Those blues and greens that I have seen, the eyes that look within the dream, makes me wonder,  what artist's muse could conjure up such greens or blues?.
In a universe beyond our own where paints are mixed, let's call it home from home, for we are all as one within the coated layers.
What prayers you make and to whom will not distract me from this room of a hundred thousand hues and more
and as the eyes look on I soar beyond into the metaphor,
this link of chain, this lions mane flows wild with glee and as sweet as any honey bee it colours me.
In the shade where light can fade the fullness of her lips are made a touch of ruby red, the blueness of her eyes more blue, in dreams that look within me, you become the muse I see,
the greens and blues
the muse becomes the artistry.

In the hubbub of the heart
where all things we are
will end,
we beat retreat so many times
from the chimes that
ring out love.

The dove will always fly
that is the way,
if we do not spread our wings,
then one day,
with the dove
we'll die.

In the hubbub of the beating hearts
there are many endings,
and
many starts
but only one
beginning.

..and floating downstream with the sun at my back
I wanted to ***** over the fall like a skier flies over the snow,
there was a slight resistance to the softest water and from me,
acquiescence,
experience is nothing if not experienced.

when you're bound to the depths
it doesn't matter that it rains.

It was 2367 somewhere
but maybe not there,
only imagined in the last
light
before death,

the future holds many memories...but
none of the first time we kissed

Because it's different now and
not like it used to be if it ever was,

different.

I'm different
looking at things differently
some things interest me
others do not

and I feel like 'Lot'
carrying a bag of salt,
but that's the Methodist in me,
a touch of the weirdly wonderful
Wesley in me.

How can we be content to be
different
when it all looks the same?

(playing the advocate
is the Devils game)

It comes and it goes
shows up in newsfeeds
everyone leads a different life
but not like they used to.

Technologies,
ogres and catastrophes
devalue evolution
making Darwin
obsolete

and we complete the circle
by building boxes,
dwell in
cells
which is different
but the same as
a prison.

On the hinge of the pin, of reality,trapped
neither out and not in
and the safety is off.

The jumping off point is stuck in my craw,there's no parachute here and what's abundantly clear is,the balancing act is next on the stage,I can gauge a reaction in the reduction of sound where the audience waits and I wish that the ground would open and swallow me whole,like some Jonah, in the gnashing of teeth and the rushing of air,I'm all at sea and wish I wasn't there.
Then I leap
everything's fast,cast away from the pin and the point is I'm in and I stay,
there is a day and it comes when the hourglass,once full of sand runs clear,the day we walk to the end of all contemplation,
the day reality shifts and life's constant abrasions are at last sanded flat and
the day when the rag and bone men come home,only then do I know,how the action of balancing,balanced me,invariably I get lost in these words which I write and the pen seemed so stable,like the pin when the safety is off I'm unable to close or to hold,be brave or be bold and I'm told,
'spit it all out,invective directed and those I suspected were laughing at me and the struggle I'm in are pinned on the wall'
If I fall they go with me,
we all drown as one or we all live to go on.
This battle I'm in on the hinge of the pin is a theme that has run through the slow of my life,quick enough on the uptake but the break if it came,broke away and the game played anew is game two on the show, where the contestants don't know how to play,any day now when the rules become the why and the how that we live,I'll give notice,an intention to quit,
but until then
I shall sit,
balancing,acting a measure while life takes some bit of leisure time out.

(20 minute poetry)

tripping up on downers
slipping on banana skins
someone's out to get me
no one ever wins.

Smashing into midnight
when the clock says four
crashing through the skylight
done it all before.

Nothing ventured
nothing new
something borrowed
was it you ?

I didn't see the sandman
but he handed me the *****
to dig my eyes into my face
and wallow in the shade.

It's pills for that and pills for this
and pills that make you want to kiss
it all goodbye.

The weekend at Mile End
a sad end for some
but
it could be much worse than this.

She kisses me from far away in some long forgotten moonlit bay

but I remember on the breeze
she brought me gasping to my knees,
a wave upon her shore.

You can't have it all ways
always
some days you can't have it
at all
so either way who wants it anyway
when you can't have it always
or all ways every day.

What has become patently clear
is that
transparency is not what it used to be,
if it ever was.

Even the daylight feels heavy on me and the clouds have conspired to cast weights on me, the sky is a slate grey and this is the way of it.

