A walk home
                      Staggered.
A conversation
                        D
                            e
                               e
                                  p.

Such pregnant words
                                       Lost
Out in the dark
Again.
Are we still?

I shall never know.

Like a malevolent magnet
pulling at the ever malleable skin, stretching
years from womb to grave
charged electrons blinding
the eyes, moisture dried with their green grey cataracts
like smeared windows or dirt dull headlamps and
all transparency and vision
beneath the layered years left as muddied memory waiting
for the ever increasing magnet to finally make
the snap.

As love is

         the sweet rain
                             trickling voice of November

Is words in all proportion

                              whispered solely
in one ear to melt what candles once were

Is creeping to recognition - Imbued
                              all colours and shades

perched swinging like hammock

                              so still
in constellation of snow flakes

                              hand over hand
under shelter of warmth

                              a glowing challenge
in every soft shuffle
                              closer in dreams and mirrors

Is all around us
                             invisible blanket

To tongue, to teeth
                             exploding iris
blooms in fraction
                             as all beliefs belong as one

Is love, is love
                             the world over

Singing, is singing - Is love

The smooth velvet umbrella
                             each leaf free of rain
running through patient spines
                             dripping downward

as if gravity invented, in purity - This moment
                             for our vision

How nature becomes and begets

                             in bloom growth of light
planted on trampled stars
                             is birth, is birth, is sunrise

breathing the ancient hue

                             Is first steps of life.

Vast Winter I have you
Under cloud and sullen skies
Revolving endless loss - Life
                               Closed utterly

Over impressions of Summer
Like faded ancestral footprints
In arid and dry wilderness - Choked
                               We breathe
And turn rested on past horizons,
Sure memory poised and pressed
Unfaded prints as fresh as yesterday;

The aching of soft sorrow
Peels the ever intruding smile.

Under the Autumn pastel fire

Yellow and reddening browns
                                                Fall
Like rusty petals
Floating from Summers dying side;
                                               And vanish

In the sweet smoky perfume of bonfire

          Leaving their final reminder
          For nostalgia is several years.

In the garden
                they all play
thorns against the breeze
and butterfly leaves.

Red roses in the garden - Sour red
with sweet bread she brings, sings
and whispers, swapping steps closer.

A toothless daisy becomes a sun.
Beauty into beauty, shaking
               her hair undone.

In the garden
               they all play
thorns against the breeze;
she moves not to capture darting eyes,
watching butterfly leaves,
watching butterfly leaves.

A slither as thin
                   almost like grass - Brittle
bones can only assume such polishing before the
tiniest of cracks occur;

Like insects.
                     Imagine
So close, close enough
                                      to hear
that unearthly snap.

The snap as children we all took for granted;

Not a thought for the mutated deformity
                                      left in painful circling.

The thick dryness of grass stalks
and shadow thickets - Broken
bodies of darkness through the sun
as the day's last hour slowly decreases.

The opening of a door.
Bone hinges as bright as the first hour
swing open
                 then shut;
Like Venus fly trap
picking us off
                 one by one.

Feathering time
                        Through the skin
Of yellowing classics,
Elsewhere, not reading
How far I've dragged these fettered years.

Inky thoughts pass the fingers,
No room for words between swollen lines:

Everything is darkness and whispers.

Winters echo
penetrating crisp
and hardy ground, cold
blinding sun
early as proverbial birds
humming, squinting
selfish new born fields
awash
with its bleach
and dewy flesh, I
wander the spiney woods,
the icy thin shell-like leaves,
stark and barely clinging
by their stiff, season worn tails.
Ahead the thin whispers of breeze
and endless footfall
over trodden dampness
where the sun misses all hours
yet still
leaves a fresh air
and humble fume to heed
the lungs and echo.

"He's dead"
She said
In his sleep, died
Last night.
Unexplainable disbelief not quite yet
Mouth instant dryness
Slow motion, a moment
In between a moment
Like unpublished thoughts
Shelved in order awaiting
Ink inventory to swallow
Impossible words on deafness
To filter imploding imagery
Of understanding and all that was simple;
Like colour and shape, where
Only eyes are required -
When this moment finally becomes itself
And all terror and disbelief rains and settles,
It is I who also died.

