Healing hands laid to rest
wandering in the near light of sunrise
fumbling for fractals of memory
ambling in the haze of yesterday.

Stolen words and displaced letters
floating in the ambience of space
cosmonauts of distant planets
arms outstretched beckoning
the echoes sent from
a thousand light years away.

Time is an irrelevant motion
tiny air bubbles escorting life
rising to the surface of forgotten dreams
spiraling, pulsating in a heartbeat
chambered by grasping futures.

The underlying fever reaching
inwards and outwards through the soul
seeking the blindness of tomorrow
unfurl their magical delights
wrapped in the glint of a solar cosmos.

Drifting beyond the reach of nature
blackness surrounds with the warmth
of knowing, a million miles away,
as if an undercurrent draws its final breath
behold wonderment far-seeing
leaving strange footprints
that someday others will say:
here stood a sentient being.

In the distant lands of forever
misted light seeps beyond line of sight
where gulls circle above the ocean squall
lies the dream of ethereal treasure
drifting in and out of dancing firelight.

Within the lush and precious emerald reaches
fly majestic golden hummingbirds
graced in flight off untouched white sand beaches
shadows stand tall in the eye of a lonesome moon
and in its fleeting ephemeral decree
couple wine with unspoken wise words
and see them better received.

In the Eleusinian dreams of men
gather the cornucopia of breath
nourish oneself in the last passing of days
grasp firm the righteous omen
and embrace the rituals within thy beating breast.

See glowing amber give flames to creation
revel in the pagan shamanism
rise above the mortal coil of chains
craft a celebration
and in the haze of hedonism
dance naked in the summer rain.

I wiped my *** on Shakespeare once:
in the absence of guidance
or conscience or prudence
bereft of any toilet paper
the solution appliance
which at the time felt like brilliance
was the re-acquaintance of Hamlet.

In that transient experience
the resemblance of ignorance
and the reverence of indifference
ignoring the previous deviance
was replaced
with a new found sense
of future
toiletry diligence.

Lady karma
shine your light on me
here I am
down here
way down here

robed in tattered clothes
bleeding hands
a broken nose
stumbling
stuttering
muttering
mumbling
shine your light on me

Lady karma
shine your light on me

Near to bursting
seam-less
ream-less
close to losing everything

my job
my friends
my mind as yet
radically
un-cleansed
just a step away
from the edge
balancing
on the precipice
of the wedge

lost in the darkest recess
the corridors of the mind
drunk on thorns
the horns of plenty
that you find
left empty
and bereft
I failed the test
lady karma
shine your light

Lady karma
shine your light on me

I was re-assessed
more likely
just depressed
than a danger
to any stranger
and the homelessness I faced
with quickening pace
seemed at the time
like ill gotten gain
and luckless fate
combined

and yet it faded gracefully
in the shadow cast
by the midday sun
it would have to wait
and I go back
to where
this all began

I felt your warmth
around me
wrap around me
shine your light on me
lady karma
shine your light
on me.

I saw it coming

And

then it was right there;
in touching distance.

The

could've been
would've been
should've been

But

she faded
like a photograph
left to curl in the sun

The moment passed...

and then
she was gone

The American said: let's drink the words.
She was so right.

A loquacious gin & tonic
An acerbic Darwinian daiquiri on ice
A French martini disrupted not stirred
A mojito muddled in abstinence
A Belfast bomber & brimstone
Love on the Rocks with perpetual dissent
*** on the Beach with a dash of chilli & lime
***** scorpion splashed in ironic ascension
Dark *** stifled by the sting of a disturbance
Love scented petals infused with tequila worms
Salubrious shots of Sambuca
Absinthe toasted in lunacy flakes

This is my bar.
Choose your poison wisely

Practicality is the reality
of ignominious totality
the devices of all sizes
and the grammatical mentality
of systematic duality.

Punctuation is the *******
the ******* of every generation
the permutation and saturation
of wordsmith temptation for re-calibration
the aberration and consternation
that leads to misinformation
and condemnation and annihilation
of the constellation colloquial conversation
the abomination of language urbanization
the fermentation and ionization
of linguistic complications
the desolation of commas and semi-colons
the affirmation of their vs they're
the augmentation of amalgamation
is just the lyrical *******
of a hooded basketball top nation
the culmination of devastation
the gestation and interpolation
that leads to appreciation isolation
and justification acceleration
the modification and assimilation
of poorly-worded implementation
and the contamination of myriad exploration
alienation in illumination
punctuation is the salvation of documentation
against the tides of violation
and the extermination of regurgitation
the classification of discrimination
and last but not least
the liberation of misrepresentation.

I have too many memories of you.
I wish to God
if only I could just
let go of a few.

Only,
images recreate images
as memories distort
in time honored reluctance
I forget all that is taught.

