How do I play with this
Devil-dealt hand. When
Each card ignites at the touch,
Now my hands have become callous
And rough
But still they are clean, indeed
They are clean. I
Do not care to mend them
But I admit
I worry who shall
Comfort them, if they shall
Receive comfort at all.

How then, do I proceed
Through hell, through
This brittle landscape
Forged from badluck
And prescribed
Mistakes.

Perhaps, I shall laugh
As Dante does and
Perhaps, I shall dance
As time has done.

Even the pigeons can see the puddles
That surround the crowds
Of the Old Steine
But i’m not sure they can see the rain
And I do not think they will look at me,

They hop across the swamp-filled curbs,
Dipping talons, and washing
Their wings as they go, ignorant
To the faces that
Ache for their homes,

But I do not think
They will look upon me;
Not in the mirrors
That mask the street floors
And not during this purgatory
Of the bus stop storms.

And yet, I look upon them
In hopes they gaze at me
But they never will and
Nor will they mourn
When I am summoned to leave.

The pavements creek down London Road,
Slabs of stone lay uneven, waiting
For a misstep or perhaps a purposeful tumble
So that the day may begin.
A young lad, no older than twenty,
Takes the day’s virginity, and yet
He gains nothing from the exchange,
Left to curl into the floor, strapped
To an overturned slab.

And on this fragile surface, this new
Home of his, he separates the loose
Fragments of pavement into shapes
And size, hoping he might find
Some pattern and rhyme.

But the floor is unforgiving
And misleading, offering
No rhythm and no reason.

All this perpetual solidarity, all
This miserable conformity and lack
Of understanding takes a toll
On his youthful hands as the shards
Pierce his skin and convince blood
To pour out onto the streets.

He is tough but his skin has retired,
His exterior is withered and begins
To smell of a gloomy musk, and yet
His skeleton still dances eagerly on
Behind all the frowning rot.

Passerbys readily move on, dodging
His numb and hopeful soul
As they know it will soon become
A sunken and nameless corpse.
But, until then,
Our street bound friend
Seeks desire and fortune, but luck
Seeks privilege and passion, leaving
Only the welcoming dusk
To bring kindness to the streets.

He is not the only one, the sun rise
Washes dead men ashore, dry
And unloved bodies find themselves
Motionless and dull, glued intimately
To the jagged street floor.

But these bodies once lived!
Their fingers thrived on tobacco dust
And half burnt poorly rolled papers.

Their mouths fed on second hand
Crumbs, leaving a foul aftertaste
Perhaps guilt or malicious tongues.  

Their voices garnered an audience,
Proving uneducated souls could please
Others through word and love.  

Their eyes witnessed
The intricacies of the changing seasons,
They saw autumn wilt and winter born.

Their hearts pumped pure, drugs
And blood rushed through streams
In their arms and powered
Their merry croaking lungs.

And they were once loved.
Indeed, they were loved.

Perhaps not by their mums, or
Unborn sons but by existence.
Life’s brilliance dwells
In the dead men on our streets,
A reminder that merely existing
Is a burden, but also
The greatest responsibility.

FOR YOU ALONE.

For you alone
The crows will prepare a hymn,
An all so blessed coo -
A gentle chime beckoned only to you,
Hear it well
Or hear it not at all,  just know
  It was for you, my
                                        darling  
                                                     you.
Feed the timid birds  
       Upon the garden wall
And remember to smile
As you do, that exalted  
                                       smile
       You give to all,

And when
     The morning chorus
Sees the stars
            And the moon
It is  only because
   I am bereaved
         And  
                Missing you.

I have chosen where I shall lay,
By the edge of the stage
Just before the actors and
The ropes that draw the curtains,
I shall sit here
Watching audiences
And making tallies
At the pass of each scene
And at the moments
Where I see
Through the performance
But I shall not applaud
And I do not hope to be seen,

On occasion I may smirk
Or cringe
At the nanny and the kids
Who line the front row, like
A single hair upon a chin
But nonetheless they sit
Strapped in
Eager to watch, but  
I fear they focus on the rot
That lays hunched
And gaunt, like a plague,
Oh, whatever happened
To the man
At the edge of the stage ?

When the kettle
Has finished and boiled
And the Sunday eggs
Have been spoiled,

When the man who begs
Dissolves into the street
And the magpies
Squeak their last tweet,

Will they still need me
And will they still see me?

When the young boys  
Have been found dead  
And the obituaries
Have been read,

When all the red berries
Have sunk and wilted
And the groom
Has succumbed and jilted,

Will I find the end
And will I be whole again ?

