The crows scatter, straw rips through my shirt.
With just one act of violence you can see into my heart, it's
Dog-eared. Life is wire and wood. Old cords, a crucifix.

Is this vigil so lonely?

My days maybe short but they are blessed by sunshine
and starlight. I stand guard over the lunar fields,
of an eternal summer. The cracked earth is yellow,
un-ravaged by sleet and cold.

I may live here stuffed, but I can watch the clambering roots
heave from the soil like shipwrecked men rescued.
I can watch their desperate wells form from wicker earth
and gasp with water, sloshing dirt and clay to a molten relief.

I may stand stock and pelted by time
but I can watch the field mouse nest,
Such quivering babies, curled and blind emerge
and embark on the bravest of lives.

But even so, 
despite what i can see, 
I once got caught in phantom flight,
and forgot how still I was.
Because I was the crows,
lifted,
though my feet were still
just wood
nailed to the dirt.  

When I was toppled and the harvest was done,
I looked up and the moon was
grieving.

We share a dim squint at eat each other
interrupted, rudely by your phone
I slither my hand down your chest,
rub you til the snooze alarm.

Our legs, once locked together
ungratefully untangle as I roll left
you roll right.
I make tea as you shower.

As you pick the dust from my eyes
and I complain,
the morning's hysteria hits us
and everything's funny.
And you're so beautiful.

Lying back I watch you dress
smoothing down your top,
wriggling into jeans.
When you're done,
I'll pull you back down,
undo all the hard work.
And ******* before you leave.

The river wrestles on with
light-bulb's furrow
and the iron song of the evening
bathing the air in life.
I feel London's homeward
beating
hearts.

The summer moon is a dim lamp
as we walk from Kew Bridge to yours.

Though the quiet
hangs off you so unnaturally.
It's rattled your breath,
left your mind to move on silence.

I also know how world can be too much,
but unlike you I cope with my words,
that I use as photographs
of times when when I felt
there were feelings worth remembering.

still we walk and
I think of the Thames as a
great, grey, mother of us.
How it forged what we have,
set in motion our hearts.

What spills from your mind
when you cant scream and cant cry.
What do you have without words?

I want you to have me -
because you are the words.
That I write everyday.
And the reason that makes me
want to remember
that I'm feeling this way.

I
a flicker of warm light
and your face is all that I see.
Thunderclouds are silenced,
burned away and
my chest is left open to
our place under the opal sky.
The light is our soft romance
and our candlelit meal for two...

II
'Spiritui Sancto'
A Benedictine Monk
alone in
cold stone chambers sees
an ascending soul,
holy company,
a solitary light in all the
emptiness.
'Sed libera nos a malo'

III
Scorch-marks
drip
love - bites
drip
but please don't stop...
drip
In his lust,
Mould moments of my skin
and keep them
forever.

V
'Waxy fingertips!'
'Put that down,
PUT THAT DOWN!'
Mum told us
If you play with fire
you're going to get burned.

V
30 miles
they say
is the mathematical distance
you can see a flame in the dark

VI
This is the symbol of our nation.
'Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit'
This nine branched lamp symbolizes that our Israel.
has courage, those may be their Qassam rockets,
but those are our sirens.
and that humming you hear is our drones
over their heads.

VII
buuuuzzzzzzzzzz
What enchanting light...
zzzzzzzzz
what God are you? Oh
zzzzzzzzzzzz
wondrous beauty
zzzzz
what magic do you hold, what glory...
zzzzzzzzzz
come closer str.....

VIII
What died so I could read?
The tallow is a pig
the squealing embers
fat pig.

IX
here comes the candle to light you to bed,
And I curled, vulnerable to the shapes in the window
with my feet creeping further under the duvet.
The shadows were melted, cut, distorted on
my bedroom walls.
A primal evil will danced by the light of the flame
until I shut my eyes so tight,
that I slept it away.
here comes the chopper to chop off your head.

X
'No Jennifer, I just feel candlelight just adds a certain

ambiancé

to a room

No?'

XI
'Quickly, before it turns septic.'
'This wont hurt boy'
'The fire, pass the fire'
'Quarterise it quick or he won't last long'
'bite down hard my lad, bite down hard'
'AHHHHHRRRGGGGHHHH'

XII
Children hurtle down,
a Bombay slum to hear that.
'King Rama has returned,
light his path!'
The open sewers adorned in Ghee lamps
find such intense beauty as each quivering flame,
although so fragile, breathes the story
of the power of human spirit
unshakable against overwhelming odds.
*'The King of Ayodhya
Has Returned
Show his path for the Festival of Light!'

Time Volume: 1
I’m eating up the hours
one by one.
Blink.
Click.
Blink.
another screen,
more non-words
Blink.
Click.
Just letters.
Click
9000 more words
blink
and more time.
Click.
To be forgotten.


