The fading state lines spells memories,
as the rain comes down,
a clutch of fallen gratitude
may possibly release the pain.
Spent embraces dissolve
those hard shouldered highways.
Let your tumblers of Tennessee cry resolution,
as the doe eyed Gypsy Inn
dims low,
receding as this one night stand.

Like snowdrops they droop their heads,
contemplating brighter days
away from the glare of the acronites'
yellowing purge by the graves around St Margarets.

Time as the healer,
this vinyl waxes merrily
how could we not  steal moments listening?
the record plays like a lost friend -
cascading grooves gives choice,
eye contact breaks the reticence
enthralled with our knowledge
enthral to the Elektra.

Bromley pale marmalade
on rye bread
in tupperware containers,
flasks of milky tea too.
Pens and paper at the ready to review places:
Anglesley Abbey and Borde Hill
visited on alternating months.
Gardens so awe inspiring
their visual consolation  
so uplifting,
manna for the mind
and deadlines for the
horticultural society review.

The formulae for well being
is found in those memories,
a preparedness to unearth
yesterday's yearbooks;
which releases those far flung controls of analogue, 
resurrecting belt driven
record players
to play Starbuck and Brothers Johnson
reviving  '76,
mentally speeding on pristine motorways,
buzzing by on a chevy  corvette
humming to the suggestive "Afternoon Delight"
vying with your Radio's antenna.

The city plays cat and mouse
and pefects the fear.
Jaggered lights dazzle
the victim
and nautical terms are resurrected as shanking.
Hospitals in an ode to Johannesburg's ingenuity
repair the injurious knife wounds
caused not by weekend lighter fuel
but a postcode lottery
undone only by the postman.

Sequestration by  other means
A railway line its salient  claim,
running sleepers  into the distance.
Steady  reminders -
a segment of canal
whose older self
ultimately gave birth to snaking hamlets, now mature.
A verdant nature trail coursing the disinterred bank side,
a feeder reservoir now yachting  waters
shaping the geography.

shaping the geography.

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 saffron days slip beneath the eaves of our garden shed.
A bugle variegates past feelings
but do we necessarily have to linger,
when the forbidden fruit offered
tastes that sweeter,
innocence pauses as an
incongruous sound.
The frosted morning roof shimmers
to no avail,
gilded promises warm
the willingness newly acquired.

The graduation party
with fried aubergine, croutons and rye whisky
has raised the hairs of the alumni.
Kismets  afoot about forming a band,
named after actress Alice White,
intuitive bluesy Psychedelicia.
Devonport's dappling on bass
and Schemtar's already on drums.
The devils in the details with the lead singer,
for the want of a lead guitarist
they are gyved.
But if they practice like clockwork
the turnaround will resonant .

Got no Amber or her sagely advice!
She's off to an improvement course
for aspiring  plantsmen.
The weekends don't have
to be set in stone,
theres importance in independent thinking,
its not to be feared.
Buy some feed for the pigeons
decide between euphorbia  or
euphoria
the difference is emphatic
and see what comes.

The soon to be beached meadows shimmers
as the heightened sun dehumidifies  the outlying cornfields
evaporating the ground cover.
Scarabs appear postulating
the broken bonds of  farmer
and nature.
In the combustible sands
Great things will be birthed.

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.

They brace the moonlight with forgotten words
and follow broken trails
as if on a reconnaissance
to St Peters gate,
where they would be earnestly brushed away
without so much as a shed tear.
They feast on wild boar
and laugh into their mead,  
those intrepid souls
without so much as a purpose,
render themselves to the dying winds.

Rhetorically I wish the warm
Stoke rain
would wash away the grey gloom,
allotments included.
The greenfly and other impertinents unexempted.
Minor disruptions apart will bring out our stoicisn,
gushing from the backwaters
we feared we had become,
raking in a new terrain.

Walking past the stupefied wall
its chippings tells a different story;
who was the graffitist and  perhaps the eventual liberator,
rolled up into that cumulative  presiding chisel
that took it to the ledge.

Kippers and toast for breakfast,
washed down by a fairtrade Ceylon,
eagerly anticipating the Christain Aid appeal
through my letter box.
Aware of others earthly disengage
their morning monotony flickers  through their lounge,
consummate hypocrites watching the repeat soap operas,
the profundity of their silence radiates through to the adverts.
as they had a cause too,
until its auto recluse with the
outside world
the news slot borders on paranoia
a dent to exclusivity.

Let the self seeding crocus mia beguile,
burying our heads in Sunday papers
taking the coloured supplements
to heart,
whilst in the shade forgetting others suffering,
again we turn inwards,
dreaming of strawberries and clotted cream
and strolling to the local ligne roset,
these middle class values
ostensibly vouched by the world
yet no longer made in our image.

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.

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.

The miraculous Quinoa has been exported out of the local market.
The westerner deems this as their  super deed.
The idea that the  Inca finally died at  the  grocery shop
grew root,
furnished  beneath the serving glare of the exceptional  crocheted beards.