Augusts' sweet rain
Dancing down window pains -
September yesterday dissipates
                 into languishing thought,
Like a glimpse of a dream;
A snap shot
Through the broken eyes of morning,
A wisp, a glint of memory
From midnight's rapid eye movement, and
Tomorrow's ever extending chance of death.

What precious stones have fallen
to ripple through the unknown.
A wilderness of insects,
the minute exactness
of wing intricacy
tick ticks in the undergrowth.

In grass by the footprints of man
the whole world has grown
around sure infant heels,
its earthy shadow lingers
as first perceptions of death

are weaved gently into fables,
stroking our children's sacred brow
wisely with sorrow - Where
did Grandpa really go? Yet

on the fringe of morning,
the shrinking world falling
back around our footprints - They wonder
with reason, posing their first questions
                                                          of God.

Feet swill the inky ocean
black night and starlight
dragonfly mate

above the crustacean
a simplicity of darkness
the breathing tide rotates

footprints washed again and again
around my hands the world

I feel I want for nothing.

My words are merely insects
Chewing at the pulp
                look at the last one

It's ******* the fu.llstop

Eyes hidden in words
Derogatory
Death is the outcome.
      .......................

Watch my expression
Suicide eyes
The rope is too thin.
      ........................

And every little word
Delves deep inside
I feel everyone.
     ........................

I deserve flowers and wine
Tiny thoughts
And gentle hymns.
    ..........................

I'm sad and unhappy
I know why
People are everywhere.
    ..........................

Timeless bliss parlous
Stained swollen limbs
Journey to the brain
...................................
Sweaty flushes, paroxysmal
Shuddering the dawn
Dying eyes quint, bursts of sun
...................................
Iron wings sink. Insatiable
to regain skyward winds;
Desire to glide insists change

Her first Pirouette

dark
to light
             like clouds
as if around the moon

Vulnerable

Vapour, nebulous,
          ghost.

          Distance becomes abstract
when dancing
upon
        newly broken eyes

Your pages
brown and leather bound
as aged voice
Mute leaves and salty tongue
protean by twenty chords -
Wasteland winds fronting the sun
carrying the most worn
of voices;
sandy words chewed to
glass,
shattering teeth
and
the promise of tomorrow;
as only children sing.

A quiet storm
as mermaids splash
the smooth lather
               which covers the brain
A love remembered
eyes raining
gently tearing pages
of a dictionary
               to burn
through one thousand mornings
an instant breath
against the glass
the shaking hand
will clasp to seek
               and shall never ever learn.

*This is the happening
as bourbon first hits the ice.

Sweaty bones, cracked
         metal and marrow ionised,
Rusty toxins dripping,
         running the gully of the chest
Freezes
As sudden as it had broke.

Shaky, quivering limbs; fingers swollen
         like tiny girders
Ready to build - Again
The foundations of another fix.

For Mary Adams*

The gestational carrier
                          Of certainty,
Picture frames in bloom.
Their photographs
                          As precious as petals
Outgrowing her empty room.

Falling now, slipping the fingers;
A moment - A whisper

Gathered like winter twigs,
Her sweet and gentle bones.

Dried grass under moon
shadow and woodbine walks

hang around hands wandering
the flowing river talks

intrepid, exploring all possibilities
of those three fragile words.

The first to fly the flock
does not always get there first

into September - March
from Summer
The dying warmth without

beauty in crimson, yellow leaves,
and chance of melancholy bout.

A particular dampness to the soul
must exist for the poet to appear
inherently honest.

Love is like a monster
With rose breath
And thorny teeth,
Red wide hearts for eyes
And horns of hope and faith.

***** given
Uncovered - Hidden
Under hand, under night
Through the covers your eyes
Reflecting the moon and dilate.
A dusting of rain, a romantic patter
Fingers walking your *******
Outside and inside we exist as weather
Breath of wind running with sweat.
Like the rain tracing our window
We drip our salty drips;
No secrets, preoccupation - Only
Temptation to exist -
Let me know when you're ready,
Ready to let go.

Time has wilted the meaning of sunflower.
Rusty skulls, crowns of crisp silk
stifled in their attempts to move, crook
and assume a new place in existence.

