I have an itch.
It needs soothing.
I can't scratch it, I won't stop.
I'll scratch until the crimson petals appear.
Watch the vermillion bloom against the white.
Then pick and scratch some more.
Feel relief as I watch the red run in rivulets down into a deep pool.
Hitching myself to an already aching itch was a mistake.
A mistake and itch scratched away with a meat fork*.

What do you do when all you want is to be elsewhere?
Not, another town, another job, another life,
but elsewhere.
What do you do when a child's scream of enjoyment
makes you start to cry, cry for that child's future disappointment,
your current disappointment?
What do you do when you feel envy at a bird in the sky?
Wanting to float on the thermal, up, up and then away.
But, you and that child who's enjoyment sent you spiralling,
have to remember, Icarus.
He soared away into the sun, that baleful, always watching,
globe of fire.
Purified by death.

Intricately laid by a master mason centuries ago,
the cobbles have become shiny and worn through use.
If we listen closely at the  echoes contained within,
what would we hear? The din of old, the clatter of hooves,
the patois of tradesmen, the fisher wives bellows?
Or, just life as it was, moving along at a pace we today find slow?
The sun beats down on the Spanish stone, firing them hot and
languid, pace has slowed, need has slowed, greed has slowed.

Dusty cobbles leading to cool houses, siesta has called and all obey.
The midday sun beats down, only tourists looking for quaint shops
remain, decrying the heat, ready to swoon.
Sweat drips onto the dusty cobbles, and is soon boiled away.
Blood has dripped on these cobbles, human and beasts.
Only to be scrubbed by the crow black crones that sit and watch the day.
Afternoon lull, boats bobbing slowly up and down,
babies rocked by a quiet lullaby.

The sun lowers bathing the cobbles in a pink, orange glow,
quiet now, Spain is sleeping, forgetting her past, the Moors are long gone,
the Armada been and gone, bullfights are frowned upon,
their Kings and Dictator laid to rest, only foolish tourists throng the
dusty cobbles, oblivious to their history, looking for that awful gift.
Spain's pain is echoed in her cobbles, few hear it, but know this,
if you listen you'll hear the heat, the pain, civil war,
pride and flamenco feet*.

Sunrise, and with it the heat of the day,
I lay beside you watching your eyelashes flutter
your eyes roaming under their lids.
What are you searching for in this sleep so deep?
I'm here if you're looking for me.
Open your eyes and gaze at me, see me, want me.
Sweat rests on your exposed skin, tiny pools of salty water,
like seawater I want to dive into you.
Disappear under your thrusting waves.
The east has woken me, yet still you dream.
Hurry, wake up soon, I want to melt into you and this sunrise.

Take a spoonful of hate
a dusting of jealousy
a cup of bile
and stir.

Set on a high heat
add a family member or two,
cook until tender.
Serve with respect.

Life isn't about sugar and spice
and all things nice, it's about balance.
Balancing the good with the bad.
Love with hate.

Kindness and anger, all
basic human emotions.
Poverty and riches.
Jealousy and forgiveness.

All of us alive, need to remember,
remember, what came before,
and ask one simple question;
"What am I living for?"

A coldness creeps through my body,
enters and, seeps with its icy fingers
down, down into my core.
Clasps my heart and takes hold,
glacially traversing my mind, body and soul.

I feel, wait, no, nothing. I'm in a dream.
Induced by drugs that calm and hold you down.
I'm Alice chasing the rabbit, but the rabbit is bold,
and I am cold, behold your cold frigid Alice!
Frozen, addled brain, makes no sense of the dream.

I'll stay awhile in this winter wonderland,
this, emotionless, frosty, heartless land,
and dream of sun, and hope and gold.
Upon waking the dream will dissipate,
leaving a shivering, controlled me.