i can
conjurer up words
mix delicate
intricacies of verse
with poetic license
i might defecate
upon scripted genius
   of the past
a scourge
on the eloquence
   of perfected prose
a pariah
with semantics
that hang in the air
like a frequented noose
the rhetoric of
this rhetoric
both dumbfounds
   and delights
the agenda of the learned;
to supress
the syntax spat forth
the phlegm and catarrh
of a gut
of derivatives

i could compose
a verse
for young lovers
   to cherish
if i could
only stop
the rot;
genius
   nonsense
      or ignorance
i couldn't
tell you
which

all was peaceful
   serene
      secure
content in this
sleepy isolation
with only the dogs
for company
had i wished
to disturb their
soothing repose
reading
a little-known novel
once heralded
the hero
if he could
be called such
was fracturing
slowly
on the brink
of shattering

before the incendiary
final pages
could be reached
this dormant comfort
erupted
interrupted
by a shattering
much closer
   to home;
both dogs
and man
on the highest
of alert
searching
for a cause
anything
   to blame
but finding
nothing

i am
considering
buying tickets
to a lecture
on the cosmos
though my thoughts
have often
dwelt
amongst the celestials
in one form
   or another
i know little
beyond
what was learnt
at school;
cursory details
when the vastness
of the universe
is considered

there is a desire
to understand
   from where we came
   of what made us
   how we came to be
and
   our chances
      for a future
there is
a radiance
and pageantry
to the stars;
an expanse
that should incite
inspiration
   and wonder
instead
this infinity
is a subject
dominated by
doomsdayers
   and
      doomsayers
without much
pity left
for
the rest of us

if i do
choose
to attend
i know that
i’ll be lost
to the magnificence
of the dwarfs
   and nebulas
understanding
at best
half
of all that
is proffered

to be honest
i’m not sure
its worth
the £50
plus postage
when i think
i can predict
how it will end;
warnings
will be given
and advice
   imparted
unfortunately
there is
no guarantee
i will still
be listening

there may
   or may not
exist
certain colours
that the human eye
is unable
to see
an insipid
   blueish-yellow
an unpalatable
   greenish-red
each said
to be impossible
for our eyes
to process;
if seen
it could appear
in all manner
of forms
but would remain
indescribable

they say that
butterflies can see
the ultraviolet spectrum
and that
the honey bee
sees in infrared;
and so
it would not
be too absurd
for a person
to dismiss
the "impossible"
to believe
in the possibility
of the as-yet
unseen

although
scientifically
the only way
to perceive
these "forbidden" hues
is through trickery
and constraint
by forcing the brain
into seeing both
antagonistic colours
simultaneously
and
without reprieve
until the border
between
the opposing shades
finally dissolves

there may be
a truth
but it is hidden
somewhere between
the plausible
   yet impalpable
and the proven
   yet proselytised

lying
on my back
surrounded by
the beauteous
and magnificent
i had intended
on being
absorbed
   immersed
      softened;
instead
that which i carry
proved
too distracting
to ignore

i did not see
the grace
   of the clouds
watching only
in hope that
it might
drift away
with them;
dismayed
to see only
cirrus and cirrocumulus
and neither
looked strong enough
to bear
the weight

i could not feel
the warmth
   of the sand
instead
focused on burying
attempting to crush
and blend it
to a fine grain
but
it would not
     breakdown;
its bulk
remained
providing
neither comfort
not support

i was not worthy
of the calming embrace
   of the sea
saw no point
in making
an offering
to the waves
only for it to be
rejected
   and returned
by the tide;
the swell spitting
at my feet
in dismissal

noticing the sun
hiding its face
i packed up
   my belongings
making sure
not to leave
anything behind;
all that i had carried
would return
with me

the pompous one
with her comments
as she slithers by
with
the rudest
of dogs

the confident family;
confident
     to a fault
sitting too close
and talking
too loud

the hypocrite
complaining
of the mess
and leaving behind
a scavenger's
detritus

the insecure sage
a font of knowledge
based on
hearsay
and opinion
with only
a pinch
     of fact

the innocently gormless
with no thought
for sense
     or logic
common or otherwise
but only
for the now
and
the immediate

these are
the passengers
on the
carousel
     of frustrations
for today;
replayed
rephrased
resurrected
over
and over

i think
so little
     of them
yet
i'm unable
to stop myself
thinking
about them

now
and then
i like
to turn off
the lights
let the moon
and instinct
guide me
swallowed
by the dark
there is no path
   to choose
only chance;
blind luck
balancing upon
   the finest of lines

eyes will adapt
to the pitiful offering
of the clouded crescent
but
there is neither
enough silvery light
nor confidence
to be sure
of safety
for long

in the enveloping darkness
anxiety rises
fear overpowers
and faith
in the self
becomes questionable;
headlights
are flicked on again
in panicked haste

as the road
and its obstacles
become clear once more
i am left
wondering
if i truly believed
i could navigate
without the help
being offered
or
if i simply
wanted to
force myself
into failure