Let me lead you
unto the darkness of the flesh
like a master potters gift
mould from base clay
into something beautiful.

Stand among the giants of creation
touch the diamond studded starlight
just out of yonder reach.

Lay with the embrace of golden rainbows
caressing stolen mystics
as love draws her ripe breath
clinging to the curved and ample *****
of moist and salacious longing.

If the Scots
get independence
will we get better ****?

I'd vote for that.

Maybe the 'silent majority' are like ...

hospitals, schools, fish,
whisky, natural energy
blah blah

The good folk in Scotland
have been drip-fed the
worst **** in history:

coated in chemicals
bath rinsed
molasses
spare car tyre
plastic
flotsam

***
seriously

No wonder -
Bammed (right up)
Givin it
Havin it
Lovin it
is why
bands & DJs
Love to Play:
'up for it'

'Hey MoJo's
share some of
that MTV love'

anything that's called
Council Hash
and accepted as the norm
reeks of class politics;

ah they won't mind
the **** end o that
they're the Scots

The Scottish Government
should embrace
a new Scotland
and the people in it

We want lots of things:
one of which is
better ****.

Crime will drop:
- sniffing car tyres for a hit
- sales of Buckfast
will fund the entire
South East of England.

Scotland could lead the world
in upcycling as
Rizla fails to meet demand.

Our days would be so radically different;

auto flexi time
carbon neutral

trams with comfy seats
systematically
mathematically
go faster
than walking:
a mode of choice

I'd vote for that

...

Memories:
the back and forth trajectories
the internal out-of-sync in-sync directories
of treasured moments, of pleasantries
and the reviled relived accessories of treachery.

My memory is pitted with chasms like Swiss Cheese
the phantom dreams of being hit by a car in a winters bite
the realities of unconsciousness and brain spasms
the fathoms baffles in batches and waves of breaches
disfigured features like a frosted window caked in creatures
burrowed and riddled like a parasite in the spite of night.

By the time id got to hospital id forgotten my own name
fortunately I had a gas bill in my pocket which hadn't freed itself
while being violently hurled over the red car bonnet
and it became the one and only evidence that I even existed
even though the A & E nurse insisted and persisted on asking questions:
my address, date of birth, blood type, emergency contact -
like Id have it tattooed on my body like a scene from Memento
amid the voices in crescendo and brain-damage thumping techno.

That was a few years ago, or was it, I couldn't be sure now
but some days I forget what I did in the morning
so I just have to live for the moment somehow
the memories like Swiss Cheese constantly morphing
to the piped tune of the cerebral banshee
buzzing in my left ear like a perpetual honey bee
makes me wonder though;

I am lactose and diary free - the dominant dietary preponderant
some modernistic conglomerate causing ultimate lethargy.
Does this mean if recollections are like Swiss Cheese
I am intolerant to memories?

in silent slumber
slowly awakens
wrapped in a cotton cocoon;
the sweet smells of sleep
seducing the senses

forget the sour notes
those bitter fruits
the disjointed limbs
the ***** that yawn
in the trickle of yesterday

laid to waste
burnt in the unforgiving ash;
a misplaced cigarette
and the wine rediscovered
hiding in the cupboard
which tasted of vinegar

savour the new day
the awakening
the red dawn

revel in the mystery girl
face-palm-plant
the lost chances
the razor sharp wit
lost in the sugar syrup
of many a Mojito;
the things I could've said,
I should've said

fumble
in the blur
another
Sunday morning;
the day after
the night before.

Beggars line the busy streets
cup and cloth outstretched
the look of desperation etched on their faces
like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph

they don't ask me for spare change
just a simple nod of acknowledgement;
even after a shower and a change of clothes
I must have their look, that broken beaten look
the look of the street.

George Square is busy today
tourists happy clicking panoramic memories
admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph
a list of names they will never know
and marvel at the antiquated architecture
to later revel in the wonderment of how anyone
in a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers
while they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt

I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance
to the passing of a woman named Judith
the pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings
knowing I've been there for 3 hours already
because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts
because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street.

