Walk a perfect path.
A thousand easy footsteps -
- when the shoes fit well.

Work is a prison
filled with white spreadsheet walls
and blank, empty cells

They all said it was risky,
cos the stakes were too high.
But I'd drank all the whiskey
and my sense had run dry.

So I sat down in earnest
and she pulled up a chair.
The place was a furnace,
as she swept back her hair.

Well we called for a dealer
and counted out chips.
Then we ordered tequila,
as her tongue traced her lips.

So we started out betting,
till the game was ablaze.
I confess I was sweating,
as the cards hit the baize.

Well I studied the table
and covered my grin.
Cos I knew I'd be able,
to play big and win.

I raised her bets higher
and gave no reprieve.
Until the light of the fire,
caught the ace up her sleeve.

As soon as I spied it,
I tried to withdraw.
She took no pains to hide it,
or the guard on the door.

I felt instantly older
and shuddered with cold,
when a hand gripped my shoulder,
I heard 'All-In or Fold.'

I swear I know this place.
I saw you here with a different face.
I still don't understand,
why your echo is so hard to trace.

I'm sure I held your hand.
Bought a CD of your favourite band.
But now the moment fades,
like a postcard from a sunburnt land.

I think I knew your name.
Kept our photo in a gilded frame.
Until the glass wore cracks
and I splintered with reflected blame.

I doubt I'd place your scent.
Or realise what that expression meant.
I try to grasp the straws,
of a haystack where the needle's bent.

I almost drew your shape.
Vaguely dreaming of our weekend scrapes.
But when I close my mind,
a window opens and the past escapes.

I don't recall your face.
Did I meet you in a different place?
I hope you understand,
that the echo makes you hard to trace.

There was a time, before all this,
of moonlight dreaming and a stolen kiss.
Reckless weekends as a roaming pack,
snarling to force each Monday back.

It never mattered that we'd rise,
at lunchtime, with ironic eyes.
Or worry that we had to vote -  
we held our freedom by the throat.

But then the music starts to skip,
a symphony more 'Dad' than hip.
You can't remember when you traded,
******* in for IKEA's pages.

Those forgotten relics of a bygone age,
lost in a corner that was centre stage.
A flickered memory of a neon soul
and the dying heart of old Rock N' Roll.

Until one day, an ageing hound,
you find you're back in canine town.
But nothing breathes familiar scent,
the perfume of your youth is spent.  

So through the mist you track your flaws
and paw the earth with blunted claws.
Announcing with a strangled howl,
that you've returned,
to the wolf pack prowl.

The Amazons fractured her skull
while he was busy
introducing himself, with a handshake
and a teapot:
'Good Morning!'
A tuneless whistle,
an anthem from nowhere
falls on deaf ears,
eyes faded to pastel
like a warning poster
after twenty copies
and acid rain.
Not an episode from real life
just an ivory circus,
the sport of savagery
Tired.
At an end.
It wouldn't happen in Blighty.
A dark heartbeat,
a steady drum
The pen is mightier than the spear,
blotted shapes in the rushes
Inert, unheard
No time for farewells

A man looks into the mirror.
An old man,
an odd man,
an ottoman, jammed with memories,
spanning centuries.
Bland extremities
glare back, like enemies.

The mirror looks into the man.
An iron gaze,
a searing graze.
No golden glaze
upon a face,
where youth was lost
in its pitted maze.

The mirror reflects
the man,
reflects
upon regrets.
Begins to regress.
Cannot protest, as time
floats by like breath.

The mirror frames
the mirror's flames,
burn deep, ingrained
and whisper strange
proverbs of his pain.
A man looks into the mirror.
A young man.
An old man.