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YOU WEAR MY KISSES IN YOUR HAIR

You wear
my kisses

in your hair

invisible
to everyone

but us

they glisten
like emotional jewelry

bloom like flowers
of desire

you wear
my kisses

in your hair

smiling secretly
to your self

as to how
they got there

& to where
the other kisses

...are!
"YOU'LL BE SHARING WITH AN OLD RAF ACE
...TRY NOT TO WAKE HIM!"

The voice in the dark
telling me his life in a full

fathomed five voice
detail after detail after detail

stitched onto the darkness
so that I can relive it

unpick it
make it my own.

The voice in the dark
young and vigorous

so alive
so full of life.

"Jerry shot our guys...did so they did
as they came down in their parachutes."

A dandelion blown
by a child.

"Fishing is nice..fishing is calming!"
The man I can not see

moves from past to present
like a professional time traveller.

"We'd wait for a Jerry train
to go into a tunnel then..."

"Have you ever fished for trout..?
...then do a loop de loop and

bomb the tunnel at the other end...
...casting the fly far out on the water then

fly over and bomb the end of the tunnel
**** and bury the ******* at the one and the same time!"

Finally the voice in the dark
winds down as if it had been merely

a mechanical toy that
time forgot.

Sunlight invades the room
throws itself upon the floor

a parallelogram of morning
etched upon the floor.

The voice in the dark
is a gaunt old man

corpse like
mouth open  in a final plea

for forgiveness for
still being alive when

"...better chaps than I
died."

His story seeding itself
inside me

before turning
into words.
LA NEBBIA CI SI DIMENTICA

Imprisoned in
your iris

the city of Venice
lies

trapped inside
a tear

that does its best not to
...fall.

Then falls &
. . .falls.

You weep
Venices.

A Venice dissolves
meanders over a cheek bone.

I kiss each sadness
wipe away each weepy Venice

with the edge of
my cuff.

You defensively put on
your black Ray- Bans

but they make Venices
too

and a tear escapes
trickles under your shades.

I remove it with the tip of
my little finger.

A gondola
comes to court us

for the business of
romance.

You tell him to
"*******. . !"

Laugh your head
hysterically off.

I hold you
that's all I can do

soaking you up in
an emotional osmosis.

A fog quietly
tip toes in and

Venice & we
slowly slowly

are erased
from view

and the fog
forgets us too.
PARALLEL LINES DO NOT MEET.

-

-

Happiness...is not...a mathematical formula
that one can apply to supply an answer.

Rather...it is the sum of who you are
multiplied by who you are willing to be.

Happiness...like Mathematics
is something I was never ever any good at

& always made me weep
with equal parts

Desperation
Exasperation

&
Frustration.

Or, D.E.F.
for short.

For example:

If it took a man a lifetime
to dig himself into a hole

how long would it take
for half the man he used to be

to dig himself out again?

Questions – such as this
only caused me grief...

In Mathematics(like Latin)            
which I could also never know

I would cheat & repeat
words full of sound & no sense.

E.g.

The cares of the hippopotamus
are equal to some of the cares
that the other two hippopotami confide.

Happiness...like Mathematics
was all Greek to me.

I don’t know...that’s all I know.

But I do know that...
Happiness happens

every now...& then...

the only trick
is to be aware that it’s there & that...

Parallel Lines do meet...

...at Infinity

Q.E.D
AND THE WORLD WAS AS SIMPLE AS SNOW

You are like. .  .all
the dark shops of my childhood
where you enter with the little ****** of a bell

and the world blossoms

into a myriad of things colourful to sell
stacked in impossible & impeccable order

all yelling shining glinting wild & glassy

and the cash register singing with the hard earned money
and the little ****** of a bell lets you out again

into a world
excited with the falling of  snow

& the palpable approach
of  a Christmas when Christmas was Christmas

and the world
was as simple as snow.
LOVE SONG FOR EMILY

(for Emily Dickinson)

You handed me
your eyes

so that I could see
as you saw.

I looking
in wonder

seeing you sew
the world together

in quick little stitches

a perfect embroidery
of knowing

drawing the thread through
& through

until nimble as a needle

I knew as you
knew.

Oh Emily
I was always

in love

with the beauty of your eyes

& how they saw
& said the world

the quick dashes
of your mind

like Braille
to my blindness

the Morse Code
of your thought

leading me through
the labyrinth of you

bound
in a nut
shell

until I arrived
at the beauty of your eyes

and you handed me
your seeing

and...I saw.
* * *

Our English teacher’s voice commanding us to open our books at Emily Dickinson. Doing as I was told...I glanced down shyly at her words looking bravely up at me and immediately at once I fell in love!

Our English teacher’s voice proclaiming “I don’t like teaching this woman…I don’t understand her! ”

Oh Emily, I knew you as you knew me and had already eloped with your mind leaving only the empty shell of a schoolboy for the teacher to shout at! Us laughing...running away together...running through the wild woods of words...gathering words and turning them into the daisy chain of poems.
Oct 9 · 133
LOST BALLOON
LOST BALLOON

crawling from the crash
I couldn't have died
if I tried

I had a son to save
laughed
spat in death's face

pulled him from the flames
I forbade him to die
he disobeyed

the car exploded
burning the edges
of the night

I survive
without him
a death in itself

my reflection
does all the talking
I just stare in the mirror

Christmas now
I feel like a lost balloon
sticking to the ceiling
MY OWN PRIVATE PRESIDENT TRUMP

Oh the lies lies and ****
statistics of you!

You tell a better lie
than I can tell the honest truth.

"I didn't say that...I never
said that!"

The Trump...the whole Trump and
nothing but the Trump.

So - help me God!

The outright lies of you
the half-truths...evasions...obfuscations

the lie so
see-through

the Russians have a word
for it - VRANYO.

That is to tell a lie that you do not
expect anyone to believe

the totally transparent
told purely to save face.

Although you do do - LOZH
the straightforward lie.

Or  MASKIROVKA
the "little masquerade."

The Salisbury Cathedral
Spire of you.

The fake news
of you.

Well listen Buddy
I can't spare a mind.

And I've just quit
this here friendship.
Lovely chap...lousy brother....lying seemed to be his default position....he first lies to himself and that makes it a piece of cake to lie to you. Just sheer see-through blatant lies.
CRAWLING OUT AND FALLING UP

Her first puddle
"There's rain lying dead
in a hole!"

She's only ever
seen rain fall
not trapped in a *** hole.

"Why doesn't it
crawl out
and fall up?"

Indeed?
I see it happen
in thought if not in deed.

I have to admit
I'd never thought of it
like...that?

Now she's all
grown up and
doesn't even remember it.