Silence is a body strong
books may split
stems for the breaking,
now is the time
to hold our thoughts
carrying the folding chair of burden,
upright conscience
saying what's right
at the time
when needless pause may see us prevaricate.

Croydon was never the same
after 65
when it was sawn in half.
Wellesley underpass like
a strewn underbelly,
gave the Motor vehicle its commensurate order.
Whitgift middle schools playing fields uprooted south
making way for the,
Whitgift Centre, old before its time,
like Dorian Gray in reverse.
I recall Grants department store closing in 1980.
presiding over an omen, we could not afford a niche,
only for it to become an entertainment venue.
Standardization became our
inalienable right
with the soul of the centre dying
death by a thousand cuts,
not helped by the recent riots.
But Croydon will survive.

Zoom me in Mister Rock
the seize is here
Who cares about that ****** ?
The Cirrus clouds falter
when the ozones hots up there,
good here, Jessica's bronzing
by the shadow of the Martello Tower
feeding scraps to Koi Fish
who have enough love.

Need your kindness to share a kiss
as your yellow dress blows
like a deft daffodil,
your auburn pony tail
and laced plimsolls
are all summer
like a girl guide out to picnic
who needs a parasol
to shield her freckles
and those bumble bees
sharing the carrrot cake.

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

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?

The montage of faces
from all corners of the globe,
new tounges, thoughtful eyes.
A generation safe from past
strains of inhumanity.
There's no hobsons choice
only permanent reinvention.
The glory to be who you wish
the edifying  gift bestowed
from England the hub of the free

I'm off to see Jenny
she's keeping well,
just worried about her bunion
but she's a brave lass.
The way she cares for one and all
and carries her mascara,
with dreams of being a brunette.
not forgetting her penchant for wearing worn designer shoes -
she insists on taking to Bournemoth despite
stubbing her toe nails,
to no ones avail.

Off to buy a discounted Pentax Spotmatic 2
down Purley Radios.
I want  to book a holiday in Scarborough too.
Dracula's  brood back in Shirley
deserve a wait long for that postcard.
Later I plan to take Rachel to  see
"The Phantom of the Paradise"
and together buy some vinyl  down HR Cloakes.
"Calamity Jane", by  Stray Dog I suggest
Parfait is  the  world  for us  bedsitters in Waddon.

Standing fifty years high
I wonder if  we need clip on light meters
to  resurrect non cds slrs.
Of course I would want an auto
diaphragm and thirty six exposure counter.
Against this I would really like you to have a beehive
and to successfully  do the twist
with a full debutantes figure.
What is more see Man city go down again
like fifty years ago
just  after the Beatles
wanting to be loved
showed their mettle
by doing away with our Pete Best.

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?

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.

My immortal record player Technics SL D303 entrench's
something  recently acquired
possessing physical  music.
LP covers, with track listings
printed as intended,
to be read,
one records' perfection;
Jackie Lomax's début
got me  into his Three album
thanks again E bay.

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.

Peter the cat looked beyond the window box
with daffodils wistfully swaying,
on Sunday the factory's
vacant parking lot,
behind leyandii hedging
had the potential of shielding mayhem
in this ever contrite world.
Peter potentially free as a wanderer
sees the pigeons,
in the yard -
his speculative form
gives a wide berth
whiskers working overtime
he senses unforseen danger,
reynard appears from around the corner,
and he stays at home

Her  red dress and  curls
are currently bespoke  in her  mind.
Walking  home, past the overgrown duck pond,
towards  honeysuckle lane
she  nonchalantly recalls
her  cookery classes
where see dreamed of preparing
welcome  meals for  a chosen one.
But  of  late, her mercurialness
navigates notional dreams
solitary by turn,
and  then  she  cut her  curls
to renounce  her prior gains.

She's my errant woman
colouring all before her,
weaving her fallen braids.
A burgeoning ghoul from nearside of the borders,
presents tansy as a welcoming gift,
under cover of nights guard.
Precociousness is flung,
celestial mothers to be
are lost to the fitfullness of her burning vex.

garlands on the beach,
togas like walk way gables,
gaze back expectantly
for our return.
Celestial anglers catch loaves from the shore
and the limelight wash delinates
the patience of man the fallen shadow.

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.

Moving horizons
seem to gorge the visuals,
alongside cumulus clouds that pre-shadows the destination,
on scraped knees even the shoreline dissipates with the impervious vista,
at times the night air feels insecurely ballast,
how can we be said
to be truly safe?
when the vestige Cities
mourn with the tiresomeness of the beaten track.

Your smile scatters wide,
as the sun shines beholding
your always tomorrow.
Enthralled by sincerity
your eyes,
enraptures persuasion
by the strolling grass
and erstwhile desire
we've motioned high.

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.

He used to play with his train set
like a train conductor in his own private domain,
the standard gauge his only knowledge,
little realising  the arterial flow
of his future days.
the logistics of money flow
the stop start of motivation
the despondency of the heart.

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.

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

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.