Mediocrity takes me on a rainy ride,
down to Tatsfield on the 464 bus
Manufacture me joy,
by slow degree

Sing a feral love song.
This old planet has nothing to teach us.
Like a disused canister,
it is earthen by distinction.
Camarade, this morning
has a shy happenstance

Still got the  blame
Our rubber ducks fade  under the Sun,
melted  plastic  cracks
under fortitude,
never told  dad
that  I threw away  his golden  bucket
because  brother Jack
drilled a  hole  through it.

A sackful of ash
and a burning question
I talked to the child within
Fecund blue lights aglow
answered me

I heard the regale in the grass
that danced in the wind
Hiding behind lies
I laughed at the child
feeling misled
I was a stranger in his eyes

Rain coming for a long time
Changes coming down too soon
I used to run like cobbled stones
Can't seem to carry down the hill
the overlapping branches remain undisturbed

Used to think of Ferris wheels
All neon rides come down,
luminous signposts
Freedoms come a long way down
I need to talk to someone

I am a whisper that relays on twine,
a promise
cackling in a stream of gossip

I am your worst dream a harpie,
a reverie that has long played
in some forgotten bordello labelled shame?

our emerald princess
graces the night,
banquets with the Lilly's,
her heart is pure as the snow
no darkness pervades in her
accustomed company.
She dwells by the sea
in her esteemed shell house.

A day so happy
Cantonese your smile
give me your daily rice

Remember Autumns action,
a bonfire of flames,
where the overgrown cobwebs of your life
are extinguished to your  conscience

Forget your barriers,
on the cobbled way to your destiny.
Once laden is the now free
freedoms hanker is tomorrow's high.

Meanness is a stinging nettle
a bare knees child cannot escape,
cry dock leaf.
The  mother of necessity
should  from now on
outlast purpose.

Unsullied clouds welcomes June,
enduring sunsets pardons' time.
Soporific bees hum pollination,
delphininuims grace us their jewel like tapestry.

I am planting myself
between eternal hope
and eventual discord

Just some grey occurrence
reflecting the rue of life

The middle way between
the light of day
and the shimmering night.

What a query we have in the night
Its illuminated stare
leaves us more uncertain
The silence of a million stars pervades

Lonely Anne.
The day lays still,
shadows forever chase the wall,
beneath the nights, benign future spheres
gigantic upheavals,
step out into skyline infinity
forever starry-eyed,
you're speaking out about the fear of loving.
you cant release or realize,
There are lines for our deeds
and platitudes for our causes
can our morals be recalled today?

in the air i smell chicory coffee
beware of the Huns.
Their  trenches may be close
Achtung ! Achtung !
I am correct.

The King's lost smile is complete
He needs his leige
And the serfs laugh
At this stupid plan

I am on my own sail
Sunny due a different way
And the child within me
Paints a pastoral day

She  smiled bravely in the fields of nettles
the threads of straw  a lost memory.
Her heart  injured
like the fey light bulbs
that never shone.
Having walked from the station
to a  lost place
where she made a  pitch for  her soul,
promising not to fall for the  dark dour suitors
who leaves their dusty shoes on tables.

I Hear yet look beyond
a distant spot,
planning for a monologue
where words fail
from an already fall
never of my making.
Blame blame, vanish this spot,
that grows a crater
where eventual discontememt
scales the laddered escape.

Chance has begone.
I've got it on my hand,
my jaded palmistry,
knows no better.
The faded story-line
tells the summation was seized

The talk of staging funerals
lingers in the cafe,
lost dreams spoke of Terence Stamp
How they loved his singing voice
filed away in Cathy go home.

Care worn
Follow the sun to temerity
Razor cut your perfection
Hail Appolo your God

The night comes hither
Forlong past heroes
and paperback writers

The perceptible theatre goers
Gain an insight
Into the theatrics of their fellow performers.

You're as nuanced as your own opinions
determined as a wanderer
who establishes his own terms,
We Surely miss you
on your sourjons
down the country mile

You walk like a svelte Prince
and are all stealth
by your collar bone dexietery
Your wishes are our privy
and we are only here
to do your bidding

She forgot to love
never remembering about the waste.
Her sun red hair would one day
turn to white
In the meantime her yellowing letters
were taped with  bind.
Deftly turning her head
she reminded shackled to the dark,
the invisible string undercutting
her once smile.

Jimmu is walking dejectedly
he gazes at your smile
and makes amends to the sky

The time has come to head count
English voices on the train.
I would love to collect a lexion of their words
like rose, east and initialise.
If I was head tuned
what a lovely poem I could write.
Im still in friendly zone Etchingham
before I hit London
what worlds would I then use
dreary, grey.  dead butterfly?

Right-wing Boris conspiracies awry
they tried to lynch Starmer
The Woke are fighting back
No ancien monuments for us.
Meanwhile, Tenants fight council mold
of long-neglected council dwellings
Our Saviours have been returned
sealed unopened,
on a sunken ship, inflation at a generational 5.5%
Gas cap in April at 7.1%
February days
Evergreen Russia on the reconnaissance
War in Europe
What have we learned

Said the Trapeze artist to the Ant Hill dweller.
I besmirch your insignifance,
for I am a mighty gust
a body floating celestial,
can stampede you unwillingness
to move.
Teasing your respone,
somehow making you prone.
To meet whatever Father you have?