We meet a modern
day puddle and
she's puzzled...when I say:

"Why doesn't it
crawl out
and fall up?"

"Oh Da...!" she sighs
"How do you ever
think of such...things?"
***

Henri Nouwen once said:

"Our humanity comes to its fullest bloom in giving.
We become beautiful people when we give whatever we can give: a smile, a handshake, a kiss, an embrace, a word of love, a present, a part of our life ... all of our life."

Or a way of seeing her world as only she could and letting you enter into her state of mind so that a mere puddle became a wondrous thing to behold....my child was always teaching me ways to see and to treat the world seriously as the sacred thing it is. She had love for everyone and everything....I did my best to learn from her....she was my mentor.
WHAT THIS ENTIRE WORLDSPIDERWEB IS ABOUT...

The day of the funeral
an intense cold.

The lions roaring
in the zoo beyond

Fluntern Cemetery.

The confluence of
the rivers he loved

obscured from view
as if forever.

The sun too
a milky misty light.

The silence of the necropolis
broken only by an old deaf man

asking all the time:
"Who...is to be...buried here?"

And when he hears, repeats:
"But who is James Joyce?"

Grave No. 1449 is
meant to be temporary

but even in death
he is Ireland's outcast.

His daughter's madness flickers:
"Cet imbécile...what is he.."

Again a roar of lions.

""...doing under the ground
when will he decide to leave!"

Again the deaf man's question.

"He's watching us
all the time."

As indeed he is.
Life but a Work in Progress.

The author leaves
his death

walks abroad
in all his words.

"bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnth­unntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk"
***

The last word is the first "thunder-word" of Finnegans Wake as the babble of language falls like the Tower of Babel to...begin again.

From page 3…paragraph 3….third word…of Joyce's WAKE.  The first of the ten. . . one-hundred-word “THUNDER-WORDS.”

It is merely a composite word of different languages proclaiming THUNDER!
"O JEREMY....BENTHAM!"

He called his walking stick
"Dapple!"

He called his teapot
"Dickey!"

He called his elderly cat
"The Reverend Sir John Langbourne!"

He sits with his real head
between his legs

long after he was
dead.

His body preserved
so that it could be

wheeled out at meetings
if his friends were missing him.

At a College council meeting in 20i3
marked as"present but not voting."

Didn't believe in Christian burial
the Church's teaching "nonsense on sticks!"

Thought folks should be useful
both in life and in death.

Tears always when remembering a lady
presenting him"... with a flower in a green lane'

"Take me forward, I entreat you, to the future
– do not let me go back to the past.
Bentham said that it was the placing of women in a legally inferior position that made him choose, at the age of eleven, the career of a reformist. Bentham spoke for a complete equality between sexes.
The essay Offences Against One's Self, argued for the liberalisation of laws prohibiting homosexual ***.
Bentham is widely regarded as one of the earliest proponents of animal rights, and has even been hailed as "the first patron saint of animal rights"
Bentham died on 6 June 1832 aged 84 at his residence in Queen Square Place in Westminster, London. He had continued to write up to a month before his death, and had made careful preparations for the dissection of his body after death and its preservation as an auto-icon. As early as 1769, when Bentham was 21 years old, he made a will leaving his body for dissection to a family friend, the physician and chemist George Fordyce, whose daughter, Maria Sophia (1765–1858), married Jeremy's brother Samuel Bentham. A paper written in 1830, instructing Thomas Southwood Smith to create the auto-icon, was attached to his last will, dated 30 May 1832.
On 8 June 1832, two days after his death, invitations were distributed to a select group of friends, and on the following day at 3 p.m., Southwood Smith delivered a lengthy oration over Bentham's remains in the Webb Street School of Anatomy & Medicine in Southwark, London. The printed oration contains a frontispiece with an engraving of Bentham's body partly covered by a sheet.
Afterward, the skeleton and head were preserved and stored in a wooden cabinet called the "Auto-icon", with the skeleton padded out with hay and dressed in Bentham's clothes. Originally kept by his disciple Thomas Southwood Smith, it was acquired by University College London in 1850. It is normally kept on public display at the end of the South Cloisters in the main building of the college; however, for the 100th and 150th anniversaries of the college, and in 2013, it was brought to the meeting of the College Council, where it was listed as "present but not voting".
Bentham had intended the Auto-icon to incorporate his actual head, mummified to resemble its appearance in life. Southwood Smith's experimental efforts at mummification, based on practices of the indigenous people of New Zealand and involving placing the head under an air pump over sulfuric acid and drawing off the fluids, although technically successful, left the head looking distastefully macabre, with dried and darkened skin stretched tautly over the skull. The auto-icon was therefore given a wax head, fitted with some of Bentham's own hair. The real head was displayed in the same case as the auto-icon for many years, but became the target of repeated student pranks. It is now locked away securely.
THIS TOO TOO SOLID FLESH

My body
disowns me.

Slams the door( making the
little blue china cups rattle on...

...their little blue china saucers ).

'COME BACK. . !
I scream

but it is only
a thought.

The silence
mocks me.

I've an idea
of what to do

but without my body
I can't see it

through. . .

Nothing about me
is real.

How thoughtless of my body
to just up & leave me

like. . . that!

Now I am
just a disembodied thought

floating invisibly
inside my flat

scaring the cat
raising hackles

unable to turn
the **** TV

off....aghhhhh
3 hours of Big Brother.

My body is snickering
just outside

the door
listening to my soul roar

with rage
at being

unable to translate
thought into action.

Oh how I long
for the body's flesh

even...yes...even
its fatty bits.

My body
enters

grinning: "Ok...ok
you're forgiven!"

& I enter it
eternally glad to be

human
this mesh

of spirit
& soul

And yes...yes
. . .flesh!
“I’M THE GUILDFORD GUILDHALL CLOCK I AM!”

Oh I’ve been knocking out time now since…eh….let’s see 1683

Minutes and decades flow through me
The everlasting skies above me.

I’m iconic I am
dressed in my black and gold.
I ( if I may be so bold )
AM GUILDFORD.

The pride of Surrey.

I watch the High Street
as it runs down to that

young whippersnapper statue
THE SCHOLAR or whatever.

People congregate about the chap
eat sandwiches….listen to a busker

busk opera.
Only in Guildford!

But it’s me they look up to!

And is it time for tea?
Why so it is and. . .
citizens clatter over the cobbles.

I’m the Guildford Guildhall clock I am!

Tip! top!

Ticktock!Ticktock! Tiptop!Tip top!

TIP!!!!!!!!!!