The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway,
the plume of carcinogen cigar smoke
like a coal fired power station  in the sunlight
this is where they go for over-priced craft ales
with Sautéed Wild Rabbit starter and £65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak
a place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays
dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded
the half-finished defiance of another £9 packet
that was simply spare change to begin with

I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call
pretending in mime to be semi-OK
that the compadres are running late
and "tell me about the theatre show later"
the misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies
while my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco
and the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me
because I have the look of the street.

reach up, outwards, touch the frozen sky
marvel at the dancing shadow
birds in deft murmurations;
before they wave goodbye

lost swallows of yesteryear
traced flight and swift souls in
motion, like tiny frozen tears;
serenade the dying sun

gilded and immaculate
silver auburn summer glaze
to brooding blackness of night;
kaleidoscopic

marvel in the majesty, behold
inhale the epic simple beauty
exhale the stress of modernity
seize natures gold

Memories of when  
time itself was left curtailed;
the neurological pathway derailed
disjointed collections of moments
the remains of another life contained
like crystal clear components
that built a honeycomb
for monochrome bees
from broken homes.

The defiant silenced
by stolen snapshots
woven in between
the glow of her brilliance
and the blaze of her radiance
her cape of accidental rainbows
like the forgotten colours
of painted dreams left out to dry
and the midnight sun
drained by the bitter taste
of late last goodbyes.

The unfulfilled testimony
now on its own trajectory
summoned from depths of history
fades once again into nothing more
than a fruitless distant memory.

Beneath the cities phantoms
lie the beating heart of good people;
reaching outwards from shadow.

In the dying moonlight
an out of tune piano plays its last note;
warped by water over time.

In the close darkness
faces fade emitting anguish;
I wish I could find the missing piece.

That one remaining jigsaw
the puzzle would be complete;
and in it, I would be whole.

One last time.

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

Today I lost a dear friend.
She loved with unconditional love;
the type you can not buy or barter
she would instinctively know when I was near
and would wait patiently by the front door
a 6th sense beyond what we see or what we hear
what we think we heard or what we thought we saw.

She had golden hair with flecks of mottled brown
smiling eyes that knew friend from foe
loyally walk side by side
without fear in the darkest places
where ever we would go

I remember that time before;
id broken up with a girl of 5 years
she knew something hidden was very wrong,
although I hid the tears, let the feelings cower
she sat upon my legs, a paw on each shoulder
nestled her head into my neck
and hugged me for at least an hour

She was a lady of grace,
with the poise of pedigree
with an open heart for those close she loved;
her immediate family, close friends and me.

She would've made a winning frisbee catcher
that'll be the greyhound whippet in her genes
zig zag sprinting faster than the wind itself
hares and foxes was her excited prize
lay low among the undergrowth unseen
other than her piercing forever watching eyes

Yesterday, like any other day she dug for stones
chased her reflection on the water
and stood guard as we slept
little did we know the excitment of a fox to chase
would stop her heart and for hours after
my father, who kept his emotions in check,
was left speechless and bereft  
as he uncontrollably wept.

Today I lost a dear friend,
a companion like no other
an amalgamated sense of loss,
like a sister from another mother.

Her last breaths, there are no words
to look upon her slowly glazing eyes
wrapped in a shroud and placed in a box
she will be sorely missed
departed from the ones she loved
to the land of the chasing fox;
muted words exchanged -
the last goodbye
the forever kiss.

Corrie
Rest in Peace
1999 - 2013

Sensual breath of air;
a mortal coil for all seasons and
peach blossoms in spring.

Viking leaves footprints on
golden lawns trimmed in orchids
underneath the ****** cherry tree.

Star gazing at midnight
moon reflects stolen kisses;
her fingertips undress me.

Let loose your spirit
free to glide the crested waves
longing for deep sleep.

Breathe in your shadows
remember time before when
we were solo bound.

Lost in translation
but never in forgotten moments;
I still hear her sound.

The waves lap ashore
carried by an icy Northern breeze;
embrace loss and all that is yet to come.

I will not forget
nor let slip this broken heart
that carries your name.

Symbols etched in granite
timeless in the solitude
of unrequited love lost.

Farewell my ripe peach -
the fruit of your ***** to savour;
exhale the remnants of time.

We are the ***** purveyors of other peoples lives
renouncing the living breathing beating heart
in exchange for another photo of craft ale
and home-cooked food with a foot note description
as if it would fill our bellies and sate our hunger.

