tried to wash away the memory
as the weeks into months they blurred
unfulfilled dreams now forever lost
weigh heavy on the lips of words

a steeled veneer to protect the soul
self-made iron of unfiltered grace
shattered like a pane of glass;
the rubble that is laid to waste
fills countless endless self-dug holes

to accept the fate of solace
to descend the fires with no sound
to caress the blonde wisps of hair remaining
before being buried in the ground;
this was yours to bear alone

chances are a fates divide
in the dark the demon drink is dwelling
deep lies the dragons breath inside
for a stolen heart
left to mourn its own swelling

so much to forget
a simple gentle touch
a kiss is but a whisper now
who has forgotten how to weep
still remembered
as if it were only yesterday;
the memory will never fade
and was never yours to keep

Inspired by a vintage ****** postcard from the 1920s - 30s:

The Muse sits resplendent
caressed in sepia tones and pastel cream
gilded with the glaze of a bygone era
her silk Charleston negligee
worn proud like a vintage ornament
perched on an aesthetically pleasing
shapely pert insolent *****
blossomed with tiny beads of sweat
the heat of such anticipation
entices the pearls of the ******
to pamper and pleasure their perversions

etched as if in a radiance of candlelight
the flickering limbs pulse their bloom
nimble fingers of dancing shadows
cupping the feline curves of a chaise longue
the purposefully out of place set piece
the fantasy of a gentleman's reading room
caked in casked sherry
and Nat Sherman cigar infused aromas

her elegant pose sumptuous reclining
elbow length satin gloves
sensually wrapped in wanton desire
******* clasp a Sorbranie Black Russian
smoked like a sultry gypsy
with a fervent demeanour
from a silver opera cigarette holder
beckoning with the cats eyes of mischief
over Pinced nez eyeglasses
with a fascination imbibed
in the praxis of passion

the peach skin of refulgent youth
directs the viewer downwards, slowly
survey each contour of olive skin
and stroke every hidden cleft of fabric
to glimpse the nubile thighs of grace
leading the eye to the arch of an ankle
slipped like a fitted glove
nestled in the cleavage of her calf
and the chastity of future wonderment

the forgotten photograph
captures a period in time
the memories of the muse
now in motionless existence
a demure allure forever frozen
once lost, but now
never forgotten

Mile after mile
the endless motorway
spews out its metal contortions

hum your V6 engine
rock with impatience
under branded lime-green
sun strip protectors
brimming with breeders
of brooding black BMWs
7-seater convertible prowess
gleaming off-roaders
go faster striped boy-racers
silver slick steamroller Range Rovers
revving executive supremacy
nestled annoyingly
behind a Grand Jeep Cherokee

all stop in motion
by a pedestrian button
for a little old lady
with shopping,
And me.

So many people
in so many cars
gas guzzling
un-muzzled bulldogs
drooling to be first
the excesses of acceleration
the freedom to roam
to gloat or to garner

well you can all stay in line
with the press of a button
and a finger like mine
Moses in green spandex
parts the Metal Sea
for a little old lady
with shopping,
And me.

Your use of words
of late, I have noticed,
seize the cold light of day
snowball the pack ice
send a shudder down the spine
hail the dawn of an audible ice age
lest if only
One would listen

that loquacious nature
left to stew in the freezer
the embodiment of toxic wine
your preferred after taste;
the sediment of choice
demands a selective palate

we have bulldozed
The Garden of Eden
now only the Snake remains
offering the bitter-sweet apple
to those who oblige
pave the way for emotions
to argue their objections
a subjective nature
in acerbic tones
fierce and unwavering;
the adulation of the Other

A raised eyebrow
denotes a self-centred assuredness
that anyone else
with a deft hand for art or language
is clearly a copy of the blueprint
your ingenious creation;
such is the intellect you abide by
that of your own reckoning

Your argument
is the passing of an iceberg
perhaps fleeting
the early evening;
the disingenuous melt
of your carbon-cloaked temper

My riposte
will be your undoing
defeat by the warmth
of the passing Sun;
embrace that which you chase
see what you dont see
agree to disagree
is the sympathy
for your antipathy