This morning I dug up John Lennon’s grave,
I needed to tell him a bunch of people from the internet were outraged
And demanded an apology,

Squint-eyed, he chuckled
And asked me if i’d ever listened to ‘Jealous Guy’, and
Then proceeded to tell me to ‘*******’
Without even hearing my reply,

Given who I was talking to, I obliged
And walked away untangling my earphones,
After awhile I located
The song he recommended and
Pressed the play button as soon as it had downloaded,

It was an odd feeling jamming my thumb into John Lennon’s face
Just to hear his music, you see
The play button was perfectly placed
On the bridge of his nose
Just under the iconic silver wiring of his round glasses.

4 minutes and 18 seconds passes
And i'm left thinking;

‘He hasn’t a grave, he was cremated
But at least I found the apology
The people on the internet wanted’.

Beyond the marble cliffs
Sits a stone-weaved shore
Where seals often gathered
For noonday naps, drenched  
In the throbbing spirit
of the Sun,

Now the days are done
In much shorter fragments
And the tides hug the beaches
With firmer grips, passerbys
Fail to capture a glimpse
Of the great burning effigy
That rides the sky, rather
They must settle for
It’s lunar reflection: the
Divine orchestrator of our
Island’s waters -  

The unsettled Moon
Is sulking again, I keep
Telling the Morris Men
That it’s unkind to
Only dance for the Sun
But they do not listen;

They smack their sticks
And paint their faces
Shouting songs of
Erased archaic motives,

Whilst I am left
All alone to console
The burly ball
Of gleaming rock, and
The more tears I wipe
The quicker I realise
What an impossible task
It all really is.

help.
come rescue my dying mood.
   he's playing in the dirt again.

    digging his way to some dead-end
  for now, he welcomes the filth
    and finds comfort amoungst
      the earthworms for they
are as unhappy as he, lost
in the great mass of the ground
   and once they find their way
out they are eaten, or trodden upon
  oh,  it's not easy being an earthworm
  and my mood understands that,
    they often discuss who has it worse

but in the end it doesn't matter,
  they both find peace eventually.

Even the pigeons can see the puddles
But i’m not sure they can see the rain
And I do not think they will look at me,

They hop across the swamp-filled curbs,
Dipping talons, and scraping wings as they go
And maybe they will dare to disturb
The still liquid reflections,

But I do not think they will look at me,
Not in the mirrors on the street floors
And not during the purgatory
Of waiting out the bus stop storms,

And the magpies come in twos,
(Nana told me
What that meant once)
But now I forget, and now I refuse
To believe that there is any meaning
In two magpies singing, alas
I do not think they will sing for me.

he's back again
the ego's parasite
and yet
happily we meet him

he's precise
with his poison
as he prescribes
my numbed mind

"you are never gonna be profound,
you will never find that sound,
your voice will never be heard,
that, you have not earned."

darling that's alright
you lack grief
and i hope
you never find it

no reason to write
when you only think in blue
it's not enough
to paint the truth

capture a word alone
and all it brings
is stale thoughts
and halted desires

strings of letters
try to emulate emotion
only to be rubbed out
forgotten at the nib

and so he wins today
but he never celebrates
back to silence
waiting for the confident man

A thick, musky haze - clouds of
   obsidian - took claim to the city,
   it was a gift from mother, a debt paid
   for all the efforts her children
   gave to reach her demise,

   it was a nasty smell, one to end
   summer and spring, but to them, it
   was the smell of victory, for mother
   had died and the world was left
   for us to ruin as we please.

Spaces form between foreign fingers,
Resting hands go stale on oak tables
Where infatuation peeks and lingers.

Cups and candles placed like pawns
Waiting for battle, cups and candles
Lay between love and smiles.

Plates take their seats, carrying
Conversations and dripping mistakes
From one mouth to another.

Glasses touching and kissing,
Stirring desire into love, and
Teaching courage how to dance.

Knives and forks lay dormant,
Imprisoned to the landscape
By moving lips and perpetual talks.

Chatter comes floating, bound
To the bubbles and the foaming,
And ending at ears steaming.

Spilt love soaks the evening,
Washed out by late night dreaming,
Disguised as buoyant thinking.

Often they approach
In their passive strides
Intrigued as to what
But never why.

Gone are the merciful gallows, and gone
Are the deep cuts of wayward shadows
That accompanied the aftermath
Of a day’s work,
Now all the crass fellows
Are in the dirt, perhaps hollow
And departed from their history, but before
There were those who waited, mourning
Their blind innocence in the stalls
Where men of misery would whisper
Through the scabs on their lips
Calling out to one another, “you ****** fools!”.

