rebars rust splitting concrete at irons cost
grey dust falls away from exaggerated wires

urban decay promoted by grandstanding
youth atop another. marker pen names .
inspired rap crap anonymity shouts
I woz here ( to those in the know)

sterile pens these days not even sniffable.

brains over and out on wifi . WAN faces
from vitreous messages blinking out
hate and spite for structures. Scenes
are augmented hunts of ghouls.

next addicts in line: petting in play
gyms on street corners. Cartoon
wars have no conflict?

clouds of vape a new narcosis .
in stupor we watch them
swallowing grey bytes flaked
off the cable networks of yuff.

dragged hedge marks
outline of decades
old scratching

soil marks parallel
and perpendicular
are not hare tracks
and are hare tracks

so subject to vaguery
of climate and fashion
a hedge makes
near squares
from afar

closer it is the
edge of the world.
fledglings chance
on dragons
and cubs
smell territory
on the wind

lustre worthy
of Murano
and industry
too

desire of the
impossible light
in glass that
crystals it's edges
is absent

want

is the song.
the pure note
of blown
glass.

music made
when gently
struck
in time with
ebb and flow
of it's water.

sing. I am response.

something about a little street and pigeons

past the road crossed by

pigeons driven by fear

of hurrying commuters

or hunger for fast food

bags

is the last shop



It's forever open door sentried

by wine soaked owner

unsteady on the

edge



pavement and narrow

road bottlenecks so

that with some relief

customers hurry by



Yet. So like the

books he sells

there is no world

until the page is

turned



that door frames

a world of change

that a simple word

unlocks



instead people curse

the pigeons

and worry

about clocks

shouting

departure times

a meandering we will go
like winds hunting sails
the after love love glow.
stops. two hearts it fails

strangled on it's own
cord cursed stillborn
blood wetted down
less hair more devil's horn

shoebox size coffin
barers slapping hands
lest grief is forgotten
loves fire buried in sands

there is pain but absent
blame: dead love is nascent.

ragged complexion nearly
distracts from his eyes
the staccato of his limbs
semaphores his battle with
demons

I urge him silently to shout them out

it shames me deeply
and my turn to blot
my skin weak.

like a human stutter the
crippling in him carried
him away

too slowly

crossing the road in looking
back my demons
play patacake on my  spine

tulip heads droop
low and before
petals drop
in a sickly
wind swing.
knell their
own end.

drawing in
final air the
bulb swells
a Summer
long.
It's Spring demise
but a charm
to entice
single flowers
to bloom bright
and, in colour,
ring out their
nights.