paradise
you realise his regimen is familiar
he has already sent multitudinous pals,
adorned in grey and tarnished buckles
into fields of blood red poppies
and vortex craters filled with iron oxide
no greater love than scarred sacrifice
to perfect his  own dusk

If  the words  came out right
would  you  stumble  on glass shores
promising  never  to return as an empty shell
becoming  in turn better than you were
by captivating the glint of  fascination

The ***** sleeps on the bench,
people walk by,
they need their necessities ;
even though they cannot afford to chose morality .
All they want is their supernova.
Empathy is just too taxing
for their fettered brains.

They killed off Croydon
when we eventually lost Safeways;
no butter milk or Blue Nun
no intelligent 70s decor
or ghosts of people with a touch of sense
walking the aisles contemplating
Kate Bush verses the Motors
for their wine bar aperitif;
or acknowleding  Croydons appearance taking a hit
with the Park Hill estate.
That hasty built ****** record store
nudging your independents.
Times are a changing
not yet year zero
yesteryear still good

We held the occasional truth in the palm of ours hands
right or wrong we trembled the stars
only to find the intergalactic  flotsam predisposed
but in keeping with our fears
we crossed  the  Rubicon
to  unforce the  key
down at circes place
where we never waiver

Ebbo says its time to die
she mix you a slow potion
relish the end game
prodding a reply
Where's your will ?
She  ride your pride
call you Mr Browne
tell everybody you smell
If you're lucky maybe
fillet fish at Skegness.
No one wants you anymore
handkerchief sniffle sniffle.

Had a coffee today
it unquestionably feeds an urge to be an addict
The sun shone brightly  and  made  me feel
the forthcoming weather would be harsh.
My freckles showing like a garland
The flowers down the street were in bloom
Yellow Irises capture a  certain light
as I pass  by

Too much uninvited post.
The time comes for shredding,
yet that's only a start
you soon tune in to all those warts,
dormant VHS videos seldom played
space issues big as brevity,
now binned to the garage
their space filled with the
next expiry
compact discs.
Lessons never learned,
the extended vinyl collection grooves storage is a premium
My flat is like  origami
it folds with the repercussions.

Have you seen us for what we are -
dusty emblems of something greater,
just remember a water diviner chased a ghost river
seeing  hope for some lost vista.
Ashen pale we have since become
who've only known forgotten whispers,
rued through thickets conjured
from our minds eye, 
falling amongst the sirens, bells and whistles.
The actual dissolvent  is shying,
recalling that rod that beat the back of yonder,
to the merest glimpse  where it had gone wrong

Caught in perpetual motion
the sounds of 1970 can never dim.
Like a colossal empire
we're the last gallant year of the 1960's
Got newbies Quartermass and Ashkan
waxing  mettle
The Hammond and blues still ooze on
Prior Bubblegum pre Decimal  Day!

No more fortuitousity happenstance
The white flag is waved
Like giving up on the highway
I can taste your cool porcelain

Following the rules
in splendid form,
social mores galore
clarifying the way.
No more spillages
I know where I'm coming from,
down the mountain
breathing and tasting.

Glad you got some fennel
from the Sunday market,
it's delightfully culinary
it look good in the alleyway.
Your  neighbour is spot on
there's a profusion of  scaffolding
in the street.
she jokes maybe subsidence ?
But  it's more,
keeping up with the Joneses;
spending as a reflex action.
People are as elevated as busy bees
Activity, activity,
idleness can turn us into tripods,
staying still, is no good.

I like the way Peter is sitting,
his eyes are very expansive
he reminds me of a solo climber
effervescent with pride
joyous on his return
His gist is simple Buster Keaton
with a straw hat
and there is  always Sunday theatre
to gallivant to
with my earnest Friend.

I'm floating on a web of my own making
and yet for me its only half conceived
turquoise shafts of light
flicker through myriad happenstance,
as transient thoughts ebb and flow
like swarms of butterflies
cascading against an invisible wall
where I first spun my fate

If ever a  ***** lived and tried
to steal every-man's wife,
on her  disappointment
she threaten to tear her hair,
entreat a  scene, poor lass.
How I wish  to ***** a  hedge
let them grow abundantly
just to keep her off my patch,
yes my own sense of  self
my steered sullenness
that will preserve  my catch

she mistrusts the breeze,
the moon is going down the alcove,
come home there's a message in your head,
as sure as the lone tree,
promise your life away,
it was understood in a day
the silence of quietdom
plays the torture of lust.

There is no merriment in our legend
a disparate history obliges,
like dust clouds we succumb
to a threadbare desert caravan.
Once we encountered happiness it outshone
even the azure skies
but recklessly we back slid
into the  vested nothingness.
We sated on Alpha
her eagerness was renown
but the locusts came yonder
and with Bet famished
scorned with the wind.

His  girlfiend states if she earns enough tips
she'd rather their cat go to ninja school,
than agree to repair the leaking flat roof.
She's such an advocate in feline power,
impervious to all that's in its way.
Yet again Janine is asking him
to see Umbrellas  of Cherbourg,
she more than anything like to
look like Catherine Deneuvre.
But Bobbys uncomfortable with his dream.
The movie ended sadly.
How can you end dreams mid flow?
Janines all helter skelter,
an ultimation sleighride
down the Aix de Bains
to test his masculinity ?

I once held  a clutch of unhappiness,
in a field of corn flowers
as leaves blew cankered with rust,
if only  Autumns white shadows 
would cross the stubble fields
and by the morning light a wondrous hamlet
would be strolled upon
that would be reason enough
to dream into the realms of the possible
reinventing  brightness unbowed.

