A dry desert wind
Made the stinging sand swirl,
And the dense dunes drift

Vision blurred
Words choked

Speechless

Returning brings dreams of cool water
Just out of reach.

She peels each wafered layer
To expose the next.
Bitter tears lie at her heart.

Parasitic friend,
Your promises to me were
Laced with poisoned breath.

We sit cross-legged in the story corner
Breathing faint ammonia smells.
Table chants and hymns echo through corridor acoustics,
All creatures great and small.

We are wedged in a tangle of podgy thighs,
Grazed knees, scabs and warts.

And Anthony is sitting alone again
Where he can do no harm.

Yet he said he would bring it, and bring it he has.
Its tiny white head is nosing over
The  hem of his pocket,
Whiskers a-twitch and
Eyes like tiny blood blisters ripe for popping.

A shudder of shivering whispers and
Nervous heads are half turned:

Yes, Anthony is smiling his special smile.

Mrs Lloyd has found the page,
My lids are squeezed tight
As I urge my mind to follow her away
From here, away from now.

For playtime will be ****** once again.

Gold tipped crocus spears
Pierce the frost-skinned garden's heart:
Winter lies bleeding

Spring rejoices to
The trumpeting daffodils'
Triumphant fanfare

Sunshine,
Birdsong
And children drunk on
Lemonade
And laughter.

That Welsh picnic
Has lasted forty years
And will last forty more
In daydream

And nightmare.

The stream babbled
Over pebbles,
Fern fronds
Brushed our sun-browned shins

Till the dead sheep
Slugged us in the guts.

Bloated and bulbous,
The body dammed the stream,
Its lifeless eyes
Crawling with life.

Those pearly marbles were
A child’s looking glass into death.

The rocks we hurled at it
In reckless revulsion
Were the screams
Of violated youth,

And those empty dead sheep thuds
The dawning of our mortality.

A limerick writer from Kent
Found his pencil all crooked and bent.
Though ******, licked and chewed,
It still remained skewed,
(Even stretched to its fullest extent).

You didn't get a valentine
Nor a supermarket rose,
We never sipped that vintage wine
Or read romantic prose.

You left before I told you,
I threw away my chance
To have you and to hold you:
I’m ******* at romance.

The end was tranquil
Her eyes remained open wide
To mirror my tears

My Vellum

Alluring and demure
In your virginity
Never yet
Creased nor crumpled
Your tight young corners
Remain stiff and pert
In their newness
Your long lithe sides
Tense for my careful touch
Lest blood be spilt

My gold nib
I dip
In midnight ink
Piercing its surface skin
And lift

It drips
One

Two

Black
Secrets
Back to their bottle

My hand is poised
Over your pristine smoothness
And with calm precision
I carve broad majuscules
That twist and cut
To hairlines of breathtaking
Intimate intricacy

Quick teasing serifs
Long lingering descenders
Strokes of tactile
Joy

Then stand back

Empty
In wonder at
Your calligraphic beauty

She headed to bed for the night,
And proceeded to switch off the light.
Then she tossed and she turned
Till the sheets were well-burned
And her duvet began to ignite.


© Marcus Lane 2010

She slumps in sleep
Paws clasped prayer-like
Dream-dozing eyelids a-simmer

A spasm-triggered flesh flick
An ear-alert to a tremorous tick
Crisp-dry nose with involuntary sniff
Old dog breath brewing brown toothed whiff

With pain weary grunt
She heaves her lumpy bulk
Onto shaky splayed legs
That hobble and limp

Catches my eye
With a puppy-pleased glint

Wags

.... and pees

I fear the way you love me:
That tender-touching kiss
Seducing me to nightly
Sink deep in your abyss.

Those smooth caresses take me
To places that I dread,
Your cunning fingers rouse me
To plan such lies ahead.

But while we writhe and tumble
In lust's hypnotic hold,
I fear the final stumble
That will see the truth unfold.

That evening of  glowing leaves
The sweating sky oozed red ,
Shimmered in the mirroring
Pools of rainbow swirls.

The crazed earth,
Blast blown,
Crumbled finely.

Filtered through
Fragile fingers,
Wafer-skinned.

Dust to dust

Rising,

Rising to colossus clouds.

Till the killing breeze blew.

© Marcus Lane 2010

Altering my words
Just to score a few cheap points.
You're good at that game!

A proud man,
Upright and unshakable
In belief and morals,
Once only I did I see him
Without a tie.

A child of Edwardian England,
The links Of his watch chain
Glinted
As they hung
With formality and elegance
From his waistcoat pocket,
Yes, even as he worked.