We are the dark wave tsunami of digital information
waxing lyrical about that holiday in Spanish sunshine
and a rant about car parking attendants and traffic jams
rather than the outstretched palm to jaw caress of realness
instead we line up perspectives of another bottle of wine.

We are the breeders of the optic L'enfant terrible
gorging on the memories of other worlds in 140 characters
snap shots of the life we could have had outside of the screens
the spineless automatons of digitized free love
the could've been, would've been lumbering electronic has-been.

We are the tumultuous storm rising fighting against the unknown power
we unite to save bees and coral reefs
and explore the concepts of actually doing something humanitarian
all we need do is sign the petition before the 11th hour
and be one of the thousand voices saying:
NO. We won't take this any more!

We are the saviours of our time and the rescue merchants of lost dogs
imbibed by Scrabble and Candy Crush weaving the elusive like a band aid
the tapestry of memes and images of cute kitteh's in boxes
chasing the shadows of reality on a stick for kicks
and all the while the moon is out there somewhere shinning her light
glorious silver light etching through the hash tag of cloud formations.

We are no longer what we thought we were. We are each other.
A haemoglobin gelatinous mass of misinformation and forgotten dreams
You are not alone. Even if you wanted to be,
my friend, my sister, my lover, my brother
quoting movies as if it were an inner wisdom speaking in tongues.

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.

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.

I woke up to the pious sunlight of broken dreams
drenched in the faded tear drops of yesterday
arcing like a broken rainbow down empty streets
leading to the septic tank of tomorrow.

Resplendently dressed in rhetoric
silk woven by congenial weevils
frantically fed on gypsum and diesel
weaving verbosity with loquacity
table a motion to make independence illegal;
keep the status quo unequal between certain people.

There once was a dream called change
proclaimed to be the prize of revolution by some
restrained and contained as hyperbole by others
the disenfranchised left muddled in facts unexplained
the vocal ambivalence of political unrest is to blame
as Union Jacks march on Glasgow with steel toe-capped boots
and in the George Square riots the Saltire burns in flames
as history repeats itself
and the thistle of Scotland is ripped by her roots
the first act as a welcome back
into the fold of the commonwealth .

Tread the bourgeois carpet
of 5000 feet
caked in airmiles

Enter the ornately crafted
nondescript facade
passed the chap in the tall hat

Rank and file -
standard issue pleasantries

Sign the guestbook
of illegible memories

Acclimatise to the room
of temporary devotion

devoid of belonging
or emotion;

the ruthless economics
of designed practicality

The impending ideology:
that what you pay for
you dont get to keep

That nameless hotel
dressed in uniformed vulgarity
is the fourth to be welcomed
as Home this week

You've been running
about in my mind
Trying to send me a message

But speaking another language
So it fell off radar
And into deaf ears

Trying to send me a message
Trying to replace those moments
and those lost years

But speaking another language
So it fell off radar
And into deaf ears

SdB '16

On the flip side
of the bright side
of the ocean
you will find me

behind the rock pool
beside the standing stones
is where my footprints
used to be

amidst the water vapour
and tiny salted pebbles
is where my breath lies
and resides in waiting

waiting
waiting
waiting

For you.

On the dark side
on the lip of the crescent
of the moon
you will find me

behind star HD 107821
in the constellation of Crux
is where my dreams
originated from

crushed by enormous forces
and caressed by toxic gases
is where my heart lies
and resides in waiting

waiting
waiting
waiting

For you.

I call it the Changeover;
like an analogue radio searching for a signal
sometimes it's clear
sometimes it's static
sometimes it's in between
somewhere between far away and near
somewhere lost in the middle
between Signal and Static.

Clear Day the signal reaches out its arms as far as the eye can see
and the ears can hear
and the senses can feel
and taste buds pop and linger
and revel in new experience
and comfort in knowing
and wrapped in wonderment.

Changeover Day is somewhere between Clear Day and Nowhere
struggling to tune in
backwards or forwards
or sideways or upwards
to something
to anything that resembles a signal
like hearing voices in another room
an argument through a wall
the indecipherable murmur of music
the clamber of ushered noise
the mishmash and cacophony
like a symphony of Morse code.