They lay in grey pallet against the table;

And now are lions heads roaring at the sun.

Night is black card
with chicken moon
pecking holes for stars

day is broken egg
with tannin yoke for sun
and insects let from jars

afternoon is worn
slow weather in vain
like leaves falling or
the smell of rain.

twilight is hidden
a mere surprise
feeling shapes through wrapping
watching the chicken rise.

Grasses wind flat, swirling
Blanket over the plateau
A constant of crashing tides.

The perimeter white wash fence
Like awkward teeth tied broken and loose
Scattered as a moderate surround

Ashen and fettered by memory
A dynasty of holidays stained
In its salty oak - Weathered sweet
With haggard charm, poised

On the peninsular
Awaiting its new meaning as landmark.

In bed
     The ocean
Like an aged boat, bobbing
Restful
Below the nights undulating
     Consciousness

Pillow waves
       Under ceiling skies
The shadowy smoke nods
     Silent
Unsealing the eyes

The rustling sea, rocking
Against its warm body
     Gentle
As the ever revolving tide

Boney ores
     Heavy and sunken
Swill at the vast inky ocean

Opiated and endless – Dream
Of one day sailing; leaving

This dark malignant sea behind.

like
a rocking blanket
               of stars
against the night
               loving
lapping quietly
               under canopy
of warm lunar skin.

then,
in the glimpse
              of Autumn
through the small window
              our bodies
lightly wrapped, yawning
in the sun's early flesh,

we lie
in a deep smiling shyness
of our first morning.

All whispers, light and evil,
Derogatory, slaying the soul.
This is daylight -
This is night, the stars join in,
badgering the shying moon;
I wish I was the burning Sun
crying my bleach over fields and trees.
I can't surrender just yet -
But my weakness bleeds
through gulping swallows and choked up laughs
falling on petals, sliding away with the breeze.
I have no light or tunnel to spot it through;
And wouldn't know how to anyway.

Bathe all past regret
Like Baptism - Delivering
Guilt, sin; lament.
Drift the wandering tides of trust
This new day will surely serve.
Yesterday and every yesterday
Knowingly can never be changed -
Awake fresh, anew each day
As if you've never woken before, shaking
The dark history from your hair.

A battle of chrome blacked armour,
minute monster,
              prophet machinery, plated
wings unhinged gravitate - Inertia
blade to blade, slipping
into green and shadowy light - Lost
all enemies of creation
imagined into a thousand pieces.

Cells stripped once again
in orchestral signature, the dark noted
animated story - In utero
climbing umbilical
                              down
endless shock of violent *****
and vaginal beauty;

The sweet wet envelope to the world.

A proverbial panic
As the early worm escapes.

The humming sun
Silvers a bush
       And blinds two birds:

A gambler prospers.

In sleep disturbed
              wandering pattern of dreams

lay flat, rested like receding tide
              washed lonely to the shore.

Eyes wide by close of night
              gently beyond morning,

circling far below
              your arms wrapped like ribbon fences,
the surround of your body's intent.

A curved milky epidermis, from dawn
              the moon drips a humble sign;
              Renewed our skin awakes.

We all are hi-fi
                    Hybrid music;
I mean the sound as pollen falls, hanging
Basket case
Full mainly of love, as
A generous darkening awakes
                    Its slumber.
Play louder we hum to it,
As it flows its course – Its nuance.

We are the main-line, streaming
Entertainment from the soul, followed
insidiously by shadow, and
all other craven gasps of light
                   Which form from the physical.

Let’s sit and listen;
Only until the end has ended
                   And all is utterly still.

Greying sky
Fettered by quivering, clouded seas.
Moon ripening bright
Like soft steel, soft
As a riverbank's close currents
Awash with arctic blues;
Winter's conception - ice
Throughout summer
A cool breath dissipating
Like a fading memory,
Weightless, humble element,
Polished, unabashed,
Windowless and bright.
Dull reflections glisten
Under strokes of evening sun;
With laughter
And gifts of love.

Woodbine spillage
Into overgrown narrows
Butterfly wings unfold to rest,

Raw essence in parallel pattern
Settling on summer's searing breast,

Bare flesh
and forget-me-not promise
Always remembered and kept.

