Was told
they wheeled
your bed toward
the window for
your passing- that
evening when the
circled closed an
end on your beginning.
Now, we shall have no more
of all this talk of getting older

Return to something beautiful
to cure the fear of flying.

You
are somewhere close
yet dislocated, sheltered
in your centered peace
adrift beside all certainty.

We
turn as apron-ed satellites
in matinee of gentle speak,
our mundane, London-Saturday
the soundscape to your stasis.

Surrendered
to this bastion  of valiant
machinery. Your pillars
in this paradise of waiting.

Those cranes have earned

their sack of seed

They pulled these pencil turrets

through a sturgeon curd of feckless wet

to leave them where they lay.



Because of this

i sit indifferent, satchelled

in an unmade bed,

a simple- headed almanac

of beige and sable rhetoric.



My heritage;

an Eton mess

of trampled roman candles

left, by careless midnight masses

that come scratching at my door.

Lost leaves ago, before
the bark- clad savage
ruled with iron lung,
when  laurels of
a one- room den, grew
sleek with wet- lid plunder
my sauntering in tousles of
a quick and crease-less happiness
percieved the gifted wish of secret birds.

birds that combed the milking beech
in lemon centred madrigals
to cove their Egypt orison
from dragon banks of slippered fern
Who threw their mooted sermons on
a shivering uncertainty that bubbled
through my vernal rut of optimistic blood


Such useless pleasure, I was told
That I was not a Father's son
yet bore his term an absolute.
As all my nimble colours ran, I
wore his pungent bitterness
Became the thing that he preferred

Before the dungeon keys had turned
basket weaving weeks of youth

I took the gifted wish
of secret birds.

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