TOP!!!!!!!!!
SPACE: THE FINAL FRONTIER

a glacier moves
through the Geog lesson
outside the grass burnt brown

he parses a sentence
a blackbird gives a lesson
in singing

the quadratic equation
elopes with the doodle
waiting for the bell to ring

spanner in the words
I unable to
name a verb of manner

I stare
he glares
the class gasp

the sunlight draws
a parallelogram
on the dusty floor

I dare to boldly go
trespass grammatical boundaries
the solecism makes me a marked man

"Earth calling Dempsey...earth calling Dempsey!"
the class snigger with teacher
Sir reaches for the strap

six of the best
for a split infinitive
**** that Cap. Kirk!
Oct 3 · 50
FALLING INTO THE PAST
FALLING INTO THE PAST

the tick tick of the bike
a dog barks
letter on a Welcome mat

the midnight tick of time
the house sighs
Dad's whistle

ambushed by the smell
of honeysuckle
I fall into the Past

red barn
blue sky
a summer to last forever

Caruso 78
I listen to the scratches
like Time trying to sing along

I kiss the whorl
of a fingertip then
the all of you

your body
drifting away from me
on a tide of hurt

'I don't like the way
your eyes
touch me! '

starlings fly up
I walk upon close bitten grass
a sheep laughs

a car rusts on the beach
the roofless house
looks out to sea

the sea is sleeping
I watch it breathing
wonder what it's dreaming

the house hunkers down
its window eyes
gaze upon the coming storm

crouching under a cloud
a mountain
frightened by the storm

walking upon
the meniscus of sleep
unable to dive in

& here you are
years later looking like
an out of focus photo of your self
Sep 29 · 50
HERE I BE!
HERE I BE!

South of the buzzing
of a hairy bumble bee

North of the big dog’s bark

West of the breeze
tickling  cherry blossom trees

East of the sunlight
stealing over the fields

that’s where

you will
find me.

*

I ESSERE QUI!

Sud del ronzio
di un peloso bombò

A nord del grande cane abbaia

A ovest della brezza
il solletico alberi di ciliegio in fiore

Est della luce del sole
rubare i campi

ecco dove

troverete me.
My little girl's sense of where she was...as if it were written in the sky and the world was simply there to do her bidding. She used her own personal co-ordinates to bring in a thought to land.


"Where were you Tilly?" I asked innocently. "I was by the big cloud pretending to be a tiger beside the worm...look!" And with that she produced the worm she had been hiding behind her back. So she had gone to the bottom of the garden...hopefully not to eat 'em.
So I thought I also would get my bearings the three year old Tilly way! I was singing Ariel's "Where the bee ***** there **** I..." so I guess this got cross-pollinated with where and who I was. It takes a little girl to teach one how to live in the world in the rightest of ways.
My little girl's sense of where she was...as if it were written in the sky and the world was simply there to do her bidding. She used her own personal co-ordinates to bring in a thought to land.
A SURPRISE OF BUTTERFLIES

A cluster
(is that the correct term
for the collective noun)  

a cluster
of butterflies?

Maybe it should be
a joy of butterflies

a surprise of butterflies.

My little girl
amazed

as they invade
our garden

even settling upon
her
as if she were

a walking
flower.

She young enough
to believe

these
are the fairies

one reads about.

Imagination
& Reality

for this one
(moment)  

becoming
One.
******
A kindle of kittens...a watch of nightingales...a sulk of foxes! I love the surprising collectives...they are almost surreal.
Sep 27 · 55
MINE IS THE SUNLIGHT
MINE IS THE SUNLIGHT

all night the dark
held up the sky

nailing time to time
with tiny silver studs

until a star fell and
the dark surrendered to the light

morning and its moments
birds composing the score

living notes
on the staff notation

that runs from pole to pole
slicing the sky

into its various sections
adding a tree here and there

capturing a family
of clouds

the terrific traffic
of an orchestra tuning up

a train cutting across a plain
far away cows looking like toys

a lark throwing itself
against a heaven

as if it could break through
into an eternity beyond

the infinity that
is us
Sep 27 · 29
AND TIME A THIEF
AND TIME A THIEF

She hugged her books
to her *******.

Her ******* hardening into
her Othello and Algebra.

She watched his mouth
move

alive with words
she heard nothing of

only
her name

"...yadayadaMARY...
...yada yada MARY!"

A bead of sweat
trickled between her *******.

She tried to catch
her breath and

what he was saying but
it only gave her hiccups.

She squirmed
under his gaze

a butterfly
held by a pin

pleasure that was
pain.

"And that was how
I met your Dad!"

She tells this story
only when she's very very

tipsy
crying now

for the girl she was
- then:

the Shakespeare & Maths
pressed to her chest

the world
awaiting her.
BACK TO THE FUTURE...EH...NOW!

So today's the day
that Marty McFly

set the controls for
Back to the Future

so here I are
lost in time and

talking to that guy wot wrote that book that
now wot the dickens was his name

Charles...yes that's it
in his cups and going on 'n' on 'bout:

“Little Red Riding Hood was my first love.
I felt that if I could have married Little Red Riding Hood, I should have known perfect bliss.”

Gawd...going back in time to talk
to a favourite author

can be a bit of a bore

"...was my first love
hic...perfect bliss!"

"Charlie..." I tell him
"I can call you Charlie can't !"

"As Jerry Lee once said to me. . ."
I told him

“If the Lord made anything better than a woman
he kept it for himself.”

Marty drives by
asks if I want a lift

I leave Mr. Dickens
to his fairy tale romance

(affairs with fictional characters
never do work out)

I hop into that iconic red DeLorean DMC-12 automobile

back to my present

and the future that is
now.
"WHERE DOES A THOUGHT GO WHEN IT IS FORGOTTEN?"

“The soul becomes dyed with the colour of its thoughts.”

― Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

*

A thought crawled
across the surface of his mind

having escaped the gravitational
pull of his subconsciousness .

The thought thought
of itself

as of a human
crawling across a desert

crying "Water...water!"
in some old cartoon

except it was crying
"Meaning...meaning!"

Meaning..." aye
there's the rub!"

it spoke to itself
in Hamletian tones.

It was hard work carrying
all this Shakespeare around

so it reluctantly
left it behind.

But it persisted
in its searching

as if it could grab the stars
and turn them into words.

The brain to which
it had been assigned to

that oh so fragile
human machinery

had started
shutting down

synapses refusing
to fire

making it almost impossible
for the thought to exist.

A wife
holding a dying hand

the thought wanting to
become something said

something grand
famous last words

but there were
no words to be found

other than "I taut I taw
a puddy cat!"

The thought could
only activate a smile

but that smile
said it all.

Wordless
words.

The wife now
squeezing all the tighter.

Smile speaking
to smile.