Mary was a poet;
her words beautiful
her grammar impeccable
her grasp of the lexicon
far beyond my simple ramblings

Mary was a writer;
her flow omnipresent
her imagery transports the soul
her understanding of the reader
far beyond my comprehension

Mary taught me
how to express myself
the meaning of a nom de plume;
I didn't need to be
just a boy with
ideas above his station

Mary was a 40-something woman
previously married with grown up kids
living on a Western Isle
with a pet donkey called Samson

For 20 years I walked with Mary's shadow
she made me proud and kept our secrets safe
I remember the poem she wrote
about a coffee and a one night stand
evoked images of two women in a passionate embrace;
it won some award she never collected

Mary had cheques for her published works
filled a pencil case in a box in the attic
her moments in the spotlight gathering dust
citing Maya Angelou as her inspiration
and Ben Okri as a man she'd like to cook for

Mary inspired me;
she was a writer and a poet don't you know
taught me the meaning of a nom de plume
sad was the day I laid her to rest
buried with her cheques in the pencil case
gathering dust in the attic

This is her epitaph:
wherever there is soul
all is not lost,
and what is not lost
is never forgotten.

Eyes sparkle straight outwards
caught beneath the whispers
her entwines entice
This bearded oddity

The Sirens song beckons;
places a cupped palm holding thin air
where a shapely breast should be

Her smooth skin
wraps the ***** of imagination
trembling tempting fingers
searching in the darkness

Arms outstretched
the smells of summer breeze
wafts its enchantment
and for a moment I belong
more than most
as I can remember

Sometimes we meet others we can easily forget
just another sunny spell as a prelude to rain.
The umbrella I own has holes anyway
lest it would be kinder on me now
if perhaps I had stumbled on a dry patch in waiting

For a moments temptation
to dance with the divine
I’ll skate these embers
and reach out where Icarus fell short

Those fallen arms of grace
will have to wait

In the near dark
tongues unravel and fingertips unbind
transcend, ascend
grip with experience
the bane of youth

Im confused a little more these days;
maybe that's the Sirens song, calling
'swim with me, delve deeper
embrace the ocean current
drift with me, drift with me'

Perhaps im just getting old
cynical to the optimism of belonging.

The Siren would argue:
perhaps you just don’t need
that umbrella after all.

Warm sea breeze
embrace the embers
of sunset’s night.

Pebbled wash
laps gentle ashore
shadow seeps
into every indentation  
the sand that sinks beneath my feet
still cooling from before.

Eyes through leafy palms
they meet
wincing in the glare
of sun lit shimmer heat

Your bikini
magnifies my gaze
covers an ample *****.

Moments thought
the inquisitive mind
Lost in oceans
azures blue.

Stretch to the horizon
leave the world behind
To hold so tight
as if sharing skin
To mould to every curve
and cleft of you.

A raptures prelude
senses commotion
run for cover
monsoon rain.

Somewhere
there is only you
a far away ocean
crying for crested moments
and indulge a passion
in such freedoms refrain.

From thigh to eye        
the wind whistles your name
The echoes collide,        
Inside.

I think I feel       
the same again,
a distant voice,         
A broken wheel;
sharp glass gloves and a clenched hand holds nothing
For you to know me.
Still.

The urge to tame       
That which is seldom glimpsed
by what right
is that by man alone by night;
a quivering pulse         
Untainted since
a moment when
I too,
held someone tight.

Too late to stall           
An hourglass bears the name
grain by grain
its fleeting
Too slow to move,           
To re-direct
a moment’s peace;           
I call your name
each time
I’m breathing.

Some secret place           
A shelter from the storm
a place unknown to me
Beyond this haven;     
a miniature maelstrom
Return (again)             
to reflect on what could have been.

Now
I Am               
Slowly dying;
These moments               
maybe lost forever.

A whispers tears               
in stealth marks a sullen face.
In memory,               
drifting aimless, still,
I call out your name;       
the space the echo fills
is left speechless and misplaced.