Here, they spoke of the ‘thirteen steps’
And the ‘one life’ that regressed, told so
To humble each and everyone
Of their grossly enamoured necks,

Such precision could never be ******.
No, “it is justice” says the man
Who smugly wields the golden hammer
And those rodents
Who demonstrate the title; ‘lucky-lurker’,

And when the rope is snipped
The mortality of men shall drip, like
An untethered shower head
Perpetually tugging with the clean hand
And the only farewells that shall be said;
“Mother Justice, he is dead”.

(And they will say,
You are a stalk without a flower)

A Spring without Easter,
Where eggs are never cracked
And the rabbits stay buried
In overgrown mounds, perhaps
The green grass forgot to wake up?

(And they will say,
You are a candle without a wick)

A crowded room unlit,
Where mirth is spread
But smiles can’t be seen,
Where joy is masked
And yet, is it not bliss?

(And they will say,
You are a river without a mouth)

Dry words converge only in lies,
Stories are poured
And ears **** in the vapour
That fills the damp world,
But do I not see tears?

I have stolen from men
And I have stolen
From God; pawns,
Bishops and
Chess boards, bits
And bobs
That escaped creation
But I suspect it is all
Mostly fraud, or
At the very least
Just mundane and
Flawed,  

Alas, I shall stash it
Without a sound, but
Where do I hide my hoard
If those who come snatching
Aren't far off,

Where do I repent
For my crimes, and where
Does this robber of time
Find himself when the day
Has come to an end
And there
Are no more locks to pick,

When the candles
That keep the rooms lit
Devour themselves
And the night
Comes crawling in,

When the crows retire
Their thieving beaks
And refuse to sing,

Where
Does forgiveness lurk
In this great mess, is
There a church
Behind the curtain
Or has the robber
Laid a curse
Upon that too,

And tell me, does
The devil wear smiles
And glee
When she visits
To ask for the lock
But not the key, or
Is it you
Who visits her
To pay up what is
Long overdue,

When will it all end,
The thieving
And the pleading, the
Hapless exchange
Of leaking plans
From uncut hands,

No one now is listening
And all the ears are closed
To the ******* hands
That touch
Strangers’ hearts
Without a sound,

And now I presume
To ask; when
Can I steal the ark
And watch
As my guilt struggles
And drowns.

Oh, Father Time
how do you dance?
whilst not looking back
but perpetually trudging on
tell me dear old man,
what is the secret to
keeping up with the clock?

Oh, Father Time
why do you never grieve?
but witness everything end
forever lost from your gaze
dear, you must be very lonely
does it bother you when they leave,
or do you not have the patience?

Oh, Father Time
do you ever get tired?
wanting to retire far from here
or do you find joy in all this
all this movement of ideas
and detailed emotions
what would make you quit, my dear?

Wait for me there,
By the crescent tree
Oh, nature’s stair, built
From bark and root,
Grown from fallen fruit.

Wait for me there,
Where the ivy clothes
Swirl into white skin
And where the fawns
Go to moot and sing.

Wait for me there,
By the shallow pond,
Lie down at the bank,
Tangle in the lilies, and
Wait for the thirsty fillies.

Wait for me there,
Down by the thin ridge,
Where rabbits sit
And chew the earth,
Bit by bit.

Wait for me there,
Between the rock
And chiseled stump
Where moss never grows,
And dirt begins to lump.  

Wait for me there,
Where the promise is kept
And my time is unspent,
Wait for me there, darling
Show me how you care.

Tomorrow I shall go to the beach
And begin to throw each stone,
Pebble and rock back
Into the sea,

But I shall deprive the lonely conch
And the bundles of seaweed,
They shall stay on this
Stoneless coast,

And I shall sweep the snow
Back into the clouds and
Cut the mountains
Down into the ground,

I shall unsow the forests and
Consume the leftover seeds
And perhaps if you let me, I
Will persuade the bees
To disperse,

I shall do all this,
All this ******, out
Of fear
Of the universe.

Am I heard ?
Am I heard ?

Join your limbs, curl your toes,
Muffle the children, and knead the dough.
Pour the milk, and drink it straight
Scold  the postman  for being late.

Greet your lover and whisk the butter,
Gently frown, and skip away in laughter.
Speak in tongues, and kiss the door
Raise a glass and tighten the cord.