Static Day is dark day
there is no signal
no senses
no sound
only indeterminate fuzz
and the crackle of broken glass
and the foghorn
and the white noise
the confusion and delusion
the paranoia of shifting jigsaws
changing pieces that never fit together
can almost make out a face through the frosted glass
the smear like bird **** on a window
halfheartedly wiped with lackadaisical whimsy
and greasy chip shop newspaper.

In the Static there is no wind
no heart to beat
no empathy or sympathy
just
cold
hard
steel
out of place in a room of feathers and feeling.

You just have to ride out the storm
tell yourself:
it'll be calm soon
it'll be calm soon
it'll be calm soon

The Changeover
from Static to Signal
and the welcome return of voices
and breathing
and beating
and feeling.

Feel breath upon milky neck
give yourself
the sacrifice
for unchained paradise
and the gifts of life.

Thrusting forth upon such shapely form
the rise of golden **** and the
glide of swollen *******
such feline majesty
such magnificence of deviance.

Lay hands on nubile skin
deft and swift precision
straddled in muscular passion
the reins like a flowing mane
gracing the arched spine in pleasure.

Tilted head stretched
exposed form
catching dancing shadows
in the eternal midnight.

Call my name
as if a name
were a pulse wave
of unreserved expletives.

The chastity of yesterday
innocence lost in devilry
offered freely
like a gift to the gods
empower revelry
chemically.

****** Deeper
Give Give Give
again and again and again and again and again and again and...

No refrain
awash in pagan sweat
doused and dripping wet
revel in cobalt aquas
close in the rise
of final exaltation
the Alpha stanza.

BOP/bop BOP/bop
hearts beat out of time
heaving breath
encased in bone and heated skin
consumed in the juices of forever
and the pleasure of
pagan archaic sin.

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.

Even on the brink of freedom
when the shackles have been removed
and bodies drenched in aromatic wine
you seek vengeance in the name of duty.

I can only hope for you my dear friend
that when such time arrives
you'll embrace the wisdom of creation
rather than the destruction
bestowed in the futility
that never loved you.

There is no boast in easy victory
or laughter in seeing the tears
tumble from the heavens.
Set aside wounded pride
instead envision the shroud
of misanthropic deviance
mystified by the devices of illusion.

Wander from Argyle Street towards the pyramid shaped monolith
past the oddly named Benny Hamish - Sicilian Couture Tailors -
through the automatic glass doors of persuasion
up the revolving stairs of many stairs
sail by the portly security guard
(who looks like he'd be out of breath after a 10 yard dash)
along the imitation marble airstrip
passed neon facades and signs for proactive self indulgence
toward the carousel of smoked-mirror lifts
that take the well heeled to their desired destinations
without having to worry about their Chanel leather clutch bag
and newly purchased Christian Louboutin shoes

and I sit people watching,
writing this poem on a borrowed napkin
with a discarded betting shop pen

amid a horde of timid stomachs and twitching wallets
faced with a thousand fast food offerings
and gaudy coloured tables and chairs
littered in the remnants of repugnant non-ecological eateries
and Styrofoam cups and re-composite cutlery
under Noah's grotesquely beautiful steel ark
lined in industrial tubing and chrysalis shaped netting
and giant Art Deco toothbrushes
and 30 foot wiggly mirrors
and stretched rhombus sails
acting as a blanket barrier
to the blue skies and arched sun of the outside world
somewhere between
KFC and Burger King.

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.

beyond the storms rising in the west
beyond the lonesome moon and her outstretched arms
beyond the fallen arms of grace

I will be there
waiting
for you

beyond the stardust trails of memory
beyond the aqua depths of sea crushed forms
beyond the hallowed shores of belonging

I will be there
waiting
for you

beyond the sheltered solace of reason
beyond the heart-bled felt sinew of time
beyond the crimson ashes of soft kisses

I will be there
waiting
for you

beyond the mist of winters stone cold breath
beyond the brittle forms of longing
beyond the brazen neon of midnight's gaze

I will be there
waiting
for you

We have bulldozed the Garden of Eden;
we are nothing more than a parasite with an unending appetite
for destruction in the name of civilization.

Our monstrous monumental achievements can be viewed from space;
we are the cataclysmic legion, the unbeaten ******, the demon of freedom
with the desire to demolish and impoverish the last bastion arboretum.