And work he did.
Patiently,
Brilliantly and tirelessly
With ingenuity and imagination.
A craftsman from a bygone age.
A master of his tools.

Grandfathers are soft,
Playful, bear-like in their
Gruff-whiskered familiarity.

Not Poppy.
Unwittingly aloof from his grandchildren,
We avoided the need for directly addressing him,
Unsure of where we stood.
He’d probably have secretly
Loved the informality
Of our secret nickname.
I hope he knew.

The chapel piano did for him.
Too much weight for his work-weary ticker.

Grandma gave me his pocket watch to keep,
And for a time I treasured it,
Measuring its weight
Like a smooth round pebble
In my palm.
A workman’s watch;
Practical.
A yellowing face
Behind a scratched
And hazy glass.
But accurate,
And precise.
Reliable as the man.

Detached in life,
I liked to hope that
Gazing down,
Watching,
He just might have
Laughed
In loving acknowledgement of his
Grandson’s curiosity
And foolishness
Sitting cross-legged on the carpet,
With heart-thumping nausea

Adrift in a sea of springs.

Don't cry, this kiss is a kiss goodbye.
Don't cling, it's time to part.
Don't look at me nor ask me why
I've taken back my heart.

No questioning, no pleading;
No door remains ajar.
No doubt your heart is bleeding
Now, and wounds of love will scar.

Don't hope to ever turn back time,
Nor resurrect the flame
Of what became a pantomime
Of love, in all but name.

2.19 am.
Another sleepless night in
Clinging sweaty sheets.

Unnoticed by day,
This metronomic ticking
Is thieving my sleep.

It's no use hiding -
My water glass magnifies
The luminous dial.

Ominous red glow,
Like an army on the ridge,
Retreat into dream.

© Marcus Lane 2008

A pin point
Of liquid silver sound
Trickles from

Open sky

Low under leaden feet
The cheated generation
Lies
Present and correct
Rank and file
Row upon row

Dark sockets gape
Where eyes once flared and flinched
Bled and oozed
Then locked their grateful lids
To extinguish Hell

For good

Beneath the sun's glower
I raise mine to
Squint
At the lark

Ascending

Deep-rooted through time
This Norman arch,
Oak-like
Stands firm.

Over-arching
Buttresses and beams
Once wove wefts of
Warm reassurance.

Beneath oppressive clouds
Now a weary spire
Lifts a lone limp finger
Paying lip-service
To a memory.

Soiled latex
Sharp steel
Crushed aluminum
The offerings of straying pilgrims.

Illuminated lettering
The artful work of
New scribes:

God wos ere
lol


© Marcus Lane 2009

A crisp white sheet of
Pristine perfection.
An awakened spring leaf
Unfurls in the crook
Of my arm.

Your new life.

My eye is mirrored
In your liquid pupil
As I stare

Mesmerized

Into a deep pool
Of ancient memory.


© Marcus Lane 2009

When the tide is high and the spray flies wild
And  storm-battered cliffs loom grey,
Gulls are flung like litter in the wind
Above the tossing boats in the bay.

Now grey-gloved fingers feel from afar,
A muffling shroud of fear,
For the mist's stolen in with a furtive glance
At the lighthouse winking on the pier.

The ******* surf on the shingle shore
Rattles like smugglers' bones
Stirring the dark and dreary depths
With gales of ghoulish groans.

Wrestling waves in a turmoil twist
Their heaving muscles in mounds,
And crash to a crescendo of spittle and spray -
A rejoicing of ocean sounds!

Beech trees like cathedral pillars soar
To vaulted ceilings oozing dapple-green,
Where twinkling sunlight, filtering to the floor
Dilutes the dusky darkness in between.

A concert hall, acoustically tuned
To amplify each tremorous touch of stick
On wood, where silent magic is cocooned,
Responding to the scuffled tap and tick

From scrunching undergrowth, where dusty death
And dried decay seep back to nature’s store,
To resuscitate with pungent earthy breath
The spirit of the leafy forest floor.

Earth’s still-born sister

Cast-away
Aborted

Your ghostly image
Pock-marked and pale

Follows

A haloed haunting
Forever drawn
By primitive
Family ties

Shy sibling
Nightly your clouded iris
Averts our gaze

But this evening
In wonderful dilation

You stoop low
To peer

In magnificent bloodshot beauty

At what might have been

© Marcus Lane 2008

A Yank with a terrible voice
Singing ditties of dubious choice,
Gave a concert at woik
In the heart of New Yoik,
And ended up making it woice.

The well is dry.
Drained
Of water words
and once-shimmering images.

My bucket has
Scraped down dry walls,
Clanking and
Echoing

In emptiness.