What spurns you on?         
What last reward?
Enlighten me                 
My Queen!
Upwardly fast         
slice through old paths;
this bramble bush
of broken dreams.

From head to knee                   
unbeknown, I chase thee
For these fragments                  
lost and stolen

Till then,
My Love
I shall remain
and
I will always be
meaningless
and
swollen

Looking back, memories distort.
Replace damaged nodes with something similar
Perhaps reconstructed
From previous set-up before
X and Y parameters Report
Step One:
Check patient notes to self
Re-calculate from de-constructed
Inject imagination
Respect self-defence mechanism
or immediate virus node termination
(a response attack organism)
Re-calibrate instruments awareness
Strip upgrade
Love version 4.1
Reboot only in emergency
Refer to install options

Error:
Temporal Lobe Anomaly
Virus detected
Internal nodes infected
Import Rejection version 3.2
and couple with
Lets Be Friends upgrade 1
(Advanced program)
Monitor assimilation
Danger!
Overheated components -
Re-inject Memory Node
Objective Hindsight applet.
Refer to Step One

It is now safe to shut down
Should you wish to.

Empty skies embrace
Sparse cloud formations
The blues fade and overlapped hues
Sparkles crested in fickle delight
Lazy outstretched yawns of natural light
Sun’s glare glazed under Moon’s appearance
Embossed against the translucence of blue space
Everything up there is calm today
No rush or race or interference
Gentle indifference drifts to the West.
Staying dry for us

The beautiful simplicity of being Sky.

Stop and look around.
Cyclists trickle on painted pathways
Student groups pontificate about life
and the lecture they should all be at,
Lunchtime sprawls and *******
never ending spurts of schoolchildren
delirious for sausage rolls and E numbers.

Everyone in a rush to be someone
Going somewhere with purpose,
and yet,
Be indifferent
to each other.

The bland complexity of being modern People.

The wind whips
and scrapes the walls
like ivy looking for its foothold

round windowsills
and rotten wood
winter chills a new years cold
scouring for the way in

rolling barrels of fury
tumultuous spasms
unrelenting open hands
slaps the face of every bush and branch
with each pass
the lawns and meadows left
rippled like a poorly tacked carpet

the scaffolding of men rests on brace and bolts
and handshakes with the granite walls
adornments flap their benign capes
eddies of grit spiral, walking tall

Inside I watch you
like a ****** staring at the passing crowd
but not knowing where to look;
only you are everywhere

blankets and lights and even the TV
are curtains to pretend your not outside;
I need not venture out yet

at least,
not until morning

Cupped hands
an inconsistent vessel
for every drip drip
The precious is forever lost

Spartan moments mirror a watery fate
Traversed, cascade they hurtle
some lashed to a Giant’s thigh
an endless waves breaker
And beneath,
feet mourn little for trampled free fallers

Tiles arranged in patterned logic
frame the arranged sequence for
another graveyard at 0 8 0 1
Splash is the cry of acceptance by absorption
whilst others are the
missed opportunities to reach a higher station.

The tap runs unchecked.
Soon they will be long forgotten
in the chaos of morning traffic
This period is late.
As am I.

Govan bar banter:

Awa' with ye fankle eejits
that blether to naw whit they dinnae naw
crabbit, drookit
moanin, drouthy
yer Havers-yins!
each unto their ane
an' aye bin.

Tell markers scoured
an' crowned with glee
"alas nae blessing naw
bolt of wisdom
will er'e to
strike thee -
tis poor soil
an' loads o toil
an' broken backs"
Ach awa with ye!

Fir me the skies
an' tracks o wilds
an' winds that curl yer lugs
Hielan mountains glory
summers toty story
an' bonny lassies dancing -
a gallus stoater!
that’s fir me.

Party racket
in Da’s laden jaiket
jangle change
fir a dram
an' enough tae get the Clockwork Orange hame -
times hae changed a wee bit no?

Seldom ventured
tis seldom gained
an' aw the while
the wee bairns wail
Still, life is yin
what yin makes of that
which drives the world
that breaks yer back

Remember love!
ma banters free to give
an' thats all the mare important when
it costs so much tae live.

