Everyone's tired of
Brexit, us more than
the politicians, at least
they don't know what's
going on. Everything we
see with an X brings it
to mind, even Weet-bix
and that is an AM staple.

Oxo cubes, Paxo Stuffing,
its everywhere, lunchtime.

In the evening down the
pub we have Castlemaine
xxxx.

Last night I was at Bingo
everyone was Xing the
numbers, how is it going
to end.

Pax Brittanica?

Everyone sat quiet
around the table
writing
about death
nature
or whatever

Pigs might fly:
aware of you
the stents in
my heart flap.
I wonder since
it could take off
in maiden flight,
will it be able
to touchdown?
I don’t know:
my heart has
its reasons
but won’t say.

Tobias

I am of the impression that
Theresa, may well be a closet
brexistentialist with a secret
agenda which has a veneered
xenophobic xeroxicised tint
brexternally, but, her visceral
brexcrement is brexasperating,
to the point of brexorcising, or,
at the minimum, brexpropriation!

When I look to you I see an opalescence,
A kaleidoscopic display of luminescence,
There are just two accounts that capture this very essence,
Your beauty and the peacock's feathering iridescence.

Birds of a feather,
birds of prey,
equal or lesser,
today is your day.

Alone together
in another
    place,
       it doesn’t feel
like
   Christmas.
The tree
is
              differently shaped
and
       somehow foreign
looking.
The garland hangs
  on
      the usual things
     but now
               doesn’t seem
     as green.
The carols
     sound familiar
     but
           the voices
                      have been
                           changed.
I think
           the calendar
                       is wrong
               and I am
                  where
                I don’t belong.
     ljm

A torrent gushes from the serpent’s mouth
wave upon breaking wave; it’s ALL fake news
swiftly eroding what is left to lose.
Democracy’s waterlogged corpse drifts south,
a bloated mess; all waters to infuse
with putrefaction, thus to breed disease
uncivil war invades our fantasies;
the polarized extremes now pay their dues.
Propping things up: it’s what they do the best—
business as usual, pawns all occupied
in scaffolding facades upon the West
and sculpting the friezes of fratricide…
but underground, the currents cave away.
Media will fail; God brings a brighter day.

My dawn
That this vision
The one in which I'm
Seeing myself on a mountain
Evolved more  human feeling
Prouder and seasoned empathetic  and needy, a small part of the scenery
A drop of  drip a tiny thing a part
Of the whole picture an atom spinning equal to all others
Not superior or special.
In no way just relational
Seeing for once
The majesty of it all.
Hormones be ****** testimonial
I'm man because I am not
Emotional
Calm as the wind or just as
Unconditional. Then gust me down
To the valley in the
Vaginal calm the ****** of my birth
Seeking rebirth
I coiled up fetile

There's a sizzling giant that skips through the sky
While she nods at the people below
Now, a nod and a wink would be kinder, you'd think
But a nod is as far as she'll go

As she prances and bounds over sun-smothered grounds
She's the cause of a squall and a bluster
But no smile for the sodden, most recently trodden
A nod is the best she can muster

No weapon she fears, not the muskets or spears
Nor the arrow set loose by the archer
She dances her dance, an unyielding advance
Then a nod and a lazy departure

The heat of Summer
is gripped  by sweaty hands
of September & October:
squeezing, wringing out
its energy  like water
held in  a sponge.
Leaves, in a thick canopy
are still green overhead.
The sun penetrates them
with laser- like beams
that dazzle the eyes.
Berries are ripening on
thorny brambles.
Wild lilies bloom in
unearthly orange hue.
The low hum of insects:
a faint rustle of squirrels
or rabbits stirs silence.
Listen - a melodic
chorus of birds with little
more to do this Autumn
day  - but sing and wing
about this earth – this England.

Tobias.

Swifts – Swallows:
joy of late Spring
flashed on their wings:
while a world moved
about their arrival
in slow motion.

Wild, restless, they
dip, weave,  dive
above fields, quarry,
over old hedges sun-
streaked, damp -
dappled. Summer-free.

Autumn: earth’s magnet drew
them away on African odyssey.
Our house was their house:
free-loading our welcome
they leave with their brood..
Will they ever return?

Surely, as instinct.
Now they have gone
desolate Winter fills
the hole those birds
have left in the sky.

TOBIAS