i have never been sophisticated
sophistication just never related
relative to everything i hated
hatred of the over-stated

i have never been materialistic
materialism isn't a characteristic
characterized by a mind that's realistic
realize, i am not hedonistic

i never gave a **** about tradition
traditional is subject to my definition
defined by my own composition
composed of passion and ambition

inside of the inside out
or outside looking in
inside i have no doubt
but outside its within

kept out, right side in
what is it all about?
doesn't start until i begin
to let the inside out

rain dogs
lightn bolts
wet shirt
at forty five

pants soak
holes float
big like sky
the red sign

black tea
death sticks
all sunk
I hate it dry

Sun lit green trees highlighted
By a background of black
Clouds tearing apart
Drops crash earth bound
Explode on leaves
Turning dust to mud
Trickles into streams
Rivers into torrents
Pealing the skies
With cracked bells
Gutters overflow
Appearing puddles
Become ponds
Ponds burst banks
Forlorn plants droop

Clouds, a grey dull today
That’s better than yesterday
Or twas it the day, before,
Or even the day before, the day before
The clouds a ***** shade of coal
Threatening Thor’s thunder,
Urging the dogs to bark
The birds to scuttle for hedges
Maybe tomorrow the clouds
Will be less intent
On thunderous outbursts
Instead scud lightly across the brightest
Of blue, like all good clouds should
To please the eye, behind the shades
I’ve told myself it can’t rain forever
Despite Saint Swithern’s curses
That the fifty shades of grey felt pens
Will run out of rainy ink tomorrow

Off lone island bay,
Outlander waves are praying,
Curly in their white caps.

Cars and lorries are creeping
Into a village still sleeping,
Coming in from nowhere.

Stones have things to voice,
There are stars of rock fish
Deep in bays with the moon.

Beyond night dream are lochs,
Darks and colds of longings,
Mountains old as confusion.

Birds chime their mouth musics,
Churlishly sent over moorlands,
All questions ring unanswered.

On broke beaches are notions
Of days strung to faraways
And sands bleached ancestral.

Off lone island bay,
Simple comings, waves, goings,
After sly moon, sun has its say.