Good is the day
that takes me,
shakes me

sets me down
bedraggled

reeking of sky,
of apple-wood fire

paddled with passion
and grins..

Few candles
left for all of this

now comfort comes
in well thumbed books
and blankets..

A twist
of snowdrift hair
that tags you late
for thankless life,

released

a look-back
over years that taught

retreat


From
the cabin
of your fevered eye,
a love that passed you by
still shines,
impossible
in distant vistas

always
out of reach...

Ah,

You've pressed
me to confess,
so, yes,
I guess,
I want
my ****
served shaved,
dished up wet
and open, splayed
on beds of platform heels.

Got
love-to-feel
that sweet-meat dribble,
glazed and gasping,
leaking gruel, impatient
jellied-tremble bursting
spittle-clustered
clitoratti.

Feed
this greed
for lacquered nuzzle
lusting parted, finger drummers
busy down your gutted muzzle
animal intensity.

Gone
horrid-hot to
hit the sweet spot
lap that fatted crown besotted,
crush me to your sobbing lips,
when eeling on beyond minora..

Call your
gorgeous tensions in,
indulge this flagrant avarice,
unbuckle on this stubbled rim
of gorging suppled suckle..

Come!

Soak me
in your gabbled tantrum,
lather me in mosh-pit froth,
berate my deepened questioning
with everything you have...

Go!, ride
this wreck
of chinstrap madness,
****, this mess of upturned
tongue and grab this gin-trap
rapture with both hands..



All glory
be the dying kind,
who speak to creatures,
long denied, expand
the breadth of human
mind, with epic liberations...

Her innocence has depth

She is misinformation,
beyond her station
on the wrong train.

He is leaning to solitude
confused by the multitude
upset by the attitude
that someone's to blame.

          -------

In the transit of thinking
he takes her hand.
In the composite calm
she takes his confusion.

To commandeer
the common ground,
allusions to a moment found,
that stayed the course,
with hands still curled,

static in this spinning world

They paint their new horizon.

My Kingdom
is a builder,s yard.

A Bethlehem
of measurement
of plasterboard and timbering.
An interwoven sepulchre
of garrulous vernacular.

Expletive-laden badinage,
our handle of the hardstand
is the character of companies
I keep.

And unto these
my time is priced,
my soul is planed,
my name is signed...

but
in the dark
of winter evenings,
watching ancient planets rise,

I contemplate the other lives
another me, might live...

Dear Viennese Art School Tutors of the early 1900,s

If a highly strung young chap turns up
with a strange flick haircut, a dodgy
looking tache and laden with canvass,

Please dont tell him his paintings are
****, and that, perhaps he ought to try
and express himself via another medium.

Could save us all a spot of bother
in the long run.

Cheers

Signed:

well....er,.."Everyone"...actually.

Won us big
the ol  stank yard,

saw Maggie
over twice the shy..

Good girl
she was
and ever
will mean

nothing
to the lads
mind...

Glee to blade
all smart
an *******

gave, em glass
an brought em
gin, just

couldn't
stand
the rags
she danced
in....

left her
bounce
around the Elm

done well
my rigid
preacher
roots....

shone
my ol  boots
and
kept 'em
marching

frightened
fools
that we be
reaping

bringing out
the shift
and moving
on....