I fill my days with pointless clutter,
                                   bits and bobs, and nevertheless,
My head alive with constant flutter,
                                    (marring softly to surpress)
Is still in streaks of wonders utter,
                                     breathing, blinking and even less,
Plighted to a world another,
                                     a starving corner he cannot bless

A posing branch pointing sophistication
through a bark of whispered peace. A
pokcet of mute jingling daisys curling
melodicaly in the breth of gentle air.
And a shallow pool of clarity, shining like
broken crystal under the watchful glow of the sky.

This is where our loved ones go,
     this is where they sleep.
Only to awaken as smiling robins on
lonely winter mornings to melt the
              cover of cold

A sea of scratched blue marble,
    torn  and washed through the drought,
blanketing itself in one rushed and
tired blink, melting
  into my face.
Swimming delicately through my mind and
descending  … deeper deeper down my
core, into the ricocheting nothingness.
Dancing in the spacious goal.
Glowing incandescently with glee.
The scratched marble peaks out for a second at
the world,
  reality isn’t what its cracked up to be.
Slide back through your eyes and
into  the dark

I am the front of the shop, looking at all other outlets on the street.
Never able to see inside,  wave of concrete haults my path.

Some will hold happy customers,
buying, selling, money and joy.
Some will hold onto whatever possible,
bargain bins and desperate gymics .

But I’ll never know who.
Reality cannot shine honesty, only an inverse look at myself can
Show truth, so assuming is pointless.

And yet so many still bend over, trying to see some more, futile addiction,
our sole common denominator.

Yes, I am a shop stuck at this viewing point, I peer no more
Facades are all I see

Lie through that open night,
stinging frosts of contemplation,
wooden hands scratching away rest from frozen windows,
the pulled out ageing creak of a forgotten floorboard.
All you can do is listen. Never hearing the sweet purr of peace  only
its disheartening cousin of silence. Never slipping out of now and its  pulsing hum.
Never  brushing against yourself and waking up in a sleep,just listening.

Air is now a solid icy chore, a darkened perception of magnified regret.
It drowns in the snowflakes of the stars, not attempting to escape, simply surrending to the openess.
Can you be like a sleepy diamond?The eye of heaven glares louder now
and still has not reached its peak.
No you like the floor board lie fixed in the night,
listening

A brush, a flicker, bursting from the envelope
of existence.

A plate, a mouthful, simmering in the waters of approval.

A smile, an achievement,
  Marking the period with good

She sits.
He makes the tea.
Columns of light are chided by dust.
The room is bright.
Water bubbles, stops and pours.
She drinks the tea, his tea.

Anna gargles up a reluctant tune
every  thursday. But always too soon
the others recieve it. Maybe a stave
of ''ok''?? is her vice. Her single crave.

Yet to Anna her one vocal routine
is not to annoy. Letters of extreme
sufferig always prevail with surprise
to her. Then single forced laughs hide her eyes.

Nevertheless, what if you were the ones
deafened by regular racket. The suns
diluted to rock. You would tooclasp your
ears to peace. Spill a silence on the chore.

Anna too spilled silence about one day.
It poured out frm her wrists and down her grey
fading skin. No one heard this final song
or warning ballad. Thursday's notes are gone.

I often feel as if there is a dark glimmering
buckle of barbed wire whirling round my gut.
It tightens with time, clawing, shrinking into me.

If I were to remain here, will agony prevail?
Roped up from the subtle notes inbetween
                                 -the simplicity I crave.

And even yet, or sometimes never, will my core crumle if I take it off.

I float on the heaviness of such decisions. Burying the scarring with fabric, the occasional smile, single scratchy laughs.

A hell-belt, or a hug?

*******, or protected?

Thank you Galileo for tilting up at their sky,
as the bull, crab, and ****** sent caution from thought
to the flat dirt umbrelled by musing why,
''or a fire of stone from an old hellish plot''

Sinners will crumble like a drum to a wall.
Glints of knife scratches shall drop from their clouds,
while Libris will beckon to the vowels of the tall.
Your protest shall quiver to madness aloud.

Plighted in brick, left to whince to your game,
the branders, hatassers preach love and then die,
but the truth of their lie only whispers exclaim.
Thank you Galileo for releasing this sky.