Stack the books and climb on top,
Stumble a little before jumping off.
Hang like the cherries upon the cherry tree,
Blossoms now falling, you are now free.

The downpour will retire soon
and I will be able to cross
  the rivers again
and gallop along
  the muddy sheets of grass, where
did I leave the picnic blanket ? (is this even
  the same land ?)

the owls seem different;
less intuitive
and  more mechanical.

And the elderly man (who raked in  
the hay)
has been sacked, I
hope his daughters
  will cope .


The hills are more frigid,  they
all end with jagged points
and the badger nests
have been raided .

Where did
it all go?  the mirth
before the  rainfall.

Don't worry for the rich man
and,
   don't pay the man who worries

  oh dear, is it not obvious?

     that,

    neither can be enticed
   by the other's way of life.

When the light has dispersed
And migrated
To another crack in existence; somewhere
Shut off from those
Who are so acutely delirious, a place
Where you can mingle with docile smiles
And weary half-shut pupils.

Somewhere shrouded in half-cut peace
And dwindling creases in bone-white cheeks.

When the light
Has found this place
I shall roam the foreign streets, ducking
My way through the brick retreats
And sleeping bodies, squeezing
Through huddles of gristly hands
That sit upon embers and
Empty stomachs.

I shall
Ignore all this and rather
Look upon the sides of buildings
Where pictures can linger
Of children grasping red balloons
Or of men washing up teaspoons, my
Eyes are welcomed by these sights
For they are dull
But so very kind.

And, when I am asked
Why I stand, waiting, on the curb
I shall say,

“I am Lucifer, fallen
From the edge of envy, shut
Out from the pearl clouds and
Tasked to seek a time weathered  
Question”.

I do not think
They shall believe me
When I try to tell them
And I do not think
They shall understand.

And so,
The brick and concrete
Will do, it is where
I have made my bed,
I shall lay
Wings clipped and
Smile cracked, hands dipped
In the gutter, and I natter
And I mutter -
These words that I muster
And create
Take the form
Of a twin-headed snake
And they snigger and
They slither, intertwined
And brittle
They pass on thinner
Than before.

The light has dispersed
And migrated
To another crack in the universe; somewhere
Shut off from those
Who are so acutely delirious, a place
Where you can mingle with a docile smile
And weary half-shut pupils.

Somewhere shrouded in half-cut peace
And dwindling creases in bone-white cheeks.

When the light
Has found this place
I shall roam the foreign streets, ducking
My way through the brick retreats
And sleeping bodies, squeezing
Through huddles of gristly hands
That sit upon embers and
Empty stomachs.

I shall
Ignore all this and rather
Look upon the sides of buildings
Where pictures can linger
Of children
Grasping red balloons
Or of husbands
Washing up famished teaspoons, my
Eyes are welcomed by these sights
For they are dull
But they are so very kind.

And, when I am asked
Why I stand here, waiting, on the curb
In my damaged demeanor
I shall say,

“I am crowned Lucifer, fallen
From the edge of envy, shut
Out from the clouded glory, and now
Tasked to seek a question, a
Time-weathered question”.

And the crowds
Will reply in their frayed utterings
And silver-laced mutterings,

“We do not know
The queries you seek, or
Why you stand
Upon the ledge of the street, alas
We do not know what it is
You seek at all”.

And so,
The brick and concrete
Will have to do, it is where
I have made my bed
And where I shall lay
With my wings clipped and
Smile cracked, but
I am not yet dead, only my
Hands which sit dipped
In the gutter, and I natter
And I mutter -

“Where does the Morningstar go
When the gates are sealed
And the couples have gone to bed
And all that can be heard,

‘Am I dead,
Am I not yet dead ?’ ”

These words that I muster
And create (these words
That I bleed and paint)
Take on the form
Of a twin-headed snake
And they let out a snigger
And a slither, intertwined
And brittle, my
Voice passes on
Thinner than before.

Will you sit with me in March?
And wait for the haze to pass.
Let us sit
By
The abandoned bandstand and upon the
Trimmed patch of grass
Where you once bravely
Asked,

‘Where ought we stare when the postman
Stands by the door and
Lingers there
For far too long?’

I digress.
And I digress.
Conversations are empty lately, they
Have taken the form of the streets;
Bare but filled with crass souls, wandering
For a place to buy pistachio shells. And
To snigger
At the dancing girls
After a slurred
Sinister joke.