Without
your smiling face my love
So rare now to find in this place
Without
your Glasgow banter
What remains is left speechless and misplaced;
I am a ship adrift without its anchor

Within
deep blue ocean eyes
that look straight into me
In ways and wonders and for why
Without
I can not take back what was said
nor’ parting waves and late goodbyes
now lost to the turbulence
of new experience under foreign skies

Within
I almost hear your warm whispers still
Without
it creeps in my ears to replace wax with made-up doubts
Play round-a-bouts upon my brain
But listen intently anyway:
In case she might whisper it again

Within
a tender touch that knows my gentle being
The passions unwrapped as such
By fingertips
And a stolen kiss upon my lips
And all that I remember seeing

Without
I am the frosted breath of a Scottish chill
With
a voiceless shout
No exit out

I await
that which is meant for me
Within
Without
or cast
adrift at sea

Frost underfoot and crisp cold air
morning dew, everywhere
each a crystal pearl
a million drop fruits unfurl
as far as the eye could see
caught precariously
by all the tiny hands
on every flower, fern and tree

a myriad of wonder
nestled here with natures mother
Time is irrelevant
other than the pressing
impatience of Another

To him it was just wet
bathed in ignorance
and bad for driving,
so he said.

I disagreed.
and had to take
the bus instead

Prophetic words
prioritise &
immortalise
that which
we embrace
then slowly paralyse

Realisation supersedes
idealisation:
Prepare
for impact

Taste
the bitter sweet
fruits
you have carefully
nurtured

Epilogue:


The relentless tick of time
Changes things forever.

Stand on a piece of common ground
Look around and remember
Saturday afternoon outdoor charades
The local bring-and-swipe carnival-theft parade!
a spectacle event for all the family to enjoy.

“Come round for your tea” is how it often started:
Then sometime after you leave
The wee cousin Billy
does a quick shimmy
up a 200 foot drainpipe
In through the window, out through your front door
Shortly that fancy new recliner you’ve been bragging about
wont be there any more.

Not unlike tribes of indigenous peoples
they never took more than they could carry
and appreciated the karma of their actions on the jungle.
It would happen to them next week anyway
Till then at least, they had ownership of new leather recliner

People change shape and move places
Old is replaced with the new
Angry youths become middle-aged men with jobs,
carrying children with smiles on their faces

The big blocks were eventually torn down one by one
Nearly all that I remember is gone.
The wall tiles etched with a secret love
Have no place any more
Just junk messages littering another landfill

I spare a thought for the lovers
Did they ever get it on?

Mr Green:

Mr Green, or whatever it may have been
Was last seen, across from mine (allegedly)
Pleading with some suits in a Greek parody
of his own life’s tragedy
begging for a Parlay of more time

I know not what, nor if your smart, and your no part
it’s none of your business anyway,
not that you don’t care for the man over there
He was just the spectacle for the day
or at least, originally it seemed that way.

Shouting always carries on the wind, especially if it’s angry,
More than laughter or nice surprises, I’m afraid to say
Roaming hounds were all some place else or had the night off
No engines revving juvenile celebration of joyriding
Another car chase at the end of another day

Mr Green, or whatever it may have been
Next morning was found
Face down to the ground
Crumpled, bloodied and broken.
Lips open
As if still holding onto those last words
In a motionless magical speech bubble which cannot be undone
Leaves him left unspoken
Leaves a Mother to bury her son

9th Floor:

Good for views in real terms equates as multiple times the number
of floors of glares on the stairs, some less random and aggressive as others
Some from young lads
Some from their mothers -
Who’ll squeeze their ******* for a fiver, but its more for inside her -
It’s always an Apache tunnel of prickly vibes and jibes with little to say
And neighbours who turn out to be mental,
Found in the gutter, covered in butter
and thankfully sectioned later that day

Balcony Life:

Sometimes I just watched outside, and it was a glorious day.
Children actually played. Groups sunbathed and basked in beer
Ice-cream vans were heard not far from here
Above a plane heading somewhere etched its mark
traced in nothing but just plain blue sky,
for miles, as far as the eyes could see.