Each room has a  glow
a basking room, an aural one
if they were  circumferences
would they arc beyond the horizon?
and by unfurling  my imagination
why would  I not choose to unloosen my  certainties?
a  certain light quality permeates
only to  find  a hallway
even more intense
an antechamber in a  prism.

I remember my Father denying
the sense of long haired men
claiming being born a man was set
At that age  I simply admired his strong words
as though he could  thumb score the world
So amazed  I left the ladybird book on the bus
He was surprised, but  not angry
gestures of tolerance went a long way.
After all a few years  early
he berated a Sunday  newsagent for
their archaic  sales  law on that holy day.
Being a daughter in retrospect had its advantages
a  strong  Father who could  navigate  the  rivers
seeing beyond present truth

Under the lustre  Moon
gazes are barbed,
do I really know you now?
At times your trumpet
plays for the days forlorn.
Yet  your ruinous music
is  confusingly staccato,
others piodiums always knew more,
my confession nonetheless
the adverbial cow will land  
somewhere close I  hope
to feel your clasp chancre

I could singe your whiskers
laugh aloud at your corderoys,
remove  your landed title
and send you to live in a tent
at the edge of  the woods
I've always wanted a hermit
in the vicinity of the folly.

In the morning will you still
remember her name ?
Though she had smiled,
not unlike the thoughts you left behind,
it was never for you.
Button up the realisation,
you were not meant to be company.
Only the fragment of night can alter change.
Being alone is sadder by the day
it shudders then echoes,
even the white of  your  eyes
are listless.

Jennifer neither knew east from west
laborious in her paisley dress
she wore her confidence
with her kaftan scarf
as yet she's softly spoken to
believing she holds the reigns
but how do you count delusion,
neither saint or sage be
only the faithless prevail
by not rushing
moving into the spare room.

Lady Highgate, Martha thought alone.
Death or the gladioli,
the train tracks have already taken
companions , too quick to take in the malady.
Park benches, astute cold Sundays,
but no invited parties,
suitcases increasingly deftly packed,
never staying long enough to dream
Concrete  gardens, searching the shortest rose

I want to be a shooting star before my time
Someone has to retire early from the humam race
but what would I do
ask for spent coffee granules
to grew my indoor tomatoes?
I cannot imagine venturing outdoors
too often
even to the Library
by the time i take early retirememt
i be alongside the new indigenous
without recourse to manners
let alone community
My area's already going down hill
the cascade of relocating central London  already set in motion.

The east wind chills at Newmarket
It's got to be the most exposed station.
I'm an outsider but pretty soon
I've learnt we are in the Eastlands.
I feel for racing horses
if this weather persists.
Like us what gratitude is made
for winning their master a guinea?

She needs lip balm
to soften her chapped lips,
perhaps  she's spoken out of turn too often.
pity that she should think life goes in circles.
I assure her there's  no  Karma
just the softly softly of window gazing
to pick and unravel if she cares enough

A tupperware of tomato sandwiches,
please some cheese and pepper
for such little  is all I ask
Dad  I  hope  you're okay
you've losing your wife to dementia
believe me  you're a  hero
daily realising  how rafts break on the rocks.
The care home is not as cracked out
as it should be !
Keeping your balance is an inborn skill
that can never check the  pain

Try to spit and polish those
old braces, despite prestigious inconsistencies.
New builds for either part shares
or your out landlishly riche are
befuddled social engineering.
What ever happened to the old way
education bringing up the
working classes.
instead of parachuting people in.
Money talks instantly;
no value seen in nurturing development
just sales and free wifi connections
cargo cults to upset Croydon

that sad sounded lady
with open mouth
espys the edge of gloom,
like a whales calling
the tide compresses
as an unvaliant chain,
the machination of cause
will not whisper sweet serande

Gently the night finds a spectre,
creeping like a mist
the pale moon's face interlopes
across the face of the deep river,
it's there the souls of the departed
mourns their shallow song
heartfelt yet long gone.

She wanted a new poem
To brighten the day
She wanted to disrobe her gloom
That her love had left
She follow his footprints
and composes a sonnet of bearing
On a night like a flower

The cobwebs in the kitchen
buys realisation
nothings perfect.
At times it feels I am
looking  down from this cupboard
and the marbled floor,
feels  like a  colliding world
The spoons are spectres of ghosts present,
as the moon inversely reflects
with wings  to fly
another tempest cup of sorrow

I am only in it for the  vanity
herein lies a heart that cannot sing,
yet watches over puddles of incessant rain,
and sees mildew sprout on cupboards
in north facing rooms alternating  between
cold pockets and erstwhile sunlight

Clap to the tune of the modern thymes.
Ones lucky to get an Americano  for under £1.50p in London
It's time to count the pennies
by moving to Stoke on Trent Staffordshire
it seems to be affordable
unless all those London rehoused
are already there.
Its better than Croydon  though.
oatmeal  crumbs yo see
gives you a soft landing
safeguarding the streets
I feel a little  safer less bother

I profess to stay at home
when butterfly days calls
i am afraid of love
a mere coward
unchancing his luck

Rebecca  likes to  tread in Hampstead Heath's duck pond.
She's got her white leather boots on.
Impervious  to the green scaly algae.
One of inherited wealths important players,
her lightning decesions have consequences.
Md's are expected to decide
if it was her breech birth
that led to her revolutionary esprit
Her moon cycles will miss someone,
equally as caring
but conditioned to good behaviour.
Is heaven toast in bed after a fight
whose to say who is right?
but finding your own class is neigh impossible these days

The meadows sway under open sky
the bud of summer streaming wide,
oak cathedrals as proud as the blossoming light
to take in this merriment;
a pledge
of molten intensity,
where the silk robed  maiden appears,
instructs the wisdom from her lips
unbinding the unsighted
surges this celestial  ennoblement.