TO A GREEN THOUGHT IN A GREEN SHADE

The rose appeared
as if it had been created

that very morning
that very instant.

It's newness almost
shining.

Grass seemed to have fallen
out of a sky

like little green rain
piercing the earth

blade after blade after blade
delighting in its very greenness.

Dandelions and daises
dancing together

sharing the same lane
with the early worms.

All meeting
as equals.

Not a Garden
in Eden- but Guildford

humble in its own
creation.

This moment plucked
from many many moments

as the one to be
remembered.

Time and Infinity
getting it together

eclipsing the fact
that this is

an ordinary 25th of
whatever

turning into
a forever.

C'EST PRESQU'AU BOUT DU MONDE..."
( IT WAS ALMOST TO THE END OF THE WORLD )

She believed that
deep deep inside her

the flame of a femme fatale
burned brightly.

Could imagine herself stepping out of
some classic Film Noir.

Cultivated herself
to look like Marie Windsor

opposite the dangerously gorgeous
John Garfield.

But her life it seemed had her
stepping into an Edward Hopper.

The isolation and the paint
still wet.

The lonely lady
glimpsed in an hotel window

from a passing train
autumnal rain.

Still she acted always as if
she was in her own movie l

walking around  her tiny flat
naked

except for red stilettos
red earrings...red lipstick.

Making up her own snappy lines
to some imaginary leading man.

"Are you decent?"
"Yes""

"But you're....you're naked!"
"You only asked if I was decent!"

The mirror laughed
catching the reflection of who

she could have been
given half the chance.

She never
stood a chance.

She threw a cigarette up in the air
caught it between her lips

her one and only
party trick.

Lit or unlit.
Searching for middle C

on a battered piano
her mind off key

abandoning it
the piano's yellow smile.

She watched the sunlight
carve a block of time

out of the dividing wall.
fading the wallpaper roses.

The bed that was always
empty...always unmade.

She danced to Weill's
Youkali Tango.

Put it on again...again.
Scratching an already scratched record.

The needle gathering fluff.
The porcelain milkmaid...dust.

She disliked the way sweat
gathered under her *******.

They were always a little too large.
Hated men staring so hard.

Ahhhh the faded romance
a sunset heart attack.

Couldn't have wrote
herself a better script.

Staggering in her dance
gasping that all too unsubstantial

air as if trying to
catch time

the presentpastfuture
falling out of her hand.

The wooden acorn
of the tattered blind

tapping against
the ***** window pane.

Neon going green.
Then red.

Now blue.
And then green again.

"THERE'S NO NO.19 BUS BACK FROM THE LAND OF THE DEAD!"

He walked through
the wall.

And then: stopped
half-way-through

so that he was both
in and out of it.

"Jaysus, bud..!" I wish
ya wouldn't do that!"

"Now, look..!" he says
"it's no great shakes being dead!"

I had to admit
the truth of that.

"I'm keeping our childhood promise
that the first one to kick the bucket

come back to
tell the other all about it!"

I shrug and say: "Hey
that was a long time ago

you know
a kid's promise!"

He shrugs or shrugs
as much as a ghost can shrug.

"Well, here I am!"

"Yeah, I can see that!"

"Now if I had just appeared
I was afraid that I would scare

the living daylights outta ya so
I thought I'd throw in a little humour

that half out of/half in stuff
and it kinda was a metaphor

for my way of life
now I'm dead."

"Yeah, yeah...sure sure!
So how do I know you're real?"

"Well, yer looking at me aren't you?"

"How do I know I am
not just me talking to me

a fragment of...
a figment of..."

"Use your imagination
there's no N0. 19 bus back

from the land of the dead
so it has to be this way!"

I had to admiit
the truth of that.

"I enter into the intertisest
between your dreams.

It's not exactly a piece of cale
trying to pull it off.

I keep bumping into
all your thoughts.

Us dead have only
memories of the future

the stuff we didn't have a chance to do
but would have done if we hadn't..."

He looked wistful and
began to fade.

"Drop in any time!"
I say.

"Will do!"
he says.

The photograph of him
on the wall

showing through his
ghostly body.

And then he was gone.

I wrote him down
so I could keep looking at him

trapped inside this
bunch of words.

THEM ****** DAFFODILS!

"Ah...howya!"
said the ink blot

throwing itself
all over my copy book.

"Jaysus...wait 'til yer teacher
sees this!"

it chortled
proud as punch with itself.

I stare at it
in an almost total disbelief.

My bladder clamours
to be relieved.

I...squeeze
my knees together.

King Blot bloated with
its own self importance

has totally obliterated
the last word I have penned.

"I wandered lonely as a
. . .!"

Teacher snaps it up
with great glee

holding it between
thumb & forefinger

with mock disgust
& real contempt.

"So, Dempsey...ya
wandered lonely as...

. . .an ink blot!"

The class sniggers
( glad it's me - not them ).

He glowers them
into silence.

"Yes...yes...Sir!"
I whimper &

suddenly seeing a loop hole
( I dive )into it.

"It's...it's...show
not tell. . .Sir!"

His glasses flash
smile becomes sneer.

"COME...HERE...BOY!"
he enunciates clearly

each syllable
chiseled into an awed silence.

The cane cuts through the air.
The class winces.

The tips of my fingers
scream in agony.

I dance a hornpipe
of pain

palms tucked
under my oxters.

"Them ****** daffodils!"
I groan

moaning through
my growing tears.

IT’S YOU? ISN’T IT?

Facebook messages me
to phone home as soon

as possible.

Our home phone is down.
Other phones just ring and ring.

Or lead me up a cul-de-sac
of leaving a message

to a ghostly  mechanical
voice.

Messages answering messages.
No actual real live people involved.

Finally I do
what I should have done

all along
((((((( call you.))))))

So, I do.

“Hiya Bud, can you call me?
Something bad seems to have happened!
Get back to me as soon as you can!”

You do not call back.

You lie there not
listening to me.

You never get back
to me.

Never will.

It’s you?
Isn’t it?

The bad thing that has
happened?

Death listening at the end of the line.

Saying not a word.

WITH A QUICK FLICK...

.•´¯'•.¸¸><((((º>
in and out
¸.•´¯'•.¸¸><((((º>...°°°
among her thoughts
¸.•´¯'•.¸¸><((((º>...°°°
her first-seen-fish still swim
.•´¯'•.¸¸><((((º>

"THE TROUBLE WITH GERANIUMS IS THAT...."

She did not know
how it had come to be

but she was having toast
and tea with Titus Groan!

Mervyn Peake appeared
to have drawn himself

with pen and ink
the very essence of his creation

as if he had stepped forth
from his book.

The man himself
in flesh and blood.

A living caricature.

Mervyn said nothing.
Just stared into  the depths

of who he was
lost  in himself.

Her boyfriend said nothing
depressed beyond belief.

She said nothing.
Too young and too naive.

Sitting with Steerpike
as it were or

in a candle flicker
now with Mr Pye.

She picked up a slice of toast.
Bit into his words.

"The trouble with my toast is that
it’s far too full of bread."

The echo of his voice
lost inside her head.

Inside him, she
could hear him say

"The trouble with my looking-glass
is that it shows me, me."

"Must you..?" he seemed to say
"Keep up an intimate conversation...

by quoting
myself to me."

The silence stretched and
stretched until it snapped

back into a tiny sound
the ****** of a spoon on china

bringing time
to an end.

The moment going on
forever despite what

time had to say.
We all silent now

the 77th Earl of Groan
...fallen asleep.