I hope.
And I hope
That these men, these hollow-skulled men, find
Delight in the barren streets,
Like a treat
After a numb month’s labour.
Do we reject their
Raunchy behaviour
On account that they
Saved our saviour?
I speak.
And I speak,

‘Hold me to these streets, where men once worked
By the arching lamp post and the
Abandoned home
Of the Holy ghost.’

Will you come and walk in May?
When the birds
Scramble on the park floor
As if to bluntly say
We are rather dull and
Dire in the way
We walk and
We play.

I am aching and I am grey.
And
I am aching and
I am grey.
Do a man a favour, and do
Refrain - please
Do not stay.
Let my hair turn dry and grey, and
Let my
Age fade away. Please
Do not stay.
I have talked with the doctor, and they
Often say
That I will be
Okay for today and perhaps
Tomorrow I will not. Alas!
All people will
Rot. And
Minds never stay
The same type of sane.
Hearts
Will often sway and sway, until
They graciously decay.
And death yields no delay, it comes
When it ends, and starts
When it comes. Whether
Young or almost done.
The fun will cease, often
On that empty street
Where crass men wander, or
By the postman who
Endlessly lingers.

Will you embrace me in November?
Where my limbs are weak, and limber.
Where the bandstand singer
Has moved on
To some place bigger.
Will you let me go in December?
Say yes, and please
Remember, that we both
Surrendered.
Let us spend this time
In slumber, so we can find some kind
Of splendour
Once the streets
Begin
To busy again.

Out there hides mischief made,
Adorned in the smiles of tariffs
And trades
But in here, in these construed
And garnered walls
Slumbers the chief of miss timing
And improper confiding.
Untalented men take fruitless lies and
Place them brick by brick, until they
Stick, stick,
Stick. A miss timing at this point
Will mark the novice liars, and
Blemish their masked desires. Perhaps,
It’s best to leave this hapless labour
To the more well-tempered neighbour
So that they (like us) can weave
In the lies and lust
Of saying ‘I love you’ rather
Than naught. Perhaps,
This is the better choice, to lock
The voices inside, and silence
Those ever so distraught by our
Unconditional decisions and thoughts.
It is unanimous then, the neighbour
Shall take the job and you
(the inexperienced boy)
Shall vacate your dreams, and bow
Down to the universe like a
Daft begging dog. Perhaps,
Then (and only then) we ought to throw
The inexperienced boys asunder
So that they may learn
How to dance with the thunder.

It’s bin day tomorrow,
And the Sunday weather is meant to arrive.

                   Perhaps we can skip  
                          the morning complications and    

Lay intertwined.
So apropos, that would be just fine.

When our light has come
And dispersed
To another crack in the universe;
Somewhere shut off from those
Who are so acutely delirious, a place
Where you can mingle with a docile smile
And weary half-shut pupils;

Somewhere shrouded in half-cut peace
And devoured by dwindling creases
In bone-white cheeks,

When the light
Has found this place
I shall roam the foreign streets, crawling
My way through the sleeping bodies
And smokey brick retreats, squeezing
Through huddles of gristly hands
That sit upon embers and
Bloated but empty stomachs,

I shall ignore all this, and rather
Look upon the sides of buildings
Where pictures may linger
Of children grasping red balloons
And of husbands
Washing up famished teaspoons,

For this is their retreat, the voices
Of “wake up, wake up” are tired now
And have little reason to compete,

And when I am asked why I stand here,
Waiting on the curb in my damaged demeanor -
I shall say;

“I am unmoored and I am uncrowned,
I have fallen from the cracked marble cliffs
And I have been banished to the ground, do
They want me to ask their questions now
Or shall we tuck ourselves in and go to bed -  

‘Am I dead,
Am I not yet dead ?’ ”

And the crowds will reply
In their frayed utterings
And silver-laced mutterings;

“We do not know
The queries you seek, or
Why you pace upon
The edge of the street, alas
We do not know what it is
You seek at all”.

And so,
The brick and concrete
Will have to do, it is where
I have made my bed
And where I shall lay too -

My wings are clipped and
My smile is cracked, but
I am not yet dead, only my
Hands appear to bleed red,
Guilty hands that forget
To tow the line
And knead the bread,

Now I sit dipped in the gutter
And I natter and I mutter;

“Where does the Morningstar go
When the gates are closed
And the couples have gone to bed
And all that can be said,

‘Am I dead,
Am I not yet dead ?’ ”

These words that I muster
And create,  
The words that I bleed
And paint
Take on the form
Of a twin-headed snake
And they let out a snigger
And a slither, intertwined
And brittle, my
Voice passes on
Thinner than before.

