Myth explodes
in tinted showers
spectrums gather hidden forces
God-led powers coursing
through these vibrant linen layers.
 
Pith unloads
sweet minted flowers.
question matter, given sources.
Cadence laced with light, displaced
embodiment of prayer.

It has to be
a lack of sleep..

Insomniacal thought-police,
could only dream this up


Delivered from
a rolled-up note,
that bug-eyed trope
of one-skin buzz,
runs ugly through
the neighborhood.
Some duggery of skull-top
lynching underground
resistance, thinking
every shot, a tracer
bearing names.

They are
out there, now
in no-man's-land,
that orange hell
of pictograms
and all of them
insane.

Sometimes
when unoccupied
I hear the cries
of my lost legions

skin dispels
its drops of poison
to the tunes of lies
and treason....

Discomfort
pinches as regret
denies the liberty of
forgetfulness ....

We breathed so deeply
we could taste,
expatriating emptiness.

We  siphoned dreams
from mere escape
where minutes passed
like centuries...

When younger tongues
were free of froth
when softened air propelled
the word in hungered myths
of coppice smoke,
that somehow spoke of home...


Alone
but never lonely
in the healing of a wood

befriended
green redeemer stood
a deep fermented sense
of something constant..

Gone sparingly
about the lane
as I have laid some
cause to rest

had turned
the tide of thought
to leave me grateful

then I look to you,
as if I could,
to find you there,
the where, you would

alive,
among the latter
days of April......

So far,
the voices rally
from the vortice
of an underpass.
Endorsed by cavilled
penury, more yesterday
than newspaper.

but nothing here, can
change the course
of rivers.

Bent-double
in their algorithm
fixed within their fiction,
though, a sheathing of
their tar-skimmed blade
played life in minds
of old unplenty..

Winter-kin
they were,
come carapaced,
lenticular

Sat where
the startled couple char
that narcoleptic zinfandel,

untrammelled, in their
moon-trashed subterranea.

ah-ha,
my itty harbinger,
of all-means-green,
All hail!

(a voice not heard
since Woodcock fell
on cusps of wet November)

Your two-note declaration
comes with umpteen possibilities

emaciated yesterdays
disintegrate in sound...

There are flowers
on the railings

guess the place is
coming up for rent,

one wonders
where the love goes,
once the locks are changed
the doors repainted...

no locus
for the laughter
over Sunday tea
and homemade cake..

they scrape away
the old base coats
and blow the flecks
into the past

Of course
it has to end
one day,
it always does..

but not like this...

so, now is not
the time to lose,
that bright and burning
will, that serves you well
beyond the quarantine
of rich imaginations.

And, should those
feral torments run,
then face them down
assured, for you are
stronger with this love
that coves, your everything
and more....

Of course
it has to end
one day,
it always does

but not like this..

then,
to the sound of bells
we'll tell of days we braved,

together...

Stopped
by the crop-dusted rowan,

-the pulpit of Song Thrush,
of gossiping Starling-

The startling pew
of a tumbling hawk
made play for a way reimagined

Over the rising
leviathan ribs,
the sins
of a sea-pulled city,
diving, dividing
the room-cluttered skyline

peopled with liminal grey..

earth quakes,
to see you cry

but where there's water
there is life

a love that fights for air

aloof, above the alibi,
the ad-libbed acts
of subterfuge

where proof is in the fire
of your making..

Sea breeze
leaves my reasoned lips
a baffled map of goodbye kisses

wispish curds of milky-weigh white horses
riding out bespoke and breaking
making shore...

this day will never come again..

tomorrow
but a glib Gomorrah,
sorrowed in some foreign fold
of muffled do's and dont's