baby seagull hides
under a bench
mother sits on wall

little boy
makes trouble
in Peaceful sea


little girl watching
awaiting her turn

beach laid flat by hurrying sea
dries to be etched by the wind.

delicate trails. dynamic drawings
of the current that, in passing children,
they chase.

swiftness that makes it own draught.
it does not compete; just adds
footsteps to the sand

thread hangs dewy bright
oxidized aluminium contrasts
grey glassy grey

crumpled in doorway a song
through whiskers licked
yellow and smoke flecked
black ash.

notes
float
coats the space
between a boy
silver bits
(remnants of magic cards move
moving Mother)
from pocket to pocket

"silver linings, eh "

scaffolding reached a little higher
and somehow mucus trails
had a musical movement

wave

throws spume

lifted high

painting pebbles

white

painted bright as a poppy drops
on water in winter armour

endeared with pins through daring
words emotives that would fly

scramble. alert.
stand down

flutter arrested
attested to tempt;
at rest the
compression lump

chunks of red muscle lie against
wanton parting pout born by eyes.
there is no offer.

petals drop as remembrance
of a bi-partisan battle. disorder
beaten by bravehearts

that did not fall but threw themselves
on into slurry of sharp parts
slowly giving to drops of familial blood

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.

possible that the rock on rails
will express me from a fail
intimate wants satisfied
or is to mistake I ride

hold on close
see me through
misty eyes

memories flood to wash away
just what I did to you today
taken in taken for a ride
ingrate you stood beside

hold on close
see me through
misty eyes

rivulets run and clear the pane
on that platform you remain
train pulls the wheels slide
not ashamed I lied

hold on close
see me through
misty eyes

noise and confusion front
centre of pure light
rolling grey mass obscures
it
mills white into frequency
that has peaks touching
lows
it
steals night pricked into
spectral stall spaced out
on god labels and sci-
gobbledygook
so
dreamers can dance
fragile hearts into hope
lies

grey is white
rainbows are gold
names are cures

passionates lean hard
fragments that lore's
peddle as jigsaws
boxed with image
of whole

complex puzzles rattle
the futility of :

cover
whole and virtuous

open
inside is the same : broken

fix
me


(no bits missing
the grey is my underside)

frustration until
completion then
frustration with
maintenance of
completeness

(Back in the box)

reality reels results in
fondness for familiarity
played on
simpler puzzles

when we knew the shapes
by touch
and we put ourselves together
in the dark

sure, *****
strut a pace
with the
subtle
redirection
of the
head.

spurs sharp
and maiden
blooded.
plumed fine.
head and chin
the red of
warrior men.

when set
to crow. cooped
low, this beast,
beak pushed
against
farmyard feet.
no.

distant water rides rocks twists a sway from sky
early mist covers a way leaves drip some of it's wet
wait, Sun's heat will appear chasing water home

rawed flesh flies
to filthy beat of
the leather changer

gag metes justice
jean cotton knaw
crack of debater

mage owed silver
shillings for fake
dab at blood on
dent of his chin

Bob tours patois
scrawls with a finger
awed
by the give in her
broken skin

stud kept for she
his
promise the bearer note

the trees do not stop

wind without rhythm

knocks out a beat

timing only that

moment

when coincidence

kicks

branch

into

branch

perhaps four seasons have passed
since we kissed so very happily

lift and tilt the screaming jig
clip of hair to red spot.
rip cloth

make tip in hit snick hook's
barb it bit flesh on a tug.
bait comes

(stage cloth raises high
applause covers
opening)

old hit picks at scab
grey edge to living pink
irresistible

split is spat wet . it is in
virus will make want
charisma
phantom
orgasma

(cloth in stages parts
curtains
trained spotting)

candle flicks orange
selflessly spits
and pop: pale pips

when

juice trapped in petroleum
wax hits heat and fires to
make mists in light

a cotton thread

( points vapours )

stutter the
dark:
yellow

the lights lets me see

fractions of tar smell
sweetly pink in the
Valor heater.
pressed from thin metal
a bomb
damped by ribbon squab