Not the fundamentals
how to read or write
or speak
or eat
or toss
and turn at night

But the little things
that help to keep you sane
sadly lost to the quagmire
that is the brain.

And if asked
I will freely tell
though honesty
at what cost

Left with too many
memories of you
but too little light lost.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

Aural sounds of delectation
funk-fuel in fervent distillation
undertones of jazz-swing in migration
electronic clicks and blips for relaxation
ambience is my one true occupation.

The resonance of sound in rotation
the initiation itself a radiation
morphological alternation in isolation
as the hubbub of voices echo respiration
breath in, breath out, in elevation.

No underlying obligation, only inspiration
and celebration of collaboration
revel in the pleasures of sensation
like the first discovery of amplification
and in its appreciation and stimulation
embrace variation in all its illumination.

Seek out new music from recommendation
the gravitation towards transformation
the re-education and regeneration
this musical manifestation of civilisation
saturated in complex contemplation
adoration in meditation
the simplest form of gratification
the creative urge for diversification
and technological intensity
of electronic experimentation.

My brain can't
compute haiku's.
There. No. ******.

*sigh

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Your parents are....

The Most Awesome
people you have ever
actually ever known
right now
In your world

on the Earth
as we know it -

Parents hung on,
made do,
but hung on

Kept up hope,
The living
The one-time
They out lived

1000s of years of evolution,

war
and
resolution

The lineage
of
The Earth

if they're still going;
Why aren't you?

Breed or be Bred
Automatons
Animations

the forgotten spark

You are
what
You are

Just...

don't forget
where you came from

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.

lost in the garden
of beautiful flowers
rising to meet the dawn chorus

the tides of reason
and synchronised breathing
devoid of reason
no need for meaning

senses linger
the emotions are porous
like monsoon raindrops
clad in storm cloud towers

she mirrors in reflections
of her milky white skin
and the amorous eyes
and Loki's broad grin

lead the Viking
to the valley of shadow
the heaving breast
of the raven haired siren
sheathed in wanton desires
the beckoning of lust
and the follies of jest
the arcane pleasures of sin
pressed ****** to ******
upon his battle torn chest

leaves little to the imagination
the ravages of the beast within
graced with the fingertips
of a females caress
lest it not be forgotten
amid the gamut of time
and the crimson red lips
dripping with the juices
of the ***** of her King.

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

...

What is about some people
insisting I want to engage
with whatever they are watching
singing along to
listening to

Example:

recently, on a long haul train
travelling from A to Z
in the rudimentary rammy
to find the unreserved seats
enter the 20-something
alluring guitar laden
leather and tattoo clad female
tumbling onto the next table to me
unpacking as if she was moving in

munchable fruit laptop
gleaming white
in clear conflict with
the dreads and the beads
pumped in patchouli oil
drenched in love and peace
armed with a dvd
that would shortly crush the spirits
of every soul in Coach D:
the Quiet Coach

enter screaming chipmunks
hysteric children
and songs to sing along to
which she did with obsessive precision

insisting that Coach D
should in some way be
enlightened
entertained
entranced
and ultimately impressed

such was her overbearing desire
to love thyself above all things
give the peace sign when appropriate
and otherwise don't give 2 F's
for anyone else, regardless of situation.

consumer behaviours were erratic at best
if the Jedi senses
were anything to go by

if i'd had a handheld vibe particle device
I could have created a pathological combustion
and an accelerated Coach D A-Bomb

heads turned
feet shuffled
zips unzipped and re-zipped
open hands holding Kindles
immersed in philanthropic discourse
turned to clenching fists
the sound of bent drink cans
rusted cogs in motion
deep breathing

even level 1 Tetris
became too much
for the bald fellow to my left
who accepted failure
and opted to purchase
a large brown bag of beer
from the bar

GOOD CALL

libation and the pagan ideals;
imbibe thyself to dull the senses

I concur
and,
in exchange for our classic colonial restraint
on behalf of Coach D
I wish upon you the following:

1. You will never again
drink a decent coffee from any vendor anywhere in the world, ever.

2. Your laptop will
turn off during any movie you sing along to, silent or otherwise.

3. Your guitar
strings snap during a performance in front of people you don't know who paid to get in.

4. Your Tattoo artist
has an epic fail and tattoo's a defamatory remark rather then your lovers name.

5. Your leather trousers
shrink wrap and make the sound of bursting bubble wrap every time you move.

6. Your comfortable shoes
attract bits of grit like a magnet, regardless what you are wearing.

7. Your waft of perfume
is likened to compressed 7 year old blue cheese that has sat in the sun for weeks.

8. Your location
at any time has a global no shoot-and-miss policy for all birds without exception.
(even the ones that don't fly)

9. Your singing
is so electric that every time you sing in public your hair stands on end
and cutlery sticks to your nose.