The thought had made it
after all.
“Where does a thought go when it's forgotten?”
― Sigmund Freud
Sep 25 · 32
CLOCKLESS
CLOCKLESS

the car's wipers
slosh the world back & forth
back'n'forth

how stupid of me
left my heart out in the pain
my thoughts gone rusty

white noise
on the telly
my fingertips touch the static

"Suicide is painless..." I hum
I tell the waiting room
"I...hope...it is!"

the objects in the room
looks terrified
look on in silence

locked inside
the whisper
( the shout )

this room is clockless
time locked outside
howling to get in

I ...sit...and
crochet on the couch
time looks sheepish

clicking needles
I knit
one moment to the next

there is only this
little moment
left to live in

"Too much time..."I tell myself
"That's the trouble. . ." I tell the room
"Think I'll cut it down to size!" I say to nobody

"Time to be gone..."
I say
in a melodramatic way

I laugh at myself
weep in my private
theatre of heartbreak

my reflection & I
both reaching for
the razor blade

the room
holds its breath
I close my eyes &. . .

this one perfect moment
time rearing up like a wave
that never ever breaks
Sep 24 · 50
SANCTUARY
SANCTUARY

this one perfect moment
time rearing up like a wave
that never ever breaks

the train's scream
the dog's bark
chiseled into the silence

dancing to
the bandstand's music
a flock of flags

birds
writing themselves...unwriting themselves
across a page of sky

this moment
flees from time
claims sanctuary in my mind
Sep 23 · 44
AS GAEILGE (In Irish)
AS GAEILGE
(In Irish)

Dún do súile
(Close your eyes)

Codail go lá...mo ghrá séimh.
(Sleep until day...my gentle love) .

Codail go sámh go sámh.
(Sleep peacefully...peacefully) .

Éirdeoidh an ghealach seo...
...is rachaidh an ghrian seo faoi

(This moon will rise...
...this sun will set)

aire 'gus grá
i gconaí
(care and love always)

gach oíche 's gach lá
gach lá 's gach oíche.
(every night every day
every day ever night) .

Mo phlúirín!
Mo stóirín!
Mo mhuirnín!
(My little flower!
My little treasure!
My little darling!)

Ach anois...
(But now...)

codail go sámh go séimh
(sleep peacefully...gently)

go fáinne an lae
(until the break of day)

le mise
ar do taobh.
(with me
by your side) .

Losing our baby
late into the night

holding this little thing
that only attempted to be human

unable to let go

I clasped the foetus
tightly in my hand

& buried it in the dawn
of our local park

under a recently planted
red rose bush.

In my grief
flower & baby
became one

and night after night I climbed
over high railings & even higher stars

to talk to her in the dark in Irish.

Or sing: My Love is like a Red Red Rose.

Or cry...or...cry.

Almost got arrested one night
by an Irish cop
drawn to the sound
of Irish emerging from darkness.

Guess he let me go because - it wouldn’t look good
on a charge sheet:

“The defendant was talking
& crying to...a flower.”

- in Irish.

Eist...eist
(listen...listen)

duinne eagin ag caoineadh
(someone is crying)

in a dorchasan
(in his darkness) .

Fill...fill...a run o!

Fill a run o is na imigh uaim.

Fill orm a chuisle a stor

agus chifeadh tu an gloire... ma fhillean tu!
IN THE BEST TIME HONOURED WAY

And, so
it came to ***

and we both knew
( what was to happen next )

I tremblingly
peeling off a pair of *******

only to be met
with yet...another pair of *******.

Creating a weird sense of déjà vu
you told me you were cold and so

. . .you wore two.

Oh my poor shivering dear
I so...pitied you...your plight

that I
manfully set about

warming you up
in the best time honoured way.
Sep 22 · 26
A ROMANTIC AULD EEJIT
A ROMANTIC AULD EJEIT

Nat King Cole sings Autumn Leaves
on the radio - in Japanese.

My mother falls
in love with it.

I fail to find it for her
this being pre-Internet days.

So, I sing it for her
making up the Japanese words.

I sing different words
every day.

Sing she says...
"My...Donie's knee!"

Which is what we call it
after hearing it only the once.

"Share it with Yuku!"
I sing whatever comes to mind.

"Oh more each day!"
the words have a life of their own.

Now when I have grown
to be this man I am

I learn the proper Japanese
but she still thinks I'm making it up.

Now here in her dying
she says sing me

"My  Donie's knee!"

So I sing in my broken
Japanese.

She squeezes my hand
whispers softly...

"You were always
a romantic auld eejit!"

**

Phonetically speaking it goes something like this....

Ma doe bay knee
She re e yuku
Ha me kay no
Ha ray hi yo
Oh mo e day
Ha na a she ku
Wat su ra ray
Naf su no he
Key me ga oh day
Yat sa she cu
Wa tashi o
key da key tay
suki say nu ko e no
coo may o
ka tar esh she
an no hee
Phonetically speaking it goes something like this....
Ma doe bay knee
She re e yuku
Ha me kay no
Ha ray hi yo
Oh mo e day
Ha na a she ku
Wat su ra ray
Naf su no he
Key me ga oh day
Yat sa she cu
Wa tashi o
key da key tay
suki say nu ko e no
coo may o
ka tar esh she
an no hee
Sep 22 · 32
" 'TIS!"
" 'TIS!"

Sure, I shock
Eternity by the hand.

"Yer a grand man so y'are!|"
Eternity kept on saying.

I gave Eternity a peck
on each cheek.

"Ya....cheeky little thing!"
blushed Eternity.

"Ahhhh is it...yer self that's in it?"
gasped Infinity.

" 'tis!"  says I  "...so it is!"

"Welcome...welcome!" cries Death.
"Glad ya could make it!"

I said nothing.

Time was nowhere to be
seen.

"Is that it?"
I shyly asked.

"'tis, so it is!"
they all answered together.

" 'tis!"
Sep 22 · 87
LA MACCHINA UMANA
LA MACCHINA UMANA

Her head
lay at her feet.

A butterfly perched
upon those chiseled lips.

She held a thin slice
of sunlight in her left hand.

The head?

She had got by
without it now

for the past
20 years.

A spider crawled over
her wide open eyes.

Her head looked up
at her imploringly.

But she paid it
no mind.

In time one finds
losing one's head

not the misfortune
it would appear to be.

Time that meaningless
piece of human machinery.

The statue had looked upon
this same scene

for a century or more
and was none the wiser.

Tourists a nuisance
like having lice.

The constant click of cameras
like an itch.

Flowers grew about
the fallen head

giving it a grace
it had not attained in life.

It was grateful
not to be human now.

The sunlight moving
from the left hand to the right.
Sep 21 · 25
PINK HIGH HEEL SHOES
PINK HIGH HEEL SHOES

I remember drinking
pink champagne

from your pink
high heel shoes.