The parched earth croaks
A plea for the patter
Of refreshment:

To bear
Living shoots.

And on the eighth day
On all corners of the dry land
He had created
Out of love for mankind,
His people formed religions and sects,
Through which to worship their creator,
Each according his race.

So were born pride and enmity,
Jealousy, hatred and prejudice.
Doctrines, dictates and decrees
Enslaved each and every one.
Darkness descended

And distant thunder
Stirred

Ambush
An azure curtain is ripped in two
With scornful arrogance

Needle-points glow
Weaving the rift with intricate wefts
Of red
Of white
And blue

Heady aviation fumes
Lift us swimming
Skyward

Imaginations looping the loop

Gazing at bubbles
His infant world is contained
In the moment's joy

Cried a knitter (found **** on the beach),
"Look away, guys, I beg and beseech!
I'm a **** young *****
Who's not wearing a stitch,
And my knitting just ain't gonna reach!"

Angular shafts
of shimmering
April light
charge
each atom
of the morning
with rhythmic
Parisian
energy

Sifting poppy seeds
Through your ashes we await
Your blazing return

We look, we lust,
We listen, we laugh.
We love

She leaves

This poet is well past his prime
And is losing his ear for a rhyme.
I’m starting to drift
Cause I’ve just lost the gift.
Look at THAT -  It was there all the time!

Your ancient frame failed
In each of our minds you are
Building your new home

With surgical precision
You perfected the incision
Of that poison-tipped tongue,
Like a dart.

My crippling indecision
Was slashed with cold derision,
Till self-belief was wrung
From my heart.

This door is shut fast
And I am locked behind it.
Never such freedom.

© Marcus Lane 2010

On this crisp white sheet
The mind will be moonlighting
Editing the day


© Marcus Lane 2010

You need a smart Jag,
Not my Fiat.
(That was always the snag -
Now I see it.)

When we dine at The Ritz
I chew jerky.
You're all glamour and glitz -
While I'm quirky.

It ain't gonna work,
There's no maybe.
'Cause we'll both go beserk.

- Shall we, Baby?


© Marcus Lane 2010

Matchsticks wait in ranks
One quick strike and it's over
A brilliant death

Brooding Winter cloud
Casts chilling shadows on life
Dormant shoots lie deep

© Marcus Lane 2010

In the warm silence
Of that still September night
The hunter's moon
Brooded red and low
Over the rustling thatch
That shielded us,
Our eyes closed,
Entwined  
In each other's secrets.


© Marcus Lane 2010

Stressed to breaking point
Mother Earth strains and crumbles
Swallowing her own


© Marcus Lane 2010

A shadowy shop with
Shelves that bend and buckle
Under the weight of years.

The dust of  the decade
Lies undisturbed

Volumes lined in motley ranks
Anthologies, albums and almanacks
Heaped in
Precarious stacks.
A few flaking pamphlets.

Dream-like sepia images
Dog-eared and damp
Bulge from mildewed and
Musty manilla.

Some are excited by
The acrid smell
Of old books.

Not sure that I am.

A bargain box or a treasure chest
Who cares.

Festered and forgotten
Between the yellowing pages of
A railway timetable
Lie someone's drawings.

Quite clever.
A little deranged, if you ask me.
Nice colours

But you wouldn't want them on your wall.

Status is unchanged
My empty inbox means the
Writing's on the wall

An age-fog hangs in heavy drapes
Around my head, a thickening gauze,
And memory of your love escapes
This numbing mist that's sealed my doors.

My straggling wispy hair you stroke,
While whispering of a life-long love;
Your shafts of sunlight **** and poke
But cannot pierce the cloud above

For staring at this window I
Avert my gaze, your touch resist.
My memory dulled, with glassy eye
And drooling mouth,I face the mist.

The pulse of our home,
Your floor-thumping tail, now beats
Your funeral drum.

© Marcus Lane 2010

Tinsel tears glinting
In bloodshot baubles' pupils.
Goodwill came and went.

© Marcus Lane 2010

It's hard to see the point in it!
(Perhaps it's me)

A dismal afternoon of rain,
A flask of tea.

Beside this murky river now
They sit and wait,

So statuesque and silent
Clutching tins of bait.

All week in offices they sweat
With just one wish -

For Saturday come along
So they can fish.

And now beneath the willows' fringe
They bait their hooks,

Comparing rods and reels and lines
With envious looks.

The lines that fly from whizzing reels
Fall with a plip

And drift upon the surface
Where they bob and dip.

Till, with a ****, a wriggling jewel
Is winched ashore

To have its ****** brains bashed out
Upon the floor.