Look upon the Royal Gardens
And see how the trees are aged
And starving, I have seen
Their bark shiver
And crack, I have seen
Their roots go rotten
And black, and in the frozen air
Flakes of wooden shrapnel
Drunkenly dance to the rhythm
Of the thrush’s melody, but
Even the birdsong has wilted
In the dull revelry
Of the tree’s passing, for

The holly bushes are few
And their berries no longer
Blossom from the flower, the
Thrush’s dinner is due but
The elm’s nectar has gone thick
And sour, and  

Where should the royal swans rest
If not upon
The shrunken coasts of ponds
That seem more like puddles
And by rivers that have gone still
And narrow
Making the water appear dead
And shallow, where then

Should they go
If only Hell is available ?

The half-moon approaches
and mounts the great
charcoal sky,
showing the distant
town’s men
why she rules
the day’s end, she
silences the tide,  
allowing
the boat keeper
to reel in the line,
dragging
his weight closer
to
the land’s edge,
straining
his heavy worked
limbs, he catches
the wooden
sea-scarred masses,
stretched out
across the rim
of the
empty bay.

When did the music
Become so bleak and dreary,
I do not recall letting chaos
Play the night’s chords,
And I do not think
My ears have grown weary, so
Why then
Has the music taken
The form of tired melody, why
Then has it terraformed
Into a tilted maze
Where notes carry
Shame
And it all beckons the
Same, can it no longer
Cure me ? Can
It no longer translate
My murky puddle of
Thoughts ? Oh, whatever
Happened to the music
That Dante sought, did
It forget what
Brought joy
And what bred love ? I
Now only hear struggle
In the siren’s voice, did
It lose sight of the coast -
Is it left, now, with
Nowhere pleasant to go ? Or
Perhaps it is me
That struggles to see
The genius. Alas, I
Do not hear the Sun in
This song of yours,
And I confess I am
Afraid of the sound
That shares my bed,
I do not think I shall
Sleep tonight, I do
Not think I shall
Sleep at all.

Departing from one mechanised coastline
Only to be summoned to my own, I left before
The others had even thought of breakfast, and

On the train, cumulonimbus clouds wedged
Their way into my skull, and
A fickle layer of arthritis glassed over my skin,

For two hours I was an old man, wrapped
In a red jacket that didn’t belong to me, perhaps
It was a gift from a platonic friend,

It loosely sat, half-worn upon my shoulders
Until my body reclaimed its youth, and
My pride decided to cover up the rest,  

That's when I felt it; a slight jab,
A tiny nudge, a brief discomfort, a weight
On my existence, an entity in my jacket pocket,

A tourist squats inside my clothes, clothes
Which I myself hadn’t yet explored, was
I just as unknown to this all - despite

All this, despite the uneasy riddle
Spewing from my chest, I was half-ready
To confront this temptress in my pocket,

Which hand would volunteer, the right
Or the left - or perhaps
I shall attack the outer fabric with a hearty press,

The latter is what I shall do, a tiny
Nudge back should do the trick, oh
What is it, what is it that lies in my pocket,

A hardened form of ambiguity, tucked
Away into the corner of the fabric, like
A faceless beast retreating into its den,

What is it, what is it that hides
In my pocket - a shell, a quaint cream shell
No bigger than my thumb,

What a fool I was, stunned
By a fragment of seaside propaganda, and
Yet I am not ashamed, maybe

I was justified to fear this shell, should
I crush it - maybe my worries will drift away,
Like the tide temporarily retiring,

Will my hands suffice - should I use
My left or my right - which
One can break the skin - my left

Hand answers, and small splinters
Of seashell scatter in my palm, it
Is only a chip, alas it is only a chip,

Now that I have struck, it feels
Unbreakable, and I am certain it shall
Now permanently reside in my pocket,

Stubborn and unchanged, haunting
The inner lining of my clothes, dampening
The fragility of what lies beneath, when

Will the sunshine return, the warmth
I felt when I first put on this jacket - it’s
All frozen now, starting with the sea.

and i said to her,
"will you tell me please?"

and she said to me,
"you are someone fine
                                 and
                                     free"

i didn't care, anyway.

Today is a crow day, a day
Where I shall mimic
The winged coal, and pick
Deeper at the ground, do
They seek food ? Or is it
Purely to play their role ?

They do not nest
In burrows in the earth, nor
In homes made of dirt, but
They have found their place
In the somber alleys
Of some wrinkled face.

Today is a crow day, a day
To wear a beaked mask
Of prestige, to uphold
My place as a distant link
In the chain, a lonely son
Of shadows and liberty.