(broad vapours)

starve the
cold:
red air

all weaves shrink as the
smoke, a fake evaporate,
journey's to the clouds

shingle
varnished
by seawater
fade as
dried salts
prove the
Sun's mettle

hungry
children
by beach play
quieten
when chips
polystyrene
pools salt
and vinegar

sharp
defences
cut bare feet
sharpened
nerve endings
paddling out
in salty sea

some kind of permanence
a ****** in the
woods

slow decomposition
tender restoration

it's place a drift
as if
coalescence made it
float through trees

within. the charcoal maker
the makers wife
and scurrying creatures
with feet and paws

without. smoke. wisps of
first industry leading to
harvested piles seasoning
by breathing clamps.

points of turf covering
designed stacks. an inferno
strangled by it's master
briar hanging loosely
tasting tobacco while listening
for betraying crackles and looking
for beacons of yellow showing as cracks
in dried earth.

fire here is burning money.
burning time

they have none to spare

behind him stacked in sacks
charcoal dry and ready for
Jack the cannon maker.

where finally the fire suppressed by
the maker would burn in forced
air with anger enough to
melt iron. Blast the sky with
sparks and toast Jack's leather.

in the woods the smoke rise and fell
while the master
vent
seals
vent
seals

the whispering clamps
in a clearing.

gentle rising on
a hillside
lift for above

west wind on
sermons
guilt from above

raptor in eerie
scours
feeds high above

crows in white
collars
preach of the above

song gives wings
to charm an above

past where ***** lie
beside christian soldier
whose older and bolder
panhandling shames guy.

eyes lift from dirt to seat.
overflow shame is then
crammed in a telecoms pen.
salvations' hat sits complicit

with our gaze raised upto
other responsible 'sort'
whom donations taught
to be our virtue.

Cupboard doors open and slam in a rush of morning departures. Tins of beans and packets of pasta checked for use by dates end up piled up on the table. Toothpaste faces run in clutching new soap and that unopened toiletry to add their finds.

Pat on heads. Loading and quick check on calendar. Yrs 2 to 6 9am St. Matthew's

the products
of field's and labour
day's of equality

Rushing around to get home in the dark. Central heating clicked into the Internet of Things. Instant pictures of children's day. Instant food on the table. Entertainment on demand pumps out donate now message from Shelter.

cardboard bedsheets
night's of equality

once rocks .
now weathered
stones inclined
by wind.
something
devout
in that vane
stuck
gold
and facing
forever
south

roll the stones push them round
edges gone
until grit paper sharp

blow gusset bow sheet
fray to rag
until just rope

tear into matter
make dust
make dots
make deeds

constrict . elements
are energy in a
quantum romance

    let depth be
as vacant as that

Tick.              Tock

        Space

be not the flag
- hung perspective
be not the rock
- stuck premise

listen integrity of force:water and air
all redux to their nature

handfuls of dust dry
before deity
before bless
breathes life
into mud

shank
-meat
meets
means-

like
a hammer
between head
and it's
handle
is
thought
between the Force
and it's finesse.

if there is nothing
between divinity
and dirt .

there is you.

no one. no Force.

Beyond bewildered that one of class
empowered by playing politics.
Dare now to claim ground so far distance
from democractic vote as good practise .

Rule; a shameful parade dressed in colours
and ideology popular hued
resplendently stained by party failures
to engage despite pressed powers used.

Influence from Baron's of paper print
devoted to preserving the city state.
Machiavelli and power of the prince
Used against democracy as vile hate

That we demos, the people, maintain
the laws that protect as one, the same

summer pendulums
in pink from
pints of rainbows

scuttles, yellow, drop
fine strands of
honey in bins

transits of ochre
dead spill
wads like corn

hot and popped
in a bucket

brush loaded wet
recovers wall
shimmered wet

erratic and fast
ivy pullovers
race crazy leaves

volumes of cloth
wrap neutered
the wildest cotton

print detail
in Paisley
or frond

birds brown have
red berries as
cheeks

radiance picked
bright
in late autumn light

on our colour street.

lactic on the tongue
numbing at instance
of longing.

drawing lightness
of me lost to erosion
of this life.

All in Daylight.

somnambulent
in the garden

nodding at the
poppy heart

falling into dilated
eyes.

a journey rounded
by a dream....

of chasing white
monkeys' tails

stinking rag piles
human effluent
with no
sewer to
sanitise.