Learning to forget
The melting *** cast a boy and I ran outside,
A slime soaked goblin, a monster from the pit
Lobbing clods of mud at a harmonic sky
Whirring with dragonflies and lolloping bees.

Sun and rain prepared a day on a different earth
Where there was life in the monkey puzzles,
And scuttling battle grounds that
hid hundred-handers beneath concrete slabs.  
Gravel churned up tiny black dragons,
rotten logs, fortresses of tiny fiends.

I had a sword in my hand, I was noble.
Defender of the realm, scourge until tea,
The hero of worlds
everyone else couldn’t see.


Time volume 2**
Excalibur was stuck fast
When the new branches fell
Click.
the tips of my fingers are beginning to rot.
Blink.
Click.
If only I could
blink
stop the second
click
See the world behind glass.
blink
and dance out of time.
Click.
This snow globe,
Is not the Antarctic.


Artificiality in Imagination
Turning my back on time and space with
Bottled brains, ***** mist, powdered thought
I chiselled into old pathways.
I carved a silk road through synapse and nerve
to return to my monsters.

I saw a sickness of colouration
A lynx effect for the sky
tearing punkish streaks into the atmosphere
that were quickly blinked away.
Sunspots, cloudbursts, tussocks, grass,
Paper squares, green, red, purple, pink, blue,
pungent smoke, bugs, ripples, shivers,
polka dots and blank spots.
A storm-cloudy stomach.

The perspective of a head plastered to the soil again
saw thing for what they were,
a tiny amazon thought lost to rationality.
My heart thumped for a fear and joy
in a way forgotten by time.


Time Volume 3
Why is it called wasted when it is time well spent?
Click.
my god, my eyes hurt.
Click.
Just 9000 more words.
Click.
What would I give for a pretty girl sat under a tree.  
Click.
search * (pretty girl sat under tree)
Click.
She’s hot.
Click.
So is she.
Click.
… could always.
Click.
don’t be stupid.
Click.
Just 9000 more words.


Fantasy for a Counterpoint
I questioned what’s real when she blinked at me
and stopped existing  when she closed her eyes.
No one taught us to write in blood,
Tattoo our names into each other’s skin,
Leaving claw marks for the world not to see.

Whatever you drew was Van Gough
Whatever you said was Keats,
Whatever bruise you left was Tyson’s.

The outer layers of or skin are dead,
It’s funny whatever you touch on a person,
Is already dead.

Just before our love got lost
I noticed a thread break away from the braid
Around your head,
a small incongruity,
That made your hair a mess.

Love became what it was when you said you were
‘as constant as the northern star’,
And I replied, ‘yes - always in the dark’.


Time Volume 4
This is progress for my sake,
Just in time.
Blink.
Time is money.
Click
Time flies.
Blink
A stich in time
Click
This is a paradigm of nothing time.
Click
I’ve got so much time.
Click
And so little time to waste.
Blink
I’m a long time dead.


Hope for a handful of dust
Eventually I will while away these lonely hours.

What black rocks stir while we sleep?
What prayers rumble still, among old stones?
Do they speak the eternal city and glow civilised blue -
Or burn timeless black?

Does the probing ivy find us out
And the blunt head of a worm investigate
our most intimate parts?

Or does a spectre rise from the soil
To live under children’s beds?

When is the point that death
Becomes something breath-taking -
And the brook, my brown blood,
The dead leaves my skin,

Is it fantasy
to put something
where nothing should be?

The soft earth will **** me in
And give my brittle bones
To worms and crows
What stirs beneath the stones,
may always be worms and crows

The still English heat,
The ***** promise of July the 1st
Leaves the grass a mottled yellow
And the dappled shade of the purple birch
Almost holy.
Specks of precise and glittering pollen
Rest upon beds of browning foxgloves.
Cats are left collapsed,
Blissed out, lulled into dreams
of this motionless sun shining forever.

I feel your hands in my stomach
And I'm hungry for your grip
As the hot sky only ripens
My daydreams of your laugh.
The thick scent of withering hyacinth
Is the curve of your back,
the taste of your sweat.

A stain of certainty is baked in
By July the 1st.
Novocain for my infected English heart.
Whispering the start of a love that will be
kicking leaves through October
And sharing warmth through December.

When you capture a pinprick of light
And let it glitter in your hand
the seconds you can keep it burning
Are so much more precious
than
       what
comes
        after.

After months spent counting raindrops
On two panes of glass,
We met in a twisted café
full of young women
And I swallowed my tongue.
and hoped I could listen
To you talk
of the ropes round your hands
When all I needed was time.
of your dreams and your plans.
When I
      just
wasn't
       Fine.

I saw you cycle away.
The silhouette of you, black under streetlight.
Is my dreams every day.
       Yet a part of me knew
It was just
   a silhouette
     of you.
And id spent far too long
      chasing shadows.

The ghost of a dying flame is
Smoke that exists for a second.
    But it explodes into
          something
  Brighter.