I remember making love
with you

wearing only
your pink high heel shoes.

I remember
how your pink high heel shoes

became

candle holders
ashtrays
(where you stashed your hash)

deadly weapons
in an...OW!...row!

& you ask me
do I remember

your pink high heel shoes?

Do I?
I do!
Sep 20 · 31
OG
OG
OG

'...og! '

You command
the language

&
it

obeys you.

Providing you
with a dog.

A sleepy dog
who when he hears you

wakes up
trundles over to you

slumps
at your feet

& then
goes back to sleep.

You
the Queen of Words.

'Ahhhh...og! '

you stroke
the word

& it obeys
your every whim.

'Dog! '
I say.

He opens an eye
&...looks away

as if to say:
'Who's him...then? '

Ahhhh....my little cave girl
I love

your little explorings
of the tongue

and how
the world comes

when it is bidden.

'Dada! '
you pronounce

& I
too

come at once
tied to

the invisible string
of your

voice.
WRITING UPON THE SKY WITH INVISIBLE INK

mum dances her baby
les Moulin Rouge girls
arrive in their civvies

later that night
transformed by feathers & sequins
into a tourist fancy

mum breastfeeds her baby
the neon's screams
blurred in the rain

**** screams in neon
the red windmill
grinds out a perfect blue sky

*** clubs at the bottom
at the very top
Sacre Coeur reaches for heaven

the tree's fingertips
writing upon a sky
with invisible ink
"MY LOVE IS AS A FEVER..."

All that long hot summer through
I shared a summer cold with you

that seemed to last forever.

Whether, sharing the same germs, dreams,
bacteria or whatever

it seemed to bind us so...very close together.

If this was love...it couldn't get no better.

And all my heart
could say

even to this day...is:

'Bless you...bless you...bless you.'
Sep 17 · 58
NEW YORK STATE OF MIND
NEW YORK STATE OF MIND

Walt Whitman
walks by me
somewhere in 1892

I nod to him...he nods to me
lost in himself
Clinton is being inaugurated

Brooklyn Bridge
saunters by
dressed in the summer of '67

the subway
wears its best graffiti
the music of trains and Coltrane

the Flatiron Building is jaywalking
the Empire State
chats him up

a child's hopscotch
almost washed away
a moment's masterpiece

Robert Moses
looks across Long Island
longs to build the city only he sees

he gazes into my future
I look into his past
I pass Robert Mapplethorpe

a man in a white suit
nailed to the darkness
by so many stars

an old saxophone player busks
Rogers and Hart in Central Park
"...I didn't know what time it was..."

two obese Chinese
take up too much of the sidewalk
both speaking fluent - Irish?

"Leaves of Grass"
lies scattered across the road
read now by the wind

a car caught in traffic
blares out Joel's
"New York State of Mind"

I laugh at such
a happenstance
a walk-on-part in my own movie

escaping the borders
of the body
I walk through times

I am all the times
of the world
they intersect in self

Walt and I
sitting on a park bench
waiting to go somewhere else

an 1990's rain
falls on an 1870's NY
they are beginning Brooklyn Bridge

I meet my self
coming and going
an older and a younger me

time held prisoner on the wrist
I turn and walk away
into this the newest of centuries
UNUSUAL USES FOR SCOTCH TAPE

she cries for the fallen leaves
Sellotapes them back on the trees

and here she is at five
fuchsia taped to her ears

"You like my earrings?"
she asks sincerely

"I do!" I say  "I sure do!"

Now I search the tape
to find where it begins or ends

scrape it back with a fingernail
bite it off with my teeth

tape her picture to the wall
remember her this. . small.
Sep 16 · 48
SCATTERED DREAMS
SCATTERED DREAMS

Whenever I fell
asleep

my father came
cupped me in his hands

carried me to bed

as if I were as precious
as water

in a hot dry land

or draped like discarded clothing
on a couch...in a garden on a bench or a beach

I would be
gathered up

& awake to find myself
back in the safety of my own bed.

And I would have thought
I had flown

or being magically
transported by a spell

but it was only
the ordinary

magic of my father

cradling me
in his arms

gathering up the littlest
of my scattered dreams

stroking my hair

& tip-toeing backwards
out of the room

his voice
full of tenderness

casting a spell

“Good night son...goodnight...goodnight.”
Sep 16 · 20
LIGHT ON WATER
LIGHT ON WATER

Memory cuts up the past
sticks it back together

this the wrong way up
that the right way down

this year
to that sky

the tear away thrown away
callender that lies

here a voice
with no picture

here pictures
without voices

just the sense
of what has been

the real and yet
the not real

stranded now
in whatever year

time refusing to be
pinned down

your laughter stitched
into a burst of bird song

written upon a sky
that will be a forever

a patchwork quilt
of days

the constant writing
over what has past

a  palimpsest
of the mind.
Sep 15 · 39
BECOMING MY WORDS...
BECOMING MY WORDS...

I've been so many
Donall Dempseys

it's hard to remember
which one is which.

Every time I arrive
at a different me.

All this making and
unmaking me

to greet the next
moment I am to be.

Death, I guess
will be a holiday

from myself
the new me I'll never see.

Ahhhh, as Walt once said:

"If you want me again look for me
under your boot-soles."

Hopefully one day
I shall become

my words only
only my words.
THIS MAN WHO IS NOT MY FATHER IS MY FATHER

This man
who is not

my father

is

my
father.

The other’s laugh:

“It’s not your turn but
he calls only for you! ”

And so I go
& clean him up

his skeleton thin body
splashed with ***** & ****.

I laugh & joke
with him.

He chuckles
as I tell him:

“Michael...you used to be
so full of crap
but ****...now you’re not! ”

Lucky
our Irish sense of humour

extends this far

say anything with love and
it becomes so.

It is a tired old joke
but like a child he

pounces on its nuances
relishing each pause and stupid syllable!

I bathe
him

this man
who is not my father

gently as if he were

my child.

I sing
to him
all the old songs

I learned
at my father’s hands

as he bathed me.

“...why does my poor heart keep following you...”

We sing together
softly as I bathe him

dress him
anew

in the memory
of my father.

This man
who is not

my father

becomes
my father

as my hands learn
to care for him.

I settle
a pillow

behind
his head

wipe sweat
from his forehead

stroke
his hair

until his sleep
is full

of dreams

...dreams.
Sep 13 · 26
A TIDY MAN
A TIDY MAN

My  ghost came
to see me off.

"Just thought I
would introduce myself.

"You see...I'm you
in a few hours time

when you've shaken off
( as the cliche goes )

this mortal coil
as it were."

