Loneliness is the wild river we all drink from and bathe in.
The twisting journey to sail to clean western skies is bordering on impossible,
but can end rapidly by beautiful young sirens and boldly bored sailors.



Old Horn dogs howl for companionship into the dark night but receive none.
The disheartened dreamers gaze at the shimmering stars wishing they would be extinguished,
and many a pistolero spend their brief lives freely with reckless abandon.



All excuses add up to a superfluous score to a strike out that can't be won.
Rather it is fought with a heavy hand, knife or gun Fate can never be overcome.
Our flickering life all is but a shadow underneath a harsh Nevada sun.

The weather only makes it worse.
Cicadas sounding off at dusk.
The flowers blooming in reverse.

Your hand in mine.
Pour yourself another drink:
bourbon, *******.
Her hand in mine.

Our backyard has gone black,
the summer’s vestigial fireflies
devoured by limbs and leaves.

Lie on your back
and listen to me,
decode the blades
of grass that tickle
your ears and neck.

Love or silence.
Which is worse?

We pull at words
like dark threads,
composing curtains
for the windows
of a waiting hearse.

Dead petals collect in the shallow sockets
vacant for eternity,the fragrance scratches
beneath the decaying waves of nothingness

Feathers scar every reflection, wordings
distorted in finite scratches barley visible
but lacerating deeper than thoughts hanging.

In my veins twilight and luminosity were
dangling from my fingertips scratching them
till fingertips bled radiantly, fading to disillusion.

I was a cloud of confusion, raining shards of
insecurity inwards. Convulsing with each kiss
of positivity that was riveted in my empty skull.

I'm a mirage of imagery, my smiles hanging on
meat hooks, my hello's, how are you. A collection
of stapled wordings, I'm dead inside, a shadow walking.

I  was a funeral pyre for there disillusions. All arched in collective
fragmentation of what transpired within the variation of echoes that
collected upon them. Like voices on a beach of shells shattering harmoniously they fell like sheets cleaved from a washing line.

I just looked, my voice rippling across the street of what I was perceiving, they were now not mesmerised by the effigy of
my features but know they fled. Neither walking but unattached
to what was perceived. Their stares blank cavities of nothingness.

Wondering within what could be perceived as a pastel painting,
things where they were meant to be, but!!
Slightly
              out of focus, windows were like breath had been woven
within there frame of reflection. Random verses collected then
like a candle they were melting into the mist collecting till nothing.

The focus of my mind was that it wasn't just the images of aged personality woven with the fabric of this place but images of
children in happiness then contorted within what could be perceived
as loneliness. they walked alone hand out like in a needing of
what couldn't be complicity conceived.

Some were against formations  of what were perceived as walls,
but looking upon them, more like memories coalescing  into tight
collects. Were these the structures of lives lived not formed into
a accumulation  of reflections? I bent down to talk to these echoes
of what i perceived as children and they cried memories on my palms.

**To Be Continued

I live in the basement, never venturing
upon those stairs, I hear her voice...
"Come up and see me its been to long,
Holding my ears singing my favourite song
repetitively until she is drowned out of
my thoughts. rocks tied to her voice as it
sinks out of view.

I use the stairs that open to the outside,
Lingering looking at this place I called home.
Venturing in the old ford, she lets me drive
it when food is but breadcrumbs and eggs
old enough to birth the dead fetes of a partly
grown bird. I look out though a ***** window
screen, this trip takes two hours each way.

I always wonder if my bald tyres are ever
noticed, but I'm not hindered by the thoughts
of this. So much to see when driving in solitude.
I stop at the side of the road picking cherries,
I slump them in the boot. I may eat upon this
morsel or just hang them outside watching
them swaying in the gentle breeze.

My father just looks out the window.
Doesn't talk much these days his eyes are sunken
like the titanic splintered between two pools.
I move his chair and his arm falls at his side.
collecting it, I put him palms resting on a blanket
He's so gaunt now, he was a strong man now but a shadow.

I look at those cherries lingering above the ground,
shaded from just picked to becoming spoilt, but i
just leave them swaying the aroma fills lungs with
life's eroding perfume, I breath it deeply within.
This is my home, "she never calls me for dinner anymore,
I just make my own, the washing up is festering in
my ignorance, like a garden of petrification flowering.

Saying bye to my dad, I get in the old ford.
Its time to pick some fresh cherries, the tree
is looking unkempt. Its blossom is in honour
of a mother, I hang them all there. My
Mother hung there for a long time ,but she's
long gone. So I bring other cherries to the tree
to show that she'll never be forgotten....