We are mad and frenzied in our passion;
we are the phantasm assassin choking the very lungs we use to breathe
the misanthrope who carves materialistic thrones to sit on and wait for exalted death while we replant trees in self-centered glorification of hope.

We are doomed and we know it, but we still don't care;
we question science and bemoan nature for wreaking havoc, stare into the microscope looking for answers in the reverent appliance of defiance waiting to find the sparks to eternal life there.

We are the envy, the mistrust, the sadist and the snake;
we squabble over the scraps of apple peel and douse ourselves in ice cubes
whilst far away some African child walks 50 miles for a sip of clean water
we are the plague of mistakes broadcasting hurricanes to entertain.

We have bulldozed The Garden of Eden
now only the snake remains and there is no escape
freely offering the apple peel to those who obligingly accept

our epitaph will read:
humanity stepped back
to be overshadowed by an ape.

Feel breath upon thy milky neck
as he gives thee the gifts of life

Thrusting forth upon such shapely form
the rise of your golden **** and the
glide of your swollen *******.

In awe of such feline majesty
and the magnificence of such deviance

Lay hand on nubile skin with deft and swift precision while the other holds the reins of a flowing mane
Gracing the arched spine of pleasure.

Tilted head stretched and exposed form catching the dancing shadows of eternal midnight

She calls his name as if his name was but a string of unreserved expletives

He growls letting the beast within ride out the demons in the deep

and the now forgotten chastity as if innocence were taken but in truth offered like a gift to her gods.

And he takes thy gift gladly
And in return
Give
Give
Give
again
and again
and again

with no refrain or moments peace
awash in pagan sweat and revel in thy cobalt aquas as his close in the rise of final exaltation.

Two hearts beat as one,
heaving breath encased in bone and heated skin
imbibed in the juices of forever
And the pleasure of
pagan and archaic sin.

the oil of the high grade pollen
coated in sticky honey-like crystals
old school wrap and a vaporizer
instills calm where there had been chaos
oh how the mighty have fallen

offers to go places
live music in an alleyway bar
cocktails till dawn
a rave under a motorway
the Sub Club for legendary libation
and mingle with familiar hazy faces

and yet,
he warms to the four walls of home
the symmetrical wooden rail border
the OCD driven picture placement
the videos in genre specific
alphabetical order

outside the city streets throng
stag-hen crews in costume
tourists off the beaten path
seeking the Water of Life
students drinking the bank of mum and dad dry
mid-week workers letting of class A steam
that for some is clearly too strong

the hordes
of bar ******
pimping their Versace
and Primark combo
any Glasgow bar
where looks could ****

bar telepathy
means he no longer
even has to speak
just have the fiber
to clear the bill

This he calls home.

The tick tock
of the wall clock

Counting down
to an immutable sound

The seconds of Life
weigh heavy
on the lips
of words

In the white noise

echoes
the sound of freedoms;
sectioned
to the flights
of fancy

the bustle
the flapping
the aqua eyes

distant birds
silhouetted

Laid to ruin;

amid
the fading memory
of a beautiful
sunrise

Leaflet through the door on a 5K run for charity.
Spam email on the benefits of the Paleo eating regime.
Pals posting photo's of culinary creations on Facebook,
and Im in the queue for the food bank;
a hand to mouth existence.

In Scotland, half the people in poverty are working families
struggle to survive day-to-day and the basics of food to live
being asked to work longer hours for less money
while the politicians say they have nothing more to give
and the "Queen talks about austerity while wearing a £1 million hat"
(I'll thank Frankie Boyle for his razor sharp insights on that)
and Im in the queue for the food bank;
a hand to mouth existence.

Contrary to common misconception it doesn't always rain in Scotland.
This week its been 26 degrees, and Glasgow is awash in t-shirts and shorts, and beer gardens with bees. Cold beer never looked so refreshing.
West Enders in their top-down convertibles extolling the virtues of organic produce from Peckhams and their exclusivity price-point gourmet cheeses,
and Im in the queue for the food bank;
a hand to mouth existence.

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.

I know this guy, right
that typos fall out his mouth
like the crumbs from an 8 year old's birthday party;
smothered in icing
cheeks puffed like marshmallow boy
choking on the ecstatic hunger of youth.

I know this guy, right
who's head is stuck together with metal staples
like hooves from the Trojan wars;
part Grecian War Horse
part medical anomaly.