10. Your beer is always warm.
11. Your wine corked.
12. Your water salty.

13. That this poem goes viral on the internet
expressing one man's words which mirror the every day person
working their socks off to make a living
and in the hectic hustle and bustle
one of the sanctuaries is Coach D
on the way home from the City
and the frustration and restraint
of anti-social conduct
and basic respect.

14. That I will be on David Letterman
or the Late Late Show
or USA tonight
or the BBC prime time news
or some such over-hyped
TV show talking about you.

15. That you will thank me for making you a celebrity by default -
15.1 and subsequently appear on late night Z-list celebrity game shows involving boxes of spiders.

You are the worst Muse ever
in the history of Muses

16. and this is how you will be remembered

the glitterball in space
wrapped in wormholes
caressed by distant quasars
peak at optimum speed
before floating falling
toward the muted aromas
of space age earth

the bile of industry
smears the planet in neon
one giant shinning marble
city lights stretch
in the haze from pole to pole
whatever hemisphere
whatever timezone
whatever continent

aqua is the precious mineral
few places exist where
hope springs life eternal
rivers were rerouted years ago
run by power corporations
who package it in sachets
with dehydrated memory

a planet of consumption
tectonic plates stitched
stapled, bridged and woven
the fabric of the world

we unzip to consume
revel in the electronic tune
that breeds our contempt
for the the lost seasons
our reason dilluted, polluted
by the tune that remains the same;
beautiful stranger
dream a dream for me
because now all we have
between us
is acid rain.

Technology:
how I love you and loathe you
in the same breath

your phonic ears
listening out for
a babble of distress
from a childs vest
sleeping soundly
in the next room

your ten tentacle arms
purge my words
and shelter emotions
across vast distances
for long lost friends
to find comfort
in 140 characters

your innovations
are the respirator
the breathing lungs
the beating heart
the bionic limbs
that help without want
to walk again

if only you could
just once
guess my words
correctly
just once
is all I ask

I invited that girl
for a pint
not a riot
and the black berry
ripens in the east
is now an improvised
IED

Technology:
will you ever be perfect?
or will you always
be evolving

how will you know
that you have not
stepped back
to be overshadowed
by an ape

punching numbers
searching for Shots
and finding Pints
in the middle of
a dusty Riot

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.

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.

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

I lied.
I didn't need filters.
I wanted a pint.

We swapped;
meanings
emotions
connections
and
words

Sliding Doors:
the what-could-have-been
replaced with the here-and-now

inter
connectivity
singularity
similarity
solution
ist
idealist
ic
pes­simist
ic
realist
ic
evolution
ary
ist
ic

In part
In truth

I wanted a pint;
there, I said it
plain and simple

Enter
the Other

Could've
Should've

being around strangers
I found my calm

You know
what I mean

just dose up
on more Amitriptyline
keep the Other at bay

just say,
i'm not home tonight

Thanks
for

You know

Being
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.

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.

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?

sacred
silent season
wrapped in silk
in your tall towers
imposed
with the
ambling sense
of reason
and ripe blossoms
bathed in ***** milk

never again
left to wonder
the aimless
riches of yesterday
and the golden
hopes of tomorrow
such are the joys
of a Norseman
pillage and plunder

I will rummage
your sweet gardens
let your woven path
lead my feet
free of chains
to your doorway;
and the Viking
stirs and hardens

alpha breath
against moist
misty white skin
my cobalt aquas
revel in the seas
of your chastity
now ablaze with
nordic sweat and
archaic sin

Let the games begin

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.

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.

There is no place that memory will not follow,
no feast now to sate thy appetite
no long embrace to give voice to feeling.

What remains is lifeless and hollow
the scant skeletons of desire.

The demons left to wander
reeling in the crimson night
lost in thy aimless gaze.

Do not pity me my friend
time is not on your side,
I shall endeavour to recall your face,
fight the fires of hazy change.

Left nothing but forgotten dreams
and the darkening of lost days.

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.

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.

Risa's eyes looked out from almond shells
glinting in the morning sun
concealing a golden buttercup glow
wrapped round the ragged peaks of the Himalaya's
like an immaculate dust cover
embroidered with a million clean cut diamonds
revealing the majesty of light
pinwheeling over broken shadows
and shattered solitary star-bursts
peeling round mighty boulders flung by giants
breathing new life into ancient stones
sealing prophecies of dancing immortal angels
stealing the remnants of passing moonlight
as the coming day reaches out and cradles
the last vestige of piercing cold night.

This was the daily healing
the warmth upon her young face
the smile appearing that would melt the ice itself
the young girl from Darjeeling
embraced with gifts of seeing
her nubile and youthful grace
belies the hardship and the routine
of carrying spice to the market
she was not yet even thirteen
the Lapis gem of her mothers eye
the little queen of all she surveys
sashays down the cobbled street way
nestled in the lap of the gods
and the praise of summer days.

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?