I found myself smiling,
a telescope finding my
own private Jupiter
cooped in the noose
of a bulb

Yes,
its stupid to measure in hope-
-  this I know
but I’m told it's the last
thing to die....

So why would
I sully such luminary
wisdom...

.. . In  kingdoms of
merciless churches I find
myself smiling

  ...the search is still on
for a cause to believe in

but I shall be biding
my time.

A
flame- doom plunge
of full sass waves
stash tears

harsh clatter drags
dishevelled praise
impeccably receding

The
bloom- lunge spray
casts  spume
rashed chandeliers

Tint
Incandescent
cataracts
intelligent
retreat

To Where Tyrolean aurochs
graze in cools of lapis prairie
, I have come,
In A Balthazar of star- led zeal,
my scarlet hunter flown from
urban zodiacs of anxious ports,
of ailing townships steaming in
their millioned yellow orders,
shackled
sick beneath the mountain's boot.



Through dim grimmiores
of softwood press
I sleeve,
In sympathies of woad to glean
the narrative of under_ storey,
bourne to earn my Eagle .
I  chance to know the trip of wind
kissed, sinuous on beaufort scales
balanced on a fingers edge to
turn October
into wine.

I will always be
that enemy
to myself.

Of loud mind
-Restless-
Of unsound habits.

An anthill scratching
at boiling blood , a
fractious, migrained, timpani
taking high- speed bends
on ruptured grips

My surface slipping
ever outwards.

Love in Evolution

There is obvious futility
that lends a potted stoop
to the crippled angles of
our misadventure.
Full- fledged in low obedience,
we are marketed as free, yet
we stumble in the attics of the lost.

What can ease the burden
of our constant measured amble
as we strive for recognition,
or survival- God forbid.
Who can say what matters
in our endless daily questing,
also if it really matters
and if matters ever did.


There's love
in evolution, kid..

Be ******, if I can find it....

The day is hallowed

  A fresco croft of Sunday shire
made Gabriel in stallion- manes,
Decanted into bottled ships
of scalloped Wedgewood
promises.

Trees
***** away in careful rows,

Well- fed matrons
fountain pruned
wear puff-ball cheeks
of flouncing gourd
that curtsey in bewildered
corns of desiccated flora
,
flawed by scorn of August forays
left as unkempt graves
.
Much more than these
stand poplars, ordered
keepers on their plated watch in
ruffled smocks of coppered
lime to tame the knee- worn
names of climate ,buckled
down the yarrowed lanes.

This day retains
its hallowed mien
as I pass through
these borrowed years