"Is this the done thing?"
I enquired politely

"...not to sure of
the protocol...so to speak?"

"I'm not used to being dead..."
I excused myself.

"Oh it's the new Heavenly Scheme
introduced by Him Above!"

I tried to catch my breath.
Found I couldn't.

"Oh well...let's
get on with it!"

So I hung my soul up
on the back of the door.

The wardrobe was packed tight
with all the selves I'd ever been.

I folded my life up
neatly.

I was always
and forever

a tidy man.
AND NOW THE RELATIONSHIP CRISIS FORECAST ISSUED BY THE SANE SIDE OF YOUR SELF  ON BEHALF OF THE MERRY TIME & KEEP YOUR GUARD UP AGENCY.

The general synopsis at mid-life is:

Late 40’s
dogged by blighted love life

new all time low
expected by that time.

new all time low
expected by that time.

***
occasionally very poor at first

becoming
moderate or good.

F**k  all
(hand over fist)  
******.

Marriage 3 or 4
becoming a bore.

Blonde mantrap
34-24-34.

**** Mrs. Fitzroy
(formerly Finisterre)  

affair deepening rapidly
expected imminent.

Getting carried away
hoisted by one’s own petard.

Chances it will work out alright
moderate becoming decreasing slight.

Fair Isle sweater left
carelessly behind in car

Eh...uh uh!
Big mistake.

Violent storm warning
boyfriend built like Viking.

Gulp...not Dover Wight!
Becoming cyclonic
...moronic.

Severe icing.
Oh *****! Despair. Panic. Flight

What more could go wrong?
Chelsea 2 West Ham 1!

Town gossip Lundy Fastnet
informs wife.

Accused of infidelities
backing off into continual lying

veering towards disbelief
clothes thrown out in street.

Locks. Changed.

Caught fast in net
like trashing fish.

Future visibility
moderate becoming poor

in showers.

Drunk. Again.
Singing in the rain.

What’s it all about
...Alfie
AND NOW THE RELATIONSHIP CRISIS FORECAST ISSUED BY THE SANE SIDE OF YOUR SELF ON BEHALF OF THE MERRY TIME & KEEP YOUR GUARD UP AGENCY.

The general synopsis at mid-life is:

Late 40’s
dogged by blighted love life

new all time low
expected by that time.

new all time low
expected by that time.

***
occasionally very poor at first

becoming
moderate or good.

**** all
(hand over fist)
******.

Marriage 3 or 4
becoming a bore.

Blonde mantrap
34-24-34.

**** Mrs. Fitzroy
(formerly Finisterre)

affair deepening rapidly
expected imminent.

Getting carried away
hoisted by one’s own petard.

Chances it will work out alright
moderate becoming decreasing slight.

Fair Isle sweater left
carelessly behind in car

Eh...uh uh!
Big mistake.

Violent storm warning
boyfriend built like Viking.

Gulp...not Dover Wight!
Becoming cyclonic
...moronic.

Severe icing.
Oh *****! Despair. Panic. Flight

What more could go wrong?
Chelsea 2 West Ham 1!

Town gossip Lundy Fastnet
informs wife.

Accused of infidelities
backing off into continual lying

veering towards disbelief
clothes thrown out in street.

Locks. Changed.

Caught fast in net
like trashing fish.

Future visibility
moderate becoming poor

in showers.

Drunk. Again.
Singing in the rain.

What’s it all about
...Alfie

*******

THE SHIPPING FORECAST...

An aural nautical weather map of an imaginary cut-up sea where the naming enters our nation’s consciousness....becomes part of the British psyche through its radio recitation... a litany... a rosary...mantra... a prayer of various here and theres that can only be imagined.

An oral/aural concrete poetry whose art belongs to Dada... an incantation of sounds and places only imagined...well known unique distinctive soundings and their hypnotic reassuringly ritualistic resonant repetition which is held in the greatest affection...mesmerically obscure...soothingly safe...strangely comforting...a litany of waves coming across the airwaves like a lullaby or a wartime coded message or Cocteau’s Orphée trying to decode death on the radio.

As iconic as the tube map with its elegant geometry of twisted coloured lines...it has become part of our mental landscape that our senses seek out as being quintessentially British.

It scans...it’s got rhythm...who could ask for anything more.

Something rich...and strange.

*******

Especially in its bedtime for Britain broadcast with us all drifting off to the strains of Ronald Binge’s SAILING BY(also the writer of ELIZABETHEAN SERENADE) as we sip our coca...lock the back door...put the milk bottles out and try to persuade the cat to come in as the day is put to bed and finally laid to rest at precisely 00: 48

And now the Shipping Forecast issued by the Met Office, on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency, at 1625 utc on Monday 31 May 2010 for the period 1800 utc Monday 31 May to 1800 utc Tuesday 01 June 2010.

The general synopsis at midday:

It is read out on Radio 4 at 0048,0520,1201 and 1754 (local time) . All broadcasts are on LW on 1515m (198 kHz) and some transmissions are on VHF. It gives a summary of gale warnings in force, a general synopsis and area forecasts for specified sea areas around the UK. The radio bulletin also includes the coastal weather reports (0048 and 0536 only) .

The music played before the Shipping Forecast is 'Sailing By' composed by Ronald Binge.

The mystical marine areas are as follows:

VIKING NORTH UTSIRE SOUTH UTSIRE
FORTIES CROMARTY FORTH
TYNE DOGGER FISHER GERMAN BIGHT
HUMBER THAMES DOVER WIGHT
PORTLAND PLYMOUTH BISCAY TRAFALGAR
FITZROY(FORMERLY FINISTERRE)
SOLE LUNDY FASTNET
IRISH SEA SHANNON ROCKALL MALIN HEBRIDES
BAILEY FAIR ISLE FAEROES
SOUTHEAST ICELANDetry whose art belongs to Dada... an incantation of sounds and places only imagined...well known unique distinctive soundings and their hypnotic reassuringly ritualistic resonant repetition which is held in the greatest affection...mesmerically obscure...soothingly safe...strangely comforting...a litany of waves coming across the airwaves like a lullaby or a wartime coded message or Cocteau’s Orphée trying to decode death on the radio.

As iconic as the tube map with its elegant geometry of twisted coloured lines...it has become part of our mental landscape that our senses seek out as being quintessentially British.

It scans...it’s got rhythm...who could ask for anything more.

Something rich...and strange.

*******

Especially in its bedtime for Britain broadcast with us all drifting off to the strains of Ronald Binge’s SAILING BY(also the writer of ELIZABETHEAN SERENADE) as we sip our coca...lock the back door...put the milk bottles out and try to persuade the cat to come in as the day is put to bed and finally laid to rest at precisely 00: 48

And now the Shipping Forecast issued by the Met Office, on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency, at 1625 utc on Monday 31 May 2010 for the period 1800 utc Monday 31 May to 1800 utc Tuesday 01 June 2010.

