I'm never sure when to laugh.
To some it comes easy as breathing
But I need a graph,
A custard pie chart to show just where
To slap the schtick.
Like taking the ****.
Take the mike, centre stage,
Now give it back, make it stick.
Isn’t it free to share now it's been taken?
When was it ever owned? Ever mine?
Don't worry, it's fine.
It was your line anyway,
Yours to cross.
Find your mark and overstep it.
Near knuckles bleed.
Punch line, punch bag.
Life's funny like that.

You are contradiction.
Curled spiky, all your points smooth.
Teeth secreted behind smiling,
Hearing sharp, soft ears twitch,
Senses keen in sleep.

You are contrary.
Welcoming to bite or
Ignoring calls, tail ticking,
Later, latch-scratch,
Independently needy.

You are controlled chaos,
Sinuous angles, lanky elegance.
Teetering, neat filthy feet.
Claw padded paws
Dribble-nibbled clean.
Joy-thunder, warning: content.

Walk away, from shadow to light,
Past the litter of old lives.
Walk, along water channels,
Over stones already water smoothed,
Satisfying in their solidity,
Soothing to the soles,
Feet-pleasing.

Walk away, from anger to air.
Past engines that fuel their own end.
Walk along ridges, rivulets,
Over mounts, chasms, peaks, troughs,
Choosing not to fall,
Listening to silence,
Far laughter.

Walk away,  just walk away,
Let go of fears repressed, petrified.
Start hard, mean it step...
Out over emotion wasted, tired lies.
Start another way
Each time leaving,
Come back new.

Burning night wicking skywards,
Sometimes lost in wisps,
Smoke swirls, whispers, worlds.
A flickering dance,
So much up to the chance breath
Of air through the gathering
Close, ghosts of what is
Left behind or gone before.

Past loves and lies flaming,
Lost to blaming, regret or time.
I forget which.
Transient, tragic, senseless,
Nonsense bickering.
Bundles of chores and joy,
Puffs of years blown by like seeds.

For birth and death, my love,
Of breath and living you
Precious sprite-bright flame.
Fight hard, shine sharp against
The darkness cut.
I treasure your pieces.

What are they now,
These monuments of men?
Torn down again and again
To rise eye-sore amid the scavengers
Crying to a cruel, unyielding heaven.
Until bomb-flat and neatly boxed they squat.
Temples to the must be got
This season of summer or spring or winter.
To passing trends, now love, now hate,
A hinterland of sales sprung from the craters.
No more the triumph of form,
Of human touch and warm embracing arches,
Of beauty built and blessed
By pure and desperate hope.
Fashions 'to-die-for' now short-lived in a godless world,
Nothing for us worth living less,
(We're worth more)
Yet die we must and this is how we cope.

Invite
me i
write think
fast rite fast
writing faster
not righting
desperate hunger
for words
to make you see
i don't know how to make
you want me
i'm asking
my rite
write back