I have become fond
Of their mischief, the way
They coo on repeat
At passing dogs and other
Furry things, I think
They only wish to be seen.

Today is a crow day, a day
Where I shall yearn for the wind
And some sharp change
In the weather, I hope for clouds
To conceal my dull eyes
And my betrayed wings.

I have never seen them
Lose their obsidian gleam, are
They careful with their coats
Or is it luck ? Or perhaps
They are the directors
Of all things lost.

Today is a crow day, a day
To stare with guilt
And envy, a day to peck
At redundant trinkets
That lay abandoned
On half-built bridges.

Alas, I do not know much
About the crow, but I have
Noticed when they linger
And when they go, when
They tire and
When they cease.

Today is a crow day, a day
To be whisked into
All the chaos and glee
That persits
Through echoed existence
As this feathered fiend.

Departing from one mechanised coastline
Only to be summoned to my own, I left before
The others had even thought of breakfast, and

On the train, cumulonimbus clouds wedged
Their way into my cranium, and
A fleeting wave of sloth drenched my appetite,

For two hours I was an old man, wrapped
In a red jacket that didn’t belong to me, was
It a gift from a platonic friend -

Loosely it sat, half-worn upon my shoulder
Until my body reclaimed its youth, and
Pride took sovereign, covering up the rest,

That's when I felt it; a slight jab,
A tiny nudge, a brief discomfort, an anchor
Upon my existence, an entity in my jacket pocket,

A tourist squats inside my clothes, clothes
Which I myself hadn’t yet explored, was
I just as unknown to this all - despite

All this, despite the uneasy riddle
Spewing from my chest, I was all too eager
To confront the temptress in my pocket,

Which hand will volunteer, the right
Or the left - a modest nudge should do the trick,
Oh what is it, what is it that lies in my pocket,

A hardened form of ambiguity, tucked
Away into the corner of the fabric, like
A faceless beast retreating into its den,

What is it, what is it that hides away
In my pocket - a shell, a quaint cream shell
No bigger than my thumb,

What a fool I was, stunned
By a fragment of seaside propaganda, and
Yet I do not concede shame, perhaps

I was justified to fear this shell, should
I crush it - maybe then my worries will drift off,
Like an ebb and flow temporarily retiring,

Will my hands suffice - should I use
My left or my right - which
One can break the skin - my left

Hand answers, and small splinters
Of serrated seashell scatter in my palm, it
Is only a chip, alas, it is only a chip,

Now that I have struck, it has become
Unbreakable, and I am certain
It shall never untether from my home,

Stubborn and unchanged, haunting
The inner lining of my clothes, dampening
The fragility of what lies beneath, when

Will the sunshine revisit, the warmth
I felt when I first put on this jacket - it’s
All frozen now, starting with the sea.

The end of the street seemed so far away,
Perhaps it was the faulty light, flickering
And highlighting the absence of tourists,
No one walked this way, not since the baker
Moved two streets over, but the smell-
The smell of bagels drowning in honey,
The smell of butter
Cuddling up to warm bread,
These smells had not yet
Escaped the concrete slabs
And brick walls,
And maybe that was enough
To still linger,
A faint whiff of pleasantry
To persuade the day to go on
Ever quicker.

Heather mounts the whispering hillsides where, since
Time’s genesis, hopeful men have retired and gone to die
And where their murmurs now permanently reside.
Where there is a home for the settling magpies, between
The bushes of bleached purples and murky greys. This place,
This stretched out place, sits under the teary drowned out sky,
And beyond the sight of the youthful starry eyes -
This place, this dreary place is coined the Sunken Side.

Gormless men limp out onto those hills, parading
Their depleting health and bragging to the clouds
Of their dampened wealth; all without the grandeur
Of uniformed marching limbs. Rather, they are more akin
To a slow drunken tide coming in at day’s end. Alas, this
Is how the Sunken Side has been penned, a place for buried men
And sullen men to withhold remorse, and play dead.  

Strangers strapped to strangers, glued to one another’s side,
Like mere passerbys queued in crowds of outsiders and snides .
This is no Holy place, and neither is it a Royal place;
Kingly deemed men are not catered here, rather only
A peasantry mess is ever vindicated, and spaces are reserved
For those sulking on islands, or those looking for new faces.

