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

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.

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.

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.

Those sash windows rotten in their frames
the venerated better placed,
to observe the desperation
of others,
once laughed back erstwhile,
but its always the emptier pocket
that question the affordability of repairs
as the day is long,
the overgrown bramble in the parterre garden
obliterates the rectangular  lines
a vernacular happenstance
socially  trailing  backwards

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.

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.

Where silence weaves shrouds
avarice is left in the cold,
beyond the trees and stone walls
we have finally left the crowds.
The sleeping mist lounges,
taking in our thoughts
and not even cloth ears himself
can ignore the enchantment already
whispering our vows

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

An oasis of hope is vanquished by order of
a diet of worms,
pyred vitriol
stored in sunken shafts,
no tenable reason is further  expanded
nor quarter given;
hushed words turn into withered excuses.
no bells to commerate the ex officios
once held in prestige.

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.

Mortified he draws a blank
the modicum of kindness
wears a knowing grin,
cobwebs in the morning
jostle with fading stars.
Cold farm comfort
with buttermilk and soda bread
the Herdsman plays the waiting game.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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  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?

How Marjorie dances
cheek by jowl,
we could never be strangers-
her face countenances
with comely candle light .
Parfait Oysters and Rose  -
a double diamond of moonlight.
Only in France's nord pas de calais
could we rejoice,
redolent in vintage Boulonge
our hearts aching for one another.

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

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.

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.

We have spoken about bad seed previously
even bad blood -
but only in moral terms.
Genealogy was the big hitter after all,
like marrying into maternal sided dementia,
too late to realise the Wife's Aunts were whittled one by one.
Daughters' must be
quaking what their future holds
their teenage daughters blissfully
too young to contemplate.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Closing  my  eyes  behind the lens
would  be like an open book invitation,
there would be no surprises .
Only my  pre- visualization
would  uncover  the finer detail
already known - hills  and  walkways,
where  we  would tilt our  eyes -
finding a  box  of  immense  aperture
shimmering  light
that  could  not ­ possibly  be described as over exposure
but  the  truth of  the  spoken image.

What good is Victoria now?
currently on schedule
the logic of SW1 follows
the real estate of the concrete
cash cow,
office blocks turning luxuriate habitation
a new class to wade the hues
of practised entitlement
which doesn't have to be gatEd
iron will makes for  a conceriege ,
based on the accepted provision
we have been usurped
see the dark swan grow.
whose space is it now?

Gushing rain's a
scurrying season,
plying woe with loosened tiles,
detaching once proud roofs.
From whose past has this rain dance been arrainged ?
All we stand for is porous and howling wind,
a gambit of ill suited omens'
hectoring guise to scour
our cracked chimney pots.

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.

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.

I was told the Isle of Wight
was like going back twenty years in time.
The Red Funnel ferry took us
to this enchanted island,
described as England in miniature.
There was this relaxed feel
of people not pushing for the burn,
extending to the mannered staff
at Osborne House,
who couldn't be more helpful
and the Waitrose counter girl
providing the creme de creme
of friendliness.
The chief steward of the ferry
lifted our spirits
I vowed to Vectis to return.

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.

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.

Nostalgia for a vanished world
of  Macfisheries and the
Orange Hand boyswear store at Golders Green.
Bar Linda at the bus station
close to the record shop
with listening booths.
Those were our prize days
with au pairs Franny  and Janine
and our London memories.
As children
we never knew we had it all.
In our back garden
buried treasure - a cows bell
and delft plates.
The Jackson Five and Banana Splits,
bubble gum the preferred choice.
America so abundant on the horizon,
Pickettywitch on the radio.
playing that same old feeling
we so accordingly search for now.

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.

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.

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  .

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It is better to bark at the moon
than let speechlessness seep  through the void.
Until the premise of the voyage is replete
can we know the cosmos
sayeth the wise on a chagrin of a day.
Clod and ash will be our bane
and only the heralded will remain,
two feet standing rather than
crawling, tantamount to recidivism.