The general synopsis at midday:

It is read out on Radio 4 at 0048,0520,1201 and 1754 (local time) . All broadcasts are on LW on 1515m (198 kHz) and some transmissions are on VHF. It gives a summary of gale warnings in force, a general synopsis and area forecasts for specified sea areas around the UK. The radio bulletin also includes the coastal weather reports (0048 and 0536 only) .

The music played before the Shipping Forecast is 'Sailing By' composed by Ronald Binge.

The mystical marine areas are as follows:

VIKING NORTH UTSIRE SOUTH UTSIRE
FORTIES CROMARTY FORTH
TYNE DOGGER FISHER GERMAN BIGHT
HUMBER THAMES DOVER WIGHT
PORTLAND PLYMOUTH BISCAY TRAFALGAR
FITZROY(FORMERLY FINISTERRE)
SOLE LUNDY FASTNET
IRISH SEA SHANNON ROCKALL MALIN HEBRIDES
BAILEY FAIR ISLE FAEROES
SOUTHEAST ICELAND
GOING ABOUT ITS BUSINESS

'Oh wall! I'm amazed you haven't collapsed
under the weight of drivel you're holding up! '

the graffiti laughs
in self mockery.

'Happy the man who is sleeping with you
tonight.I'd be much happier if I were! '

another wall
mutters to itself jealously.

'You ask, beautiful girl
how many kisses I've snatched?
I've snatched these ones and...
I'm not the only one to do so.'

yet another wall
kisses 'n' tells
in a red on yellow voice.

In the silence
the walls are shouting
(a babble of voices)          

Time is smiling.

'I came here.
Had a ****
- then I went home! '

another announced
in a who-gives-a-f**k manner.

'Lucius is stuffing it
into Caesu's mouth

a drunken scrawl
pronounces

amongst the inns of
THE ELEPHANT...THE LITTLE EAGLE
THE MERCURY & APOLLO.

It is the 23rd
August

AD 79

Mount Vesuvius
hasn't yet exploded.

Pompeii
dozes

in the lazy sun
of this

new morning

going about
its business.
***

The Pompeian graffiti still exists in all its extraordinary ordinariness and just goes to show that humans will be humans no matter what peroid of history we come to rest in. Most of it could be...now. And it amazes me that their 'now' is little different than our 'now.' People will be people. It is the day before the explosion and Pompeii is just being Pompeii and hasn't yet stepped into the history that will surround and preserve it. How fragile we all are and life is and how alive and fluent are their voices. Only history is static.

***

This 'exchange' dug up from the long ago when time is history and myth combined is worth more than gold and the voices that come back could well be our own.

NOTHING CHANGES

In the lost city
of Ur

a fragment
survives

The father/son
divide.

The conversation is
a confrontation.

startling in its simplicity.

Father: 'Where have you been? '

Son: 'Nowhere! '

Seems like there's nothing
new under the sun.

Nothing...
...changes.

*******

THE STONES SPEAK IN A GRAFFITI VOICES

“You...have got me pregnant! ”

“You...are a mediocre man! ”

“I hope your ulcerous pustules
open and burn more than ever before! ”

An ordinary day
in Pompeii

then all is
forgotten

as Vesuvius
enters history.

Praiano: 7.30 PM FRIDAY
Sep 11 · 102
SOUL OF THE AGE
SOUL OF THE AGE

Now, is the summer
of this. . .our content

made glorious
by love

the sunlight
kiss of leaves

yet through a glass
darkly

I am tolled by old
St. Saviour’s bell

back to
a December’d day

a Thames frozen
from Westminster to London Bridge

where Will
buries brother

young Edmund Shakespeare
on this the last day

of the year
1607.

I stand on the same
flagstones

as the King’s Men
gathered in black

rub shoulders with
Burbage

a Hamlet come
to life

a summer of tourists
walking through us

as the order
from the Book of the Dead

solemnly intoned

as his younger brother
is lowered

into an unmarked
grave.

Ferrymen call
from across the centuries

“Eastward **. . .
. . .Westward **!”

as Time slips
loose of its moorings

mastiffs strain
at the leash

await the bear
to be baited.

Methinks I see
the great Globe itself

flag unfurled
upon an horizon

“the forenoon knell
of the great bell”

as I return
to my self

and Shakespeare
stares at a wall

in Silver
Street.
Sep 10 · 55
SISSONNE EN AVANT
SISSONNE EN AVANT

Parc Du Champ De Mars
little girls practice their ballet steps
old man his T'ai-Chi

old man
frozen into
Carry Head Push Mountain

Time melts
old man flows into
Wild Horse Spreads Mane

"et maintenant...allongé ..allongé. . !"
dit Maman
the little dog rolls on the grass

the little dog growls
at the frozen man
little girl a statue in arabesque

little girl her
head in the clouds
old man...cloud hands

my moment
passes their moments
lost now in time

"... et maintenant
fermée, ouverte, développée,
en avant, en arrière, à la seconde."
DRIVING A FERRARI INTO THE FUTURE

the house floated out of the darkness
as if it had been flying about in the fog
before perching on the mountain's side

the house was embarrassed
to be seen
in its ruin

this was the somewhere
she had come from
it now no longer existed

she felt that she too
no longer existed
an equation erased on a blackboard

she became naked
wearing only the lake
and moonlight

water flowed over her
like a silken garment
she the empress of this nowhere

only when she stood dripping
on the edge of this nothingness
did she feel the cold and shiver

the stars were like an atlas
of themselves...the Milky Way
reaching over a hedge...lapping the lake

time fell all about her
like a sudden rain
the seen and un-seen together

she drove her Ferrari into the future
leaving behind forever
the girl she once had been
Sep 9 · 87
GET DIRECTIONS
GET DIRECTIONS

With a click I
begin the journey

USE CAUTION!
(I'm advised)

WALKING DIRECTIONS MAY
NOT ALWAYS REFLECT

( sunlight glances off
a passing car)

REAL-WORLD CONDITIONS
(sunlight becomes rain)

Passing by now
Ripley's Believe it or Not.

And indeed it is so
a man walks a weasel

on a lead
passerbys give him a wide berth

amused and bemused
all at the same time.

A punk sings opera
as if he had stepped

out of another
dimension.

As work progresses
a photo of a building

covers the building
as if it were wearing

the 2-D dress of
it's 3-D self.

Waiting for a green light
a dog pees on my left shoe.