These same men bathe in buttercup fields, and seemingly
Fall in love with the briskly buttered on luck. But,

Do they dare take the Sunken test? Go out onto the Sunken Side,
Take in the hollow sinking breath and abide
Now only to the heather hills and the stranger men whose eyes
Are sewed to stars where each pupil latches
On to a flicker in the heavens, and men turn bizarre. Sparking
An obsession, and initiating constant digression with their
Sunken life. No, they rather regress to soaking in time.

Their need for kingdom
And want for graded inclusion outlives their mortality
And perpetuates their morality. Kingdoms always die.  
But the thirst for kingdom will never dry.
Alas! on this Sunken Side, amoungst the heather and
Whispering hills, men surrender their wills
And gladly give their final farewells.

you're my plane-ride pal
i only read about you
ocassioanlly hear from you
but it's not you
not how you are with them

how many years now?
two
but i've only heard you say hello
four times
and im afraid to say it back

it hurts my morale
to know
you could go
any time
and i wont know

a friendship left to my imagination
except you're not a dream
maybe a nightmare
one i've grown to love
and embrace as myself

you enjoy to travel
but find it a chore to see me
warping in and out
of conversation
like a ghost trying not to ghost

you love the anonymity
like a shield
against emotion
i've seen them break before
and when it does, my dear

i'll be around

they employ:
twisted terminology
& hijacked ideology
    a glue
   for
false comradery
    oh, what a recipe
   for
  a modern Odyssey

(and) the answer?

our only commodity
an endless atrocity
   with
       an
empty apology
   oh, what a comedy
such a self-aware
  philosophy.

Marble, sweat and rivers jolting away
This is the veil in which we play.
A city distracted from other’s gaze and
Far astray from the turtles’ graze. Torchlight
And illuminating words, spark a phantom turn
Ditching the foreign birds and when justice
Is spoken, it is unheard. Unearth
And unearth the doubting worm, feed it
The thieves of the land, allow
Them to punish the thieving man. Speak
Bitter and more wittier than most, tell the
Impotent and spectral ghosts that they, like us,
And like today are not entitled
To a rise in pay. Like the potato men
Who would weigh and weigh
And wade and wade for as
Little pay as
Fourty pence and a kind
Delay on their crippling rent.

Over and over the marble hedge, and
Across the pools of delirious sweat sleeps
Bountifuls of brush and deer, soaking up
The tears of lesser fellas, queer men
Back from deserts,
Tightening their belts and
Clasping at their mother’s gifted quilts.
Cactus sounds follow them home, prickly
Towns await in their ready made tombs, and dirt
Dirt, dirt filled cracks block comfort
And solace in their tracks.

Remembering when thunder struck, and how
‘Tough love falling out of love’ is a thought
Keeping the boys away from graves. Keeping
The boys safe and tucked behind
The garden maze, the green paths and walls
Of Europe's lavish sites keep the boys
Safe and tucked,
And in and out of love like a parrot
Stuck barking the same
Unpleasant rhymes.

Kingdom come, come marching towards
The heavy crimson sun and speak
Easy towards fun and fun. Men have not
Seen fun for some time, it was barred
From the camps on the riverside.
“Pick up a gun and have some fun” the corporal said,
“Pick up a gun and have some fun” the witness said,
And “Pick up a gun and have some fun” the grieving
Brother and
Tired mother cried.  

Fun has thieved the land, taking
Man and man away from the rivers and the lakes. Sinking
Man into water, and engulfing water in man.
Fun has taken life after life and
Watered down the meaning of strife, men
No longer tighten their belts
Or grieve on their mother’s quilts
But rather sip at straws and pause
The heroes on the screens, wishing and hoping
For more meaningful means, perhaps
As numbing and forthcoming
As their midday dreams.

stop living your life through others
the journeys of those you create
those are fantasy fodders
and your stories await.

Grass grows occasionally in
These stone-ladened
City streets, crawling
Out of the laboured pavements, and
Residing for a mere
Moment before we point our gluttonous claws, and
Take on
The role of accuser; shaming nature
For their abstinence.
We no longer want their verdant wealth, now
We favour more precious things; an array of
False saviours, endless labour and
Self-diagnosed health.
When the natural order of things
Crept away, we were mistaken.
Alas, the world
Was ready to forgive.
Persistent
To grow, and live.
But we failed the world, when
We blamed the world. When
We blamed the world. When
We blamed the world.
(The world has turned rough)

A grey existence with an
Absent landscape, removed
Of the abstract and joy that once
Mothered life and love.

and there it is,
her serene hum
so powerful, so beautiful
it commands the world
and he roars back,

and now it's gone,
a mechanical screech
so trivial, so precise
it silences her
and she whimpers away.