Cast your eyes out within -
Small birds struggle to fly,

Clouds stick between feathers
and dampen at the thought of rain.

I have not become wise to aid flight
I was born unto myself - to learn,
to thrive, to breathe, to live.

Unfortunately I am a mere strand of feather
suffocated by that damp ever present cloud;

Heavy and waiting to fall.

The deepening red
Of stained eyes, tired

And worn - invisible glances
Precede the imminent sun

Squinting hopeless -
Blinding stretched yawns, frozen
By the ever changing winds

Bury rings in sallow flesh
With large kohl like shadowing;

A clown with meagre thought
And heart like deflated balloon,

Is merely a bag of rested bones
Wishing for beautiful wide eyes.

What a discovery
In between
Those yellowy perfumed pages
Of Tom Sawyer.
Your two-dimensional form undeterred
From your first installment of life
Some thirty odd years ago.
Immortal shell, you
Unlike your wind torn
Finally winter buried friends
Now of new purpose - As ornament,
As fossil, own a new beauty.
I dare not peel your fragility,
Your thin, dried silk like skin.
The new epoch which has now found you,
Daisy and Forget-me-not entwined
In still-life, frozen, embraced;
I gently close the book, closing
Your new chapter against the page
Leaving you for the next to discover.

A wooded glade webbed
Under a scale of stars

Mind suffering inquisition
As if stuffed in a jar

Then silver glows
Through crisp winter leaves

Yet shadows all dissipate
As I rise to my knees

Behind each minute, second
A forest of time

Clouds ebbing further
With the moon and stars inside

A pale instinct
As humble as a home

Each thought feels wind torn;
The price of being alone

In all Good assumption
pressing like halo

a planet's infinite ring
tangible yet invisible when close

the pressure unbearable
like an obligated kindness

sinking like heavy fish
swimming in blind hypocrisy

all morals resonating
and conditioned by fable

Hope wades through expansion as the bad and lying prosper

and the true and good lay dying;
their dreams turned to stone.

Sun
From rain
Guttering it's vibrating current
Feeding flowers,
Flowers from Hell.
They bloom through the cracks,
Cracks in our streets
For the dealers to prune and pick.
What chronic digestion pains, prays
For relief as petals scatter,
Scatter the windy alleys.
The night gives no surrender
To the lowly craving bones,
Caught in shadow the flowers blown bare,
Leaving only the seeds naked and black
Slipping the cracks
And dealers awaiting the bloom.

Behind her
        the sun shattered
into a million pieces.
The horizon
       which once held the sky, split
and fell in two
causing night to re-emerge - Unveiled
In front of her
        I stand speechless;
my thoughts shattered
        into a million pieces.

We come together
like the first closing

surrendering warm silk
of tongue like flesh

against the milk
between our skin

wrapped in arms
and mute quotations

we sink
to safely float
              and fall
behind the eyes.

The red sky, it's vivid voice beckons;
Wild, insidious mediations.

I sit here stranded
Old, wise and fettered -
By the memory of my trailing years;

All forgotten.

I watch her undress my question.
(The eyes answer instinctively)

I can see her lie
through the slow marriage of words
in her soft reply.

An answer is merely a question
                         Wilfully undressed.

In an instant
The vulnerable confidence within escaped...
Thud - As I cracked my head against the concrete.
For the first time
           in a long time, I thought
It was all over. I reached to the back
Expecting the fragile shell split;
The shell that holds my brain
But nothing.
Suddenly my left side went numb, tingled
And returned to leave only what I can describe
As pins n' needled heated to 100 degrees
Prior to their attack.
They ran from shoulder to my 3 middle fingers.
5 minutes now I sit cross legged on the concrete.
With fire in my fingers I press to push myself up,
I'm dizzy. I sit again for a while.
Nerve damage. Should heal? I hope...
******* BMX

These words seem blank
and unrelated...
My flow and vision has either weakened or died.
Too long it has been.
The lines are too thick
to fit my ridiculous, empty words within...
Even paragraphs desist from existing,
and implode like dramatic hills
attempting an evolutionary growth into mountainhood.
Rivers weaving, in-between, around and through
salty salmon bear jaws -
Like the pain of love between the *****.