Up the motorway, the sun ignites on speeding sunroofs
Toward the Campsie Fells set in a haze of bottle green
The white trickle of yesterdays snow cut like some dyslexic ancient symbol
A place for misspent youth and baking trays on icy days

A hot cheap brand coffee in a chipped petrol-token mug
Perched on weathered wrought iron painted brown like last year
Meant so much in that moment grasped and shaped like glass with glee
I remember that there is life in this here estate sometimes
Watching as you do,
from your own slice of life on your patch of balcony

Urban Community Living:

Some days I actually noticed how grey it was
All of this space, here around us
As our half-beaten stone trodden 52 bus
Rolls into its unfortunate terminus.
Terminal more like.

The shops have boarded windows,
Bakeries have bullet-proof counters
Staffed by bulky bakers-***-bouncers
A praised underground centre for perilous shopping
Dodge rival factions on various floors
Fighting for stair supremacy
And burly painted girls with latent spent applause

Some colour on the underpass is some relief
Only it warns of impending doom
for someone soon

Yours is not a caged minor bird
That has forgotten how to fly
Who has not wings to unfurl
Or a voice to sing harks of warm air
Even on winter mornings

Glide the up-draft and all it’s edges
Where you said you’d fallen from
And where I could see my footprints
Lost in the distance
Far below

I have no fear of falling.
Dive bomb the rocks below
or take faith in the air beneath -
Flap and talk of leaving someday
Ready a perch in wanton relief
and take what you’re given

I am not a bird
I have forgotten how to sing sweetly
Others make noise
Blissfully unawares
of the harmonium which awaits

As a sound or a note overheard,
captured on the ear.
Without knowing the scale
Or the instrument
But the sounds or an urban minor bird

You are in essence
as effortless
as air Itself

Stolen words
Silenced by emotion
Unsure of its own momentum
or direction

And Sunday’s birds
Lead old aged couples
On leafy walks
to park benches strewn in sunlight
in memory to someone they hadn’t met.

Porous arms of light outstretched
Rebuffed by the lapis lazuli hue of night
Frantic star-bursts
On every street corner
Facing south-east

I head North.

Pounding bass.
Sub-sonic strobes.
Synthetic smoke.
Alone on the dance-floor
I was glad to see another
clubbers curves move in rhythm;
Uninhibited by the foot tapping brigade
who watched with intensity.

You edged ever closer
Till our smiles became infectious.
An uncertain bond of understanding,
amid an endless rush of acidic bleeps.
Uncluttered.
Uncrowded.
Mystically shrouded in transient beats,
we strangers come together in unity

Your hips move to the pneumatic bass
as transient hardhouse and
tribal breakbeats embrace,
The foot tappers again resume,
Spontaneous rushes
and some sulphur that is sour to taste.

We may have unzipped and consumed
to electronic tunes,
but the tune remains the same -
Beautiful stranger dream a dream for me
because now all we have between us is
Rain.

Fear not those things greater than I,
that have yet to come.
Hence -
Speed your bow and arch your steel my son.

There is no oath sworn that will save thee,
Tis' backbone and a heart of lead.
Withstand weakness and a woman's scorn.

Nor' cry for a sorrow kept in time,
for you are not just anyone, anymore.
You are a Man,
and, more importantly,
a son of Mine.

Distant voices carried in the veins
Millions of miles of wire
Tightly woven
Outstretch your optic arms
From fibre to empty space
And back again
And all to say
The caller with held their number

Damp footprints
And a displaced splash back
Are all that remains
Steam escapes
Cold drapes itself
Like an unwelcome shawl
Over a naked body

Distant voices mingle
And some, I guess,
Mathematically -
Get the wrong number.

come fly with me;
remind me of my own mortality
that child dreaming of
the adult waning:
a depth inside with many questions
unanswered

sleeping rainbows
are colourful bedfellows
open arms with empty words
are these your welcome smiles
unbeknown to me

chase the feelings that disappear
like raindrops that ebb moisture
on a warm day

Where are you now?