My head is an empty space
Crossed at times by small sparks

A memory
A thought
Cloud
Delusion

Coming and going
And gone

in the air.
A cloud of smoke
sitting as a bloke
in a wingback chair.

Hear me
in a breeze.
Waving branches
large as ranches
whipping through the trees.

Touch me
in the rain.
Bubbling drops
of brewing hops
dripping through the pain.

Taste me
in the snow.
Powdered sugar
in a pressure cooker
puff as pastry dough.

Smell me
in the sun.
A rose garden
if you pardon
refreshes everyone.

Returning to the Tower
It was not there

The next Block
My former Home
Gone

All the places I stayed
For years
Notable by Absence

The Window with views
Of London
Empty


Now
I too

Am not there

Transparent Skeletal
Leaf
Exposed-
Multitude of Angels stitching
Unpicked by unforgiving Sugars

And on the heap a
Multitude of Stars break down-
Release an Ozone of melancholy
Nitrogenous breath

Growth of Aeons

I am at a crescendo of this mercurially
fervent woe, maimed by the visage of
smoke and mirrors;
"a death in chrysalis is to live once again."

Draping into the worn out disheveled
silk, beautifully withered
lulled by the sound of riverbanks
as if it's pacifying the feral.

A star-lit eyes deluged with bliss
rose with thorn-teared flesh
overwhelmed by a mawkish melancholia. Although we were haunted by our old love, it will never be the same.