I need the safety of steel bars surrounding me so the people can stand and look in on me,
I hope that they don't try to set me free because
the burden I carry is too much for me.

There is lightness somewhere and it falls on me
in unfortunate blindness,
I cannot see,
so I fall on my knees and I make a plea
to the Lord of the heavens,
he don't hear me.

When days like this come along in tandem
I cry like a man and then whine​ some, but
my tears are acidic and
only make me feel more sick,
if only the weight didn't weigh on me.

I am happy,
I am
and I know it
even when I know and
can't show it,
but the weight that hangs on me
drags me down and
points only to misery.

I wonder if there is a feelgood factory
and could I be factored in
by some chemistry?
if so
would they bother to take the time
to takes these weights off
of mine before I'm dragged
deeper into this feeling
of misery.

When Cameron came to Stratford
he came in disguise,
afraid of the eyes accusing him,
he stood in the stadium
like an Athenian,
but we saw through his games
and Olympiad flames,
when Cameron came to Stratford
we buggered off to Crewe.

Where certain eagles fly,
homeward bound
and
the tie that binds
is what they find.

I found it many times in
dark and well lit places, some
off the well worn track
but going back to where
the eagle dares to fly?

Not I.

The winter of each year I fear
brings me nearer to that
nest,
where crestfallen
I shall fall into one
last adventure.

It's no good being squeamish about squelching as your eyes open on sweat filled sockets, drying myself I am crying, the heat at this time of the day is awfully trying, did you notice how I didn't fukin swear about the heat?

and so good for the diet
I lost four pints of water
you really should
try it.

Men,
I smell them
some whiff
phew
and
some stink too
so
what they could do
is deodorise,
but
in this heat they just might
vaporise.

I trip into this mind and find absurdity where words should be.

Some use words as toys, those boys are ill bred though well fed on literature of that I'm sure.

Everything is anything as nothing can be too,
do you see that the absurdity though alphabetically is in order is quite out of order to me?

my oh my
look how they've grown,
got too big for the nest
and now they have flown.
If only I'd known
how quickly time flies.

(20 minute poetry)

The blush of your cheeks,
that look in your eye.
the way that you talk and
when we walk out together
whether talking or not
it's your hand in my hand
which makes me happy
I've got
you.

You brush out the grey from my hair,
paint a sparkle where once it was dull,
so many things that I love you to do
which makes me happy
now that I've got you.

Moments like these and those or them are granted when fate intervenes and it seems all the fates have conspired, rebuilt this
cathedral and relit the fires.

Real life is much sweeter than dreams.
Something you can't buy is the freedom to be
in love when she loves you
and as happy as me.

This day,
painted as grey as a battleship,
I'm just going to slip under the duvet,
not making any waves.

(20 minute poetry)

Under the moon where some make a room
where the fingers of frost hold on tight
no two nights are the same when you're feeling the pain and
the morning does not bring relief.

March may have set up its stall for the hard up
but it's still ****** cold when you're out in the cold
and the morning does not bring relief.

Beings in the ranks of thanks but no thanks and the numbers are swelling each day
and each day's the same
every place that you've lain
ain't it a shame when the morning
does not bring relief.

I've moved on
got my groove on
and sway to the sound
of the circle line
underground,
round and around
then
back to the start.

Never mind
only people get broken
when a gesture's just
token
and any words that are
spoken are lost to the
wind.

Flotsam.

The sun in the hourglass looks like sand
but that thought will pass and
I will go on a bit longer,
the beach, a septic tank grey, stank
of seaweed and the rot of decay.So
I lay here on a dune and wait for the moon to rise,
my eyes are blue like the sky,
I look at the seagulls and wish I could fly
but it isn't to be.
I guess being free is something more than external
something inside of me is fighting the chain,
the sun looks like sand again.

The artist in me says,
'I can paint what I like but don't like what I paint and that ain't
no freedom I know'
I will go very soon when the Moon's in the sky
I still wish I could fly
but that too will pass.

Sometimes
it's like trying to dance with water
when you're stepping on its toes,

oh yeah, sure,
everyone knows that I can't dance.

The water remains cool

...and i am still tilting
I as in small i
when I see the windmills.

Tequila for breakfast
the last drink of the
savage.