I know this guy, right
who can drink his own body weight
like a Dionysian fountain of beer;
spouting the knowledge of the planets
whilst mixing shots of Whisky with Guinness.

I know this guy, right
who's life revolves around TV and DVD's
like an electronic ****** addict;
citing smoking death rates
and wholesome low price vegan recipes
and the commandments of a moral society.

I know this guy, right
who's a combustible liar with infinite lives
like a genie in the lamp that's flammable;
gets four sentences in and spontaneously implodes
and appears the next night with a tall tale to tell.

I know this guy, right
I know this guy
Some guy
that guy
you know that guy
he doesn't even have to be called Guy
just some guy
you know the guy
we all know the guy

I know this guy, right
I know this guy.

I do not know your tongue
Nor have the time to learn it now.

I will test the depths of
your vindictive vicious vessel.

In the dark places
That hide in the hearts of such men
and the sliding doors of lust
and the vengeance that scars
upon thy face.

You will be forgotten
Like a distant memory
that leaves a bitter taste
and a pungent trail
leading to your lonely doom
in the haunted chasms of your mind
and frozen heart of any room
you enter.

How I mourned for you
The dry tears evaporate
and the delicate flower
that could have so easily bloomed
replaced by prickly thorns
now wrapped in the futures
of your twisted gloom.

Black Space
(eyes without a face)
Poverty lingers
like an ill gotten taste
giving up her secrets to no man;
teaching lessons in life
at every turn.

Poverty taught me to be frugal
how to beg, borrow or steal
live on £1 a day to eat once a day
the truthful instinctual perusal
the unreal zeal
blocking the thoughts of hunger
the puerile senses;
the basics on how to feel.

In the near dark I found you
sheltering from the storm
under the bridge just like I was
wrapped in mottled harsh cloth
sitting on cardboard for warmth.

You spoke many languages
had a degree in anthropology
and a penchant for gambling
and alcohol;
we shared a bowl
of disregarded noodles
in the rain.

thick skin;
born from years
of frustration
exile
and failure

a diamond fella
they called him
a gentle man
by any other name
in my book

always with open arms
giving his time freely
helping people
was his vice
and ultimately
his undoing

understated in beige
camouflaged in denim
cloaked in 3-0-1 zips
sipping a beer
I've never even heard of

all the time I knew him
every time I saw him
sat on his own
or propping up the bar
he was playing Worms
the 2007 Edition
on a retro brick mobile

just to be around people
the social animal inside
drawn like a moth to the flame
the flickering glow
the background chatter
the clinking of glasses

the deluge of laughter
surfing the vibes of waves
drowned in the welcomed
cacophony of bar culture

he was everywhere
and nowhere
the man with no name
seemingly knowing everyone
but he always
sat alone

tonight my friend
someone
somewhere
is raising a glass
with your
name on it

You were my rock
my shoulder boulder
eroded over time by mental health
that crept into the room by stealth
but remember all we talked about
you were the foundation
the building blocks
the "we can do this".

Navigate the spell of despair
bear the insignia with pride
dispel and expel the mental scars to bare
we were a team dude
you were my rock in the storm
we were shorn from the same cloth
you and I.

Never ones to shelter from the thunderstorm
arms outwards, dancing in hedonistic pleasure
revel in the present and like Leftfield said:
Release The Pressure.

We were Gods mate, legends in our own time
I am left to decipher why man why
you felt so alone you couldn't reach out
to family, to a friend and have a good cry;
I would've held you mate
like you held me that day.

I had a call from an unknown number
I picked it up in random wonder
to be told your body was found this morning
attached to a home-made rope
feet in shadow by your painted awning
utterly gutted
my brain waves disrupted
that my Sifu, my Teacher, My Friend
life was suddenly spent.

I just sent a letter of poems
for you to read with my consent.

I feel lost.
I feel broken.
The demons we talked about
I've kept them in control
now out of control
the devils have awoken.

