Listening to the constant murmur
Of a crowded train station

Collective voice of
Man as ant

A choir singing
I'm lonely

This is how words form
This is how we find others

This is how
We call

Unto
Us

Spirit thief thieving words;
yes
You know how shallow
you are

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*.

I know that sound.
It's the same all over the world.
Vast spaces filling up with
Noise, smoke and flashes.  

Closer. Closer until close.
Then there.

I know your face like
The palm of my hand held out
From under the roof of your
Porch.

Somebody's gotta say it.
It's raining.
Poets stating the obvious to
Each other, like it's all one poem
Or another,

As poets do.

Nothing like the darkness
Swallowing blue sky. Nothing
Like lightning swallowing that  
Darkness in high voltage gulps
Of fierce celestial appetite.

I sip at your soul as our hands meet;
Mouths on the tips of our
Fingers nibbling kisses.

If your heart was a crime scene,
They wouldn't find a single print
Of mine after dusting.

But I was there.

The rain washes nothing away
That hasn't promised to return.
And I do strike twice; even
Knowing the third one

Would put me away for good.

I'd be behind bars and bolts.
Your face flashing
Before my eyes.
In love like an electric storm.
Guilty as
Charged.

these are the questions
i ponder on a friday afternoon
after a few mango beers

do slugs get to volunteer to be snails or vice versa?

do you think, tadpoles grieve for their tails?

are the black and white
goldfish, aware of the colour
of their skin?

do polar bears, in captivity,
miss the ice fishing?

do lions get jealous, of how
cushy housecats get it?

why does nobody ever ask,
does my head look to big in this book?

yep..... i know ....deep

Dirtiest mouth this side of Hell.
Ocean horizon eyes, laughter like
Galloping horses thundering by;
Making everything else
Shake with blissful amusement.
Like me.
Man...

We talk for hours.
You place a feather on
My fresh stitches; blow gently
On the burns and smack a good-
Night

Kiss from half way across the
World so directly onto my
Forehead,
I turn over and sleep like a
Bear cub momside.

You are more than you'll ever
See yourself.
You shine with shades of
Beautiful not yet
Mapped by those who do.

Your words attracted me.
Our attraction helped healing me.

We stand in sunlight, under
The silver sails
Of our friendship; cutlass drawn,  
Spyglass raised towards the
Adventure.

I'll write with you until
We're both blind.
I'll laugh with you until
We suffocate,

I'll tell you a secret
Every time you want.

Until we share them all.

Then we'll make each other
New ones.

On the rough handrail
Leading up to the barracks-
Where the guys eat lunch

There's a growing gap in the
2x4 -from them carving
Themselves toothpicks.

Everything has potential
For something else
Within.

a bedtime story*

In the distance stands a lighthouse
seeing all with cyclops eye
once a beacon, now a hollow,
dead in misted moonlit sky.

Proudly once she ruled the headland,
warning all of crag and shoal
trusted friend to salt scoured sea dogs,
smugglers caught within her glow.

Beauty lived as Keepers mistress
'till one day her love did bloom
walking clifftops with her lover
brought her ending, far too soon.

Bloodied, torn by cliff face ragged
screaming for the life she craved,
Beauty held her rounded belly
As fury deep hit waters grave.

Beauty stands alone in darkness
there above the tempest sea
bloated souls of those who perished
now her only company.

 When the moon is high above us
wrapped in rags and witching stare
Beauty stands atop the catwalk
weeds 'a winding through her hair.

You come in the night
Wisp of vapour
A spectre reaching out
Waking me with your tendrils touch
And the hunger within.

You're the monster from my closet
Come to haunt me again,
You wear many faces and none
Yet I know you
As I know myself.

My lust answers your need and
I stiffen even as my will melts beneath the icy flames of your ghoulish desire.
I give in, relinquish control and with it my identity,
My soul is yours to devour,
Which you do with great relish,
As we both reach again for that taste of ecstasy.

Too soon it is over,
You return to the depths beneath my bed,
Back into my closet with your fellow demons,
Mostly forgotten,
But for the smile on my face
As I slip into a sated sleep
Even as I pray
That you never visit again.

His personality,
Geeky yet refined.
His knowledge incredible,
Even his love.

When you meet a guy,
Your heart screams try.
Mine did..

the reluctant solitary
dresses-up
goes out from behind the curtain
and joins in with the acting

to make a mess takes some effort
so pat yourself on the back;
Before you start to berate yourself over the mess