Then I rock in the chair
to and what goes
when she throws me
a lifeline
late in my lifetime
I grab hold
anyway.

and
I'm reducing
shrinking
like stock in a saucepan
becoming less of a man and
yet it's becoming
more of a burden to concentrate
my mind.

They opened up my heart to see
the self and fallibility
and
in the time of waking,I saw
continents for taking,saw the minerals
that broke the souls,
the souls that slaved for yellow gold, and
holding on to minds, were free men breaking
open liberty or was that in a dream I had when
morphine took the best of me,the green light of
my destiny marched off and set the dogs to bark and
I would be a danger if I had the sense to know it
but when danger shows its face to me,
the self and fallibility comes in
and laughs out loud.
I see the ending of an era and  fear a sharp reminder that
the Devil sits in memory of dreams that he once sold to me,
upon the bed I tremble as the angels all assemble
and they're shaking out their wings while in the background
I hear Elvis sing and
Graceland is my home.

It doesn't really start
until your heart's
been broken once or twice
and turned to solid ice,
then thawed out in the smiling face
of someone that you meet

and in a single beat,
the breath you hold,
the shifting feet,
you move out and you find
the times you left behind.

It doesn't really start until
it begins, and the world
spins crazily,who
loses wins,
another open door
and one more
chance to heal,
how does it feel
for you.

frankincense becomes the vapour that I savour

In the catacombs I look into cold unwelcoming rooms

the tomb of the priest betrays him

Less ornate as his God seems to hate the ostentatious

even in death and the tomb there's no room for the show off or braggart


but you can
**** in the face of the dreamer, this place is beyond all redemption

the supplicants supperate as
they wait for forgiveness
his highness denies them
and casts out
unholy men.


lesser men might live but there's
no turn or no quarter to give in this dark place,
no warmth to give succour to neither man nor his saviour
we may as well abandon all hope.

the redeeming feature is myself, a sentient creature born of the womb

on these floors in this tomb
I face inwards.

We think that it's
about the dream
until we wake

And what makes us come awake
Is the feeling we can't take itSo we dream again

It's a failure
which some would say does not exist
to them I'd say
you've missed the point

I keep coming back
to keep on track
to find the right way

Say!
isn't that like reincarnation?

The never ending journey
to find me
and me means we in case
you're in any doubt.

and with
one foot in the grave
before we even start
where the autopsy room
Is here and therein they'll
find the pieces of a once
strong beating heart

don't fret
we've got time and more
to realign

To
sign up for living
forgiving
for giving yourself a break
for
making the dream a reality
for
taking a moment to stop and see
for being.

I could drink up the oramorph into a cat,
I can
if I spill all my bones and lay flat,
but
enough about that and the things I could do

What about you?

there's no hidden meaning
no secret sign
no codes in the artwork
I am
what is mine.

Her eyes are locked and loaded with the memories of last night
she rises and she leaves me and I fight to stay awake,
my body crushed my fists are pushed against the aching that I feel,
was last night to be my breakfast or was last night my final meal?

The light sends saws to cut me because it saw me on my own
and the day goes on in solitude where a house is not a home.
the devil does his handiwork and idleness creeps in
I drink my coffee slowly as my world begins to spin

where upside down is outside and the side I'm looking through, where
the window closes noisily on the person that I knew,
when the tunnel ends only to begin and you do it all again,
but you know the end result will bring you heartbreak and more pain,

then the fog that came upon you spirals up and all is clear and the dream you thought was truly real begins to disappear

and the sun comes out dry your tears.

I am somewhere between the nadir and the zenith with the wind that blows behind me and who will find me now?
or do I bow before the circumstance,or take a chance,step out from the twilight,two steps out to the dark night,slight chance that there just might be ,somewhere other than this place that seems to fit this soul so tightly.

Down there,
the air became pollute,resolution has dissolved into the swamp like stew we once emerged from, crawl and sprawl our signature as if our nature was the hunting man,
neanderthal.

And Cro-Magnon thought he had the lot,he had not and never did.

The times are dreary,weary men walk home from work,exerting pressures on their tired bones and California was a dream they had in famine fare when food was scarce as were the ferry berths.

Up there,
the air gets clearer,smelling sweeter but palisades are built and pirates sell it by the litre to the thirsty,nothing beats a bit of commerce,it could be worse
I don't know how
I think I'll bow to circumstance.

Never found any luck in a lucky bag
I only ever found plastic krap
and sherbert.

