Woke up at six,
a smart tortoiseshell  butterfly
was sitting on my audio.
I thought a more apposite
place would have been my dahlia.
Scattered wool pellets
over the carpet.
My brain was going nowhere slow.
The great Mister Zalbretys
had planted some weird
happenstance,
not recognising the  inside
from the delirious  out.

He  pulled off a masterstroke
braiding himself to a  chair;
singing au  naturel , the  corner of the winds
picking up on the wavelets.
Pleasantries and greetings now never wear.
Grace its the time  to unwind
asking contrite  forgiveness
before hibernating,
quietly evolving.

Down fickle street
they ride jalopy's just for fun.
Hoot at the  cyclist , gerrymander the  Vue.
I spy grief hurtling down,
plume grey from the exhaust.
We're  no wiser, no leaner
ingesting your  worn  speed pedals
bravo.

The dawn chorus
breaks the silence.
A hush was my intended
understanding.
I gather not wearisomely
along this Rudderless incline,
humbled by my pursuant  thoughts.

The  Rhino's last  stand?
my eye's still baulk .
For 15 litres used, Fina  offered collectable  cards
and this free coaster.
I  can only  think of forecourt  charges now
and blinding energy shortages,
needling the near skint.
Surely  we  had  failed  the insurmountable  test.
Eco Care conditional on my father not being disparagingly  cross promitionally  conscious?

Her forked laughter gave no indication,
she wore no particular ermine to pledge her terrority..
Poems were broken into syllables
unsounded with scant intention,
her own vagueness  was affliction itself,
near darkness her bridgehead
this equivocal shadow
a balked performance in the making.

The last time she meekily made love,
she painted woad on her arms
and bemoaned the children she never bore.
She summoned their  names as  "Iso" and "Tope",
to her bemused lover she retorted
"I want to make Roar, not  Love".
She bode on the straightest longitude
to Banyas  and bathed in its spring,
fortified by Tennessee Honey,
to  Quneitra, she bore wire cutters
having already wept for a town
destroyed by un-love,
where she could simply set up a commune,
To grow Kohl Rabi and learn new days.
Instead Apache helicopters and glints of Uzis
Cast the spectre of World War Three

We'd halloo and then chase down the years,
for each step we took, 
our eyes opened to the changes,
how I hate those mulched  leaves
there’s a certain funereal fatigue inherent,
orange visibility workers  monotonously arrive
stripping those old houses,
but those Removal vans 
that just kills the conversation.

Eye sore at  Cisco
the weight of the World veers unwaveringly.
Careless whispers prevaricate,
what was strong
now senses its own weightlessness,
floating on, circles loosen,
traces of people deep in our recesses
slip through the  minds flotsam.

White Window's flagstones
are as palms  pressed against the sky, 
venous as tendrils the Garden relinquished,
we thus shiver beside the River Test's temerity.
How can Eve and her entourage partake wisdom,
against lost chances
forever careering on spoilt surfaces.
Solemnity  scorns the whittle
how can Earth then recoil,
faintly procrastinating 
on cold Sundays.

Still Gabriella swears by the colour red,
Torn sashes of yesterday can only consume
the mindset of  her forgotten azure,
as the neck of dawn sneaks accidentally,
Yellow's parody the greater shame,
no school or satchels of mouldy black,
behind the lumme
she needed more time,
like a fulcrum balancing taciturn's turn.

Still to shed the germane party-line,
my one  liners may have beaten you anyway,
I'm no longer hearing  your Grandfather tick tock
neither have Newcombe and  Stephanie
Now feeling sorry for your passing,
though my discursive  may be heard elsewhere.

Raise awareness.
Thwart the detritus,
in this mindset
begin to honour resonance.
Failing to hear your inner esprit
there never be forgiveness,
the transformation to Spring
a new direction twice recurring.

Have you heard the sound of sympathy?
some usher it as an sincere adage.
Others will mention the Fieldfare
and scribe Snow into that forgotten scenery.

An instance is also running,
the prisms of Glass
are in a better, knowledgable state.
Searching for principles,
by gasping at the sarcasm.

Burgeon lane saw me blunder
many peers followed.
Augers and gestures
worked the words  uttered,
some say it grow fine
but their practices always
were the more  provident  .

Jennifer this is as vexing as a  recurring
sea  cucumber dream.
Yes we all need our leathery  coats.
But  I am no better off  knowing
the  difference between spellbound and sirens.
Does  it  begin with abracadabra
and end with incandescent rage?

A shunting echo
a movement of clanking metal,
hurrying
across the rainy track .
I knew it well,
perchance to sleep.

Mrs Atkinson you have touched my refrain
I have sought to exalt your memory
and recall the passion,
only occasionally  have I  been stirred
by a resemblance of your quite sitting,
but as I have come this far
I feel a peak of perfection
that none could quite compare.

I am floundering in a new identity
often praise is irksome
it comes with a cost,
so subliminal I'll become, rudderless,
I voyage, comparatively
as a torrent is to stimulating.

On a mat of dust
I veered away
a Parson to my right
the paradigm of a point,
wouldn't we all like to be warm,
rhetorical declination
takes my data's worth.

Benedict Spinoza's  contingency was
grinding optical lenses,
his oeuvre  the anatomy of the soul
turning medievalism on its head
heaven was neither ethereal or earth bound
A brave man.

How your breath feels like a bract
the unfathomableness of  perceptibly,
meanwhile our exististence is as garden clippers
to sundry ladders,
in a chasm we had reason to believe,
but the leaves have long mustered hence
your yellowing hair belonging to in-nobility
often subterfuge is a refuge .

Super cool Shuggie Otis,
play on Strawberry Letter 23!
I hear the waterfalls.

To ride along the verdant road
to seize the moment
these will be our  jocular days,
long threads of silk
bought you to the candy store,
by night we sleep on a bed of  song.
A riot blazing from my sleeves,
But alas this  little lady is already
pining for the origin of this thread
assuredly, such decisions will  be mine alone.

It's my memories, not yours.
Sweet infuriation back in 1975 when,
Stray's "Stand Up and Be Counted".
A summation of how we sounded
hook-laden.
Your wisps of blonde hair have long blown.
Innocence no longer come hither.
The loneliness of urban areas,
too much surface noise.

My friends and I are in the picture
frame.
Bourgeois Hotel by Super Mare,
shooting Mermaids and other climes.
GPS and satellites everywhere.

Desdemona's engine stalled
she chortles contra possibilities,
neither of which are pellucid.
The night sky
reels in
mornings flight.

Joanne told me they would be clapped out.
Radio Luxembourg wouldn't play them.
No Glam you see,
frayed collars, Bar room Blues.
But I'm still into Bees make Honey.
Pawned my Zenith Quad-8 for a Seiko LCD Quartz.
Memorised Ashai Pentax's Reason #44. 
Still have the hots for Marisa Berenson's knees.
No censure.