You were my friend
like a brother
from another mother

I am left to wonder
where are you now
but know now that your pain has ceased
there will always be a jigsaw piece
of the blue sky missing;
go with God my friend
and forever rest in peace.

the chalice of fire
glitters in the darkness
spirals in space
wrapped in wire
good vibrations
litter every street corner
sparkled eyes
sensual lips
and a warm wise face

I welcomed you
ushered you in
from the dark
and you stole
the one thing
I could not replace

Love

you are a ray of light
in a world bathed in shadow
the double rainbow
of luminescent colour
as the moments of memory
fade into distant shallows.

you are the uncoiled mind
the evaporation of tears
the shades of opulent grey
and the world I leave behind.

still.
bent.
but not broken

the torments of youth
of love lost
and the quickening
of years
left to ponder
the unspoken.

She stands tall and proud, her elegant architecture that even on winter mornings warms an icy breath and sates an empty belly.

In the burst of sunlight, beyond and through the trees, she is a muffle of loud voices, calling out a name, I can't quite catch it, in the rush of a westerly wind and the swirl of Autumn leaves.

The echoes bounce off the bark, and in her resonance heralds the death knell of the light and the coming of the children of the dark.

The moon wrestles in a patchwork cloudy sky, and I the Watcher can do nothing to halt time or the tide.

Left to watch as the Belle Tower fades from sight, silently she hides in the long shadow, and like the moonlight between the trees, flickers as she slowly passes me by.

"Actually smearing grape jelly on your body and
running backwards in a cornfield doesn't sound half bad"

He said...

Looking forlorn outside a single glazed cracked window
comforted by burnt toast with jam
birch leaves laden with rain
carrying the weight of the heavens
blistered in angst and the Memoirs of The Sad
awash in the broken remnants of forgotten pain.

"in this pocket I have an itsy tiny universe
encased in an iridescent blue marble"

He said...

The Bearded Glaswegian Baptist evokes the reminiscent's
of a time before when we were all beard-less
lost in the dithering embryonic stutter mumble of life
diving gulls dunking for forgotten baubles and clear cut skulls

"I'd love to crush my ribs in this little beauty"

She said...

Stolen transmits of other worldly delights
like the chastity of a whale bone corset
strapped between the clunky and broad duty
of land licked silken shrouded soft moonlight

"so he totally set light to the kitchen table cloth
blowing out those candles and for some unknown reason
the family all gave a cheer. Thank God for Morphine"

They said...

Hiding in the sheltered shadows camouflaged in errors
mottled by the hues of indecision and impractical precision
lie the instabilities of truth in a blend of Codeine and Jasmine

"My brain cells keep fighting with each other! Poetry and Beer!"

She said...

Outcries of the exalted, bathed in salted peanuts
and yesterdays microwave meal
and the welcome stench of random ***
vibrates the very cherry of the soul and brings it to tears

"Enter the Dragon always makes me think of ******* Maggie Thatcher
*Christ that was a horrible night"

He said...

The shivers of monumental disgust run like an odious puddle
thoughts go out for Dennis knitting his escape hatch
and the unpronounceable muddle that befits the grave of beasts
and the microscopic sentiments of utter shameless sights

"Except for the offspring, soap and shampoo, This [all] makes sense"

Was the death knell...

Lost in ageless rhymes in legion soaked in the punishable treason
Purified by the age of reason and magnified by the madness of time
to think that any of the world makes sense at all if this is a slice
think twice before engaging the brain, and hence
if this is normal for you then at least
I know
Im actually sane.

Broken sleep and unfulfilled dreams
caught in the middle of a cacophony;
a neighbours wife in exalted ecstasy
so loud I now know all his names by memory
and an early morning mobile car wash
high pressure jet stream like a jet engine -
a non-stop bass clef low key in E;
the worst drone gig in history.

Today I will undoubtedly
look unfavourably
upon the the world.
Lets just hope there's a dearth
and a paucity of screaming children
in the speeding tin can to work.

So....
you were tactile
when we first met
the showing
and, then,
seemingly
welcoming

But....
And....
(it was easy to beguile him)

I wanted something
You had something
we agreed with smiles
(nothing written down)
....
regret is but an emotion;
not a dribble of ink.
....
chasing shadows
springbok in season;
sharp claws
arched back;
pounce.
....
The Prey just rang the buzzer
(three chapters later....)
....
So you have to leave now -
Thanks for playing my game
I am not interested any more
I have had my enjoyment
(at your expense)
....
you can go now
....
Leave
more confused
....
than when you
Arrived
....
She purrs
>
Who is next?