Ctrl+ drag mouse
and we go full 3-D

now the satellite
view as you

come into focus
through raindrop glasses

"Sweet Thames flow softly...."
MacColl's voice leaking from a car window

hum now as I cross
the street to greet her

"Kissed her once again at Wapping,
Flow sweet river flow...

After that there was no stopping
Sweet Thames  flow softly..."
Ewan MacColl had just died somewhere in '89 and suddenly he was remembered as the guy who wrote the extraordinary beautiful THE FIRST TIME EVER I SAW YOUR FACE and the gritty ***** OLD TOWN and of course SWEET THAMES.  I so loved his songs.


Now 20 years later I was crossing London and getting directions from Google and hearing his voice once again leak from a car stopped at the light.
Google directions telling me that the real world might be different out there amused me and this poem sat down in a chair in my mind and made itself at home. "Ahhhh howya!" said the poem. "I hear y'are the fellow who's going to write me!"
LIFE IS A HORIZONTAL FALL

"I...wouldn't do that...if I...were you!"
smiles the mirror

in a voice
silvered with silence.

"Well. . ." I tell it
"You...are not!"

I retrieve my image
from the back of the mirror.

"The bird sings with its fingers. . ."
I say in an Apollinaire-ish way.

This shuts the mirror up.
It not being au fait with the French poets

But, Death takes on
innumerable forms.

Here, it has no human face.

A tablecloth full of holes
more present by its "not-thereness"

than its...
"there-ness."

Only the table tells
what it is.

It haunts me.

"I am the door to your death!"
it says in its holey voice.

There, a staircase climbs into the air
only to turn and return

to where it began.

"I can connect
nothing with nothing!"

so says the rocking horse
staring me in the eye.

Death shows me a room
I will never ever know

as if I were to live in
an installation

in some future
art gallery.

I run & hide
from myself

in my
self.

Death is waiting for me
in my every cell.

She smiles
like cancer.

As Death kisses me
the world turns

on its axis
&

day
becomes
night.
CECI N'EST PAS UNE ORANGE

A Parisian orange
lay bang in the middle of the street.

I couldn't have avoided it
this orange of all oranges

lost & stranded

but still as
big & bold & bright

as a new found sun
in an unknown solar system.

It invisible to all
bicycles cars and feet.

A cat gave it
a cursory glance.

The soundtrack of Paris
happening just off stage.

Now everyone had vanished
except me & this orange.

Somehow it found
its way to my head

& unraveled itself
in a concentric spiral

a swirl of orange peel
& white pith

like a Can-Can
dancer's skirt.

I ate it.

Oblivious
to everything else

my first
French

orange.

A Parisian orange
lay bang in the middle of the street.

I couldn't have avoided it
this orange of all oranges

lost & stranded

but still as
big & bold & bright

as a new found sun
in an unknown solar system.

It invisible to all
bicycles cars and feet.

A cat gave it
a cursory glance.

The soundtrack of Paris
happening just off stage.

Now everyone had vanished
except me & this orange.

Somehow it found
its way to my head

& unraveled itself
in a concentric spiral

a swirl of orange peel
& white pith

like a Can-Can
dancer's skirt.

I ate it.

Oblivious
to everything else

my first
French

orange.
THE BELL GOES FOR THE END OF HISTORY

her head all algebra
trigonometry and Heaney
and...boys...boys...boys

her mind crept
nearer & nearer...him
longing just to touch his...

she watched a trickle of sweat
make its way down his neck
imagined herself licki..ing...it...off

it is the end of WW1
thank heaven for that
she watches him....mmmm...stretch...yawn

his name surrounded
by doodled hearts and flowers
her first poem....ahem...HYMN TO HIM

she had eyes only for him
he had eyes only for Siobhan Winterson
she hated Siobhan Winterson

oh my God oh my God oh
he just looked. . .
. . .past me

oh please oh please oh please
look at me
he doesn't give her a second look

she cries herself asleep
dreams of him
requiting her unrequited love

years years later
two kids and a divorce later
HYMN TO HIM in a battered shoebox

she reads her
13 year old self
sobs her heart out
Sep 6 · 62
IT WAS A FRABJOUS DAY
IT WAS A FRABJOUS DAY

The Jabberwock was
having its usual

cup of coffee
its tenth of the day.

Black.
Always black.

One could see coffee grains
caught in its teeth

Always the same
big grin.

We joked
(behind its back of course)

that Jabberwock
meant coffee ******.

Not because we were fearful
but because he was such

a sensitive soul
and we didn't want to

cause offense
where no offense was meant.

It could get a bit
uffish.

An unlit cigarette clung
to its slobbery lips.

It didn't smoke but
wanted to appear to do so.

The mome raths were outgrabbing
they never seemed to stop.

The Cheshire Cat
(not all there)

smiled its smile
we called it Mona Lisa.

We were all just
hanging about

as you do when
your author ponders.

Nobody dared to
approach him.

He was a God
to us.

Me and the rest of the Toves
knew our place

and played cards
with the Borogoves.

The Borogoves
were cheaters.

The Jubjub birds were
bored out of their tiny skulls

perching in the branches of
the TumTum trees in Tulgey Wood.

The Bandersnatch was having
a frumious forty winks.

We were glad to be
just alive if only

in words -
words was our world.

No use getting all
mimsy about it.

We weren't as slithy
as we were made out to be.

We practiced our
gyre and gimble.

We were merely
the creatures of his brain.

We wouldn't dare disturb
the Author for fear

of being
scratched out.

Nobody 'cept the manxome
Jabberwock that is.  

"But what's my motivation  Mr. Carroll?"
He'd forever burble.

"Could I not take just a small bite perhaps
out of the little beamish chap ?" he'd whiffle.

Mr. Carroll( nobody dared
to call him Lewis)

just smiled and
Jack Jabberwock would galumphed back.

"Ok! Places everyone - 'tis brillig!
and the story limped on again.

It was a frabjous day
a really frabjous day.

All that could be heard was
the dripping of a tap

and the constant
scratching of the pen

creating forever
creating

the next sentence.
Sep 5 · 40
HOW NOW RED BALLOON?
HOW NOW RED BALLOON?

The balloon
crossed the road

on its own
cautiously at first

then becoming
a little braver.

There wasn't a human
in sight.

The balloon was
red.

Why did it cross the road?
You would have to ask a chicken.

It made its way
into a nearby field.

just out of reach of
a host of thistles

angry at the invasion
of their territory

A bee followed it
across a ditch

bemused at  such
a  solo flight.

The balloon came to rest
on the back of a huge

black and white
heifer.

And there
it remained

as I passed
and hurried by.

Cow and balloon
as one.

Living on in
my mind

all these 40 years
later.
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