At night Georg pangs blue whisper
for the lonely boy's return ,
with a red cloak worn to sunset.
Crimson for the harlots shadow,
and narcassis for the loss of innocence.

A major mistake is to be swayed
by the illusion that moonlight
gives you rays
You think you are the twin sister
of someone equally  famous
but the  leaves still languish
underfoot
like mulch they can offer nothing more
than the suggestion to self flourish
under your own steam

Before you go trust in me,
follow the warm Autumn fade.
Watch the geese to their journeys end.
Warry words I will not speak.
I shall return and talk of love.
Our story is yet to be told.

Peter used to offer birds
he is no longer a  mouser
Has he tamed himself?
Now he sleeps
on his Masters bed
Has this answered a pray?
Wrapped around his own tranquility

Suzanne the bluebird in you
made me wander away
to seize the moonlight for you
The enthrall of welcome back
freed the gift.
The glint in your eye took us elsewhere
for such is a balm
in this bid we find ourselves
rescuing each other

Lord we have two choices,
judge us not too harshly if we settle for grey,
sometimes a white lie
can save an amanda of fools.

The  tortoise shell cat Rosie with only three legs
and the matron who married the headmaster
a mariage de convenance as the French would say
and his Labradors Captain and Brigader with their whipping tails
And live in teachers old as hills

Who are we to judge plants?
a dandelion is only a flower in the wrong place !
Who are we to judge birds?
A pigeon is not a winged rat
it is dispossessed ferternity.
Who are we to judge foxes?
they are land locked creatures of habit.

My E Bay purchase SL D303 sprang to life
( for a few joyous months)
Springs replaced once
and the second time, it died like a swan,
no spare parts!
Soon it burnt into the pocket
Suburban luggage of a layered kind
alongside my vinyl collection
cant always trust dependability

Im hearing a siphon of a song
My love has gone away
The spindlewood has run dry
The seasons is awry
Tis the time of merriment
said the jester to the knave

love is a chance
a blissful surrender,
its a happenstance in the park,
in the gaze of the eyes
so hyptonzing,
a whisper and murmur  of the heart.

When we were children our pleasures were simple
the wind seemed to comfort us
and the blue skies beckoned truth
our island unfettered
saw the finest in promise

Should I dance a promise,
half remembering ones left unsaid.
If for one night I had a banquet,
should I undo those last chances,
dancing on your grave
with slithers of that champagne glass..

The ant climbs into the straw patch
he feels his armour suffocating.
The clown realises his pathos
after finding none of his compatriots funny.
Oh this string of life
it just got all the more angrier
Yes the very one that loses you in the labyrinth
that falls short for desert island fishing.

The indigenous Alcantara explodes across
the garden floor, unwanted and unloved.
Rosehips are nipped
to give extra nourishment to the rose bush.
The blossoming pink Tree Mallows will last to January,
until then they are left alone.
Brambles are cut at their base
excising their climber roots,
nor forgetting the unheralded demoisturising Ivy.
My Cleparata Eremurus tubers
are gently put into the ground.

Every wrong word
said on a mission
startles the receiver.
Every right word
said as a consequence
startles the giver.
I cry alone into the night
figuring what was right

Cats are our friends,
they're a gift from ancient Egypt
and when they offer you a mouse
accept it with due diligence.
It's their hail from Atum Ra's moment.
They are intelligently dexterous
yet determined.
I like the tuxedo variety,
akin to the best suited James Bond,
service with an  indelible  smurf
all 009 lives of them.

There was a song
such a beautiful one
that we danced to
when we were young,
but now we are older
we listen to the gentle nightingale
that way I see you as young

Share with me
Give me your fledging feelings
I will shape them into something probable

And I cherish the rain
that musters under your feet
Tansy herbes of the heart
would turn you into Eve
And I as Adam drinking
the nectar of your countenance

THE WAYFARER FINDS
HIMSELF, IN DEEP WINTER SNOW.
THE BARRENNESS OF THE COUNTRYSIDE PROVIDES NO COVERING LIGHT.
SCATTERED HUTS ARE IMPOSSIBLY WINDOWLESS
LIKE SOUL'S PREVARIGATING WITHIN
GUARDED SILENCE
A death wish is anything but fun ~
Santa Claus

Magus Alexander  McNair
Son of Autumn  
play your lute
summon the seasonal offering,
my shephered.

The pallor of the overriding hills
with holes loitering the roads
and the nascent night
with canned Viking descendants
looking for their own Valhalla

Innocent stars over pointed anoraks
Bright things have birth
Spilling their large frames
into a vetch of tundra

Munchies are not nice when
they stick to the pallet
The  cat dived under the pallor of the moon and a car had to swerve to avoid him.
A Miss Jones gave her heart  away
to the first local parishioner
who walked her down the aisle.

Gazing into melancholy melon skies
that I weaved,
Blindly searching for the shadow of wisdom
Blue is the color of cornfields
its truth so probable
Please don't turn on your back on me
and parry me away
shine on your earnestness
Thinking back to yesterday
may help us find the now

Gerry dances the lights till dawn
beneath Blackpool illuminati
He didn't feel this way before
until he had a proactive in good time

the deep ocean
matches your eyes.
I cannot quite fathom their depth,
many soul plundered sailors,
have met their steely death
by the wayside of your smile.