I am Monster:
rough hewn spent and jaded
a loaded revolver
the dark harbour
an improper conduct sponsor
the acerbated and saturated
sympathy and empathy terminated
smarter, harder and sharper
sense of honour departed
a cloned armoured martyr
an existence where love has faded
or simply overused and left degraded.

I am Monster:
shaped by unfortunate events
a life of sharpened steel
etched with the scent of malcontent
chaotic defiance and suicidal descent
the rise of the paragon of zeal
masked in the stench of the surreal
lurking in shadows dark
that leaves its presence felt
like a silent tsunami watermark.

That voice in my head
speaking in tongues
his tasteless insipid breath
fills my lungs
the only respite
is prescribed medication
and meditation dictates;
navigate the monster
and his origin appellation
will have to wait.

The sorrow I borrow
and the chaos I bring
like liquid will eventually
rescind like the pulse of a wasp sting
the poison will dissipate
and then evaporate
in the predisposed
wrath of tomorrow.

my heart bleeds for the Lost Children of Tomorrow
cut down in their infant prime
a community broken by sorrow
families in turmoil
united, saddened, enraged and loyal.

what happened in Connecticut the other day
is just ******* wrong
I rarely swear in my poems
but the feelings too strong
I struggle to express
20 children killed
lest, the very thought
leaves the spine frozen and chilled

Im not one to be political
and this poem isn't satirical
we talk about the Lost Children of America
but what of the Lost Children of Gaza
200 killed, bombed and shot
in their schools, in their homes, in the plaza
do we protest that these atrocities must stop?
we outcry at the public consumption of guns
but are we fickle to which news story
that leaves us shell shocked and stunned

perhaps we have become dehumanised
to the daily statistics of death;
we should write eulogies
for all the Lost Children of Tomorrow
not just for those from the West

my heart bleeds for the Lost Children of Tomorrow
cut down in their infant prime
leaves a world broken by sorrow
in a race against time
lets not forget the other nations
at this time of giving;
we should be a race united
for the love & for the living

I shed a tear let it not be for nothing
please do not scan read the poems meaning
or dismiss it as poor verse
because it demands of your feelings;
if the emotions were blood vessels
the arteries would burst

we are all poets here
with words to share
put our hearts online
our emotions laid bare
I ask very little of you
Only,
lets not forget the many
when we eulogise the few

My Sister's a Poet.
She's the one who showed me the Path.
Introduced me to Maya Angelou and Ben Okri.
Taught me what a nom de plume was;
I could be anyone I wanted to be.

My Sister's a Poet.
She's the one who led the way of the Word.
Introduced me to Dylan Thomas and W.B. Yeats.
Taught me how to use a metaphor;
I could describe myself in analogies.

My Sister's a Poet.
She's the one who pointed the Way.
Introduced me to Sylvia Plath and Ezra Pound.
Taught me what Love could be in symmetry;
I could be the outstretched arm of mirrored caress.

My Sister's a Poet.
She's the reason I am Here and you reading This.
Introduced me to Poems on the Underground.
Taught me the creative cathartic value of words;
I have her to thank for giving my voice meaning.

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.

Words create wonderful moments
and destroy the things we cherish

Words create unions in adversity
and describe the things we relish

Words define actions made in jest
and crush the spirit of possibility

Words are a brutal stab to the chest
and the drowning of its immensity

The step back into the gloom
via the perpetual rejection

and the windows
with no rooms

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

Somewhere in the darkness
a godless conscience
wraps itself like a garment
the forgotten harlot
of monstrous prophets
gifting rocket droplets
in exchange for dancing shadows.

Muted in this world of words
stranded by the curb of verbs
caked in adjectives and nouns
and assimilated synchronized sounds
the subvert of the truly disturbed
to utter the unspoken
and mumbles left unheard
skin on skin on skin
left cracked and bleeding and broken
each time awoken
by the screeching echoes
the crescendo of burning sparrows
the stench of rotten carcasses
blinded by invisible needles unseen
accompanied by the shallows of
the sour and salted and hollow dreams.

The mask invades
where no other light remains
like bricked up windowpanes
the silence of the hurricane
and etched tears of faultless
fruitless freedoms refrain
shuttered and shattered and seething
in time to come, but until then
Inexorably
I call out her name
each time I'm breathing.