I wonder if this is all a waste and we're just treading water
to keep our heads above it.

still stumbling along the avenue
the way that old people do
why do I do it?
what's in it for me?
where am I heading?
treading water
minding the gap,
I wish that announcer would
shut her trap and let me think.

This is more under the underground
this is the cavern below
and is this the place?
do I seem out of sync?
I wish that announcer would
get off my case
and give me some space
to think.

I can look at the dream quite clearly
if my glasses are on when I sleep.

Chancery lane again
and
Paris only twenty nine pounds
each way
start the day by feeling inadequate
and it can only get better
they say.

When I'm laid out
and they gather,
I'll still know
that some would rather
not be here,

well!
hit me with a hammer
because I'd rather be
somewhere else too.

If the sky was just a speck
of blue in the universal eye
would we rub it clear?
and if we did,
would some, still,
rather not be here?

it's just a consequence of living
something unintended,
sitting on the fence until
the whole wide world is
mended,

we're not in Kansas, Dorothy,
and that should really
bother me or at the least
give me a rush.

..but we will love on anyway
until time stops,
until the universal photographer
crops the photograph.
until then
we stand and laugh
at the
World.

They talk again of poverty
I see
Armani suits
leather armchairs
Chelsea boots
but
they yell at me to tell to me there's hope
all I see's poverty.

This will always be the case
in any case it always was,
those that have
because they do
and you and me
in poverty.

It's all a glitch in the matrix
or maybe my mind's playing tricks on me
it could be that it's all hunky-dory
but it seems everything that I see
is part of a never ending story.

Sunday
as tired as can be and
older than this century.

I wonder if twenty twenty two
will do it for you
will it do it for me
will it do it at all
that's what I wait to see.

In the scale of A or B
I come in at number three and
my time's caught short like an
incontinent man, so
you **** your pants, but you carry the can?
obviously,
if you have a tin to **** in that's what you do.


The tincan, **** poor man now there's a moniker to tinker with.

At fifty nine,
I've had some time to ponder on and pontificate, to  moan about the state we're in, to carry the can and one spare tin and yet no time at all in the scheme of things which brings me back to A or B, I wonder which and where the number three came in.

I build a maze to amuse and it confuses my sense of direction, here over there, do a right back to where and my time's caught up with me,
I need a ***.

As she bends
me to her will
it's back to origami
still
I wouldn't be
without her.

On the second front
where the hunt is on
they search high and low
but the man has gone.

Jesus being a carpenter
made his own bed
and is laying there
while Salome who cut the
Baptist's hair
dances with the Duke,

the Devil being unavailable sends
his emissaries to sit at the banquet table
and Jesus being the carpenter
prepared said table earlier.

Should I be away on judgement day
I'm sure that God will make me pay
on another or another day

This life is buffoonery
I'd sooner be
somewhere
imaginative.
somewhere
where I could live
quietly.

Free to roam as I please if it pleases me,life teases me with titbits makes me sit on the fence,but I'm restless to go, need to search out and know what I don't know,hence
I'll not be here very long,going to find what's right with the wrong of it and not sit here vegetative,getting the gist of it and finding my way through this list of things I must do,which I'll do very soon, as soon as soon is not later than tomorrow's full moon I'll be fine and dandy which comes in handy.

When I go will you come,come and join in the fun or will you stay on the fence?
pretend that you know it all and like a ninepin you're bound to fall,I'd rather be a bouncing ball,
it's your call.

Mine was a long road
not the longest road
but long enough
to learn
what I had to learn
to turn things around
to take my head from
the clouds and
keep my feet on the ground

but every road has a lay-by
for dreamers
mine was no different except
the lay-by became the mainstay
I couldn't move away and
didn't want to.

some time later
when the dreams were done
and I decided to take a chance
to make good my escape
changing the outcome

do I believe in fate?
not of late
but I answer my question
with questions and then I question
my answers

perhaps it's the first contact
when you learn that a living
contract is the one you live
with.

I live with it
it lives with me
and I live
which is a bonus.

Maybe it's not me
that's different
it could be that
everything else has changed.

look through my eyes
I looked through when a child.

I see the same
but the same sees
me
differently.

Change is probably interchangeable
and I'm not that quick or capable
of adapting,

brought up in simpler times
I can't come to terms with
the terms of these times

perhaps the current contract
needs to adapt
to me,

there's probably
an adaptor
for that.