I am the purge.
pocket of
gasoline
a spark in
the night.

screams call the victory
of
sweet vapours
over
living ****.

I breathe it in,
off my fingers,
as I leave.

oceans churn the sky

dragging

latent

potent

tainted toxic

down as cold water

dense particles slugged on salt

stagger the mill up to **** on

radiance and radical upset

in gardens touched softly

in gardens washed away

in gardens a draw to clay to rock

until fissures filter feed the spring

clamour push and deny the rust stain
left as spots on nylon thin throws

no light is un-greyed in passing
to fail ignition . somewhere
sinoatrial spark kicks the pump
over
again
again
again

until even that like waxed diesel
instead of vital fuel will impel
only a

thud

and then wooden and thin as a
peg. round headed and spindles
you are boxed for
the
Fire

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.

a run of light chases birds in the sky
feathers fledged in auburn tree
flee

the heat of olive green spaces
above red dirt lures them home
from

home still baring berries and
scurry of life heads up counting
dots in front of
porch lights

crumpled face
gently rests
on tired neck.

worn out hands
reach out warm,
to the cold.

some passing
breeze takes
even more heat.

in a sigh
more is lost.
so shiver.

rattling chest
in thin vest
screams ill.

consumption
returns to
phlegm street.

Turning to Uncle Dai I wanted to speak
but

Motes flew sticking to his hat, greasy
and soot blackened. Third generation
drivers hat made from good dirt.

Embers, hot, stole the air from lungs.
They orange stars underfoot so
surely had the tunnel transported
us to the Southern hemisphere.

Steam and boiling water releasing
valves, driving pistons after clanging
gates. Ruled over all and any
utterance
until

That single silence born on the
flash of ivory in the fireman's
face. Son of the driver. To
I playing role of grandson
to follow
and

Dai's dar something in
the smoke.

through a tiny crack a whole epoch
was revealed. lines more than words
marked living that had past into rock

up close the lives could be seen.
from afar the time scene.

dig in a layer to learn which devoured
and which was consumed. tiny stone
ghost. hieroglyphs to knowing eyes.

is the minutia the story or is it the sweep
of the Terra twisted by it's force to reveal:
secrets.

these layered lines specks of alphabet dust or construct.

I
compare the space left
to radiance that blinds

look on and know just
how dark could a space
become

faith in eye grabs hard
at the residual lumens.
ghosts.

time stuck in a flash
of constellations
colliding

YOU

cup me in some sweet condolences
leave me dusted in saccharin
after honey licks

there on your lips
autumn burst fruits
and
bruises

my blush of knowing
too much
my rush of tasting
enough
to be hooked on your liqueur

lips. granulated resistance
spent.
echo.
fullness empties,
echo.
post
coitus tristesse,
echo

sugar the fruits'
echo

not love lost
just how you felt it.
in black blood.

liver restored.
choice pound of
flesh brother.

lips part, two strings, the puppet master yanks
in eager yearning to see her smile,
he laughs at the blood spilling down her cheeks
she laughs back. spitting and swallowing in turn
biting on hooks. shift to point; she spins.
wires tense straining at any held purpose.

gritted and mounted to station wires
cut deep into flesh, fat through bone
until cracking free to fly with severed
manipulators and flowing blood.

the stage set slippery. sanguine
Bambi skids and falls. Disney
without the artifice. The mother seen
to die the exhilaration of death vivid
in the killers eyes.

the final cut. hooks join chummed
with jowl and tongue.

as one the audience stand.
****** silent.
faces lit with praise are but stitched arcs
applause a vacancy of hands.



............................
The writers Iniquity and MrQuipty
collaborate again
©

thouest ****
my promised quince
widely spread

wrenched into the space between
vows
gags preserve a truce

split sheets make bridles
reigns are dropped

mustangs are not so stilled

heads up. clouds.
surely one is
horse shaped.
somewhere
to
hurdle the blue conjoined
sky to earth to shore to sky

freedom is.
chains but proof,
in their noise and tension,
of liberties intention

claimed for common benefits
deeds are solemn
herds are acquiescence

royalty is made amongst them
prerogative in the places
where fidelity has made a
no man's land

placed in hand tenderly
and double squeezed
security

the bond ready to test
road crossing
duress

heads, pairs of eyes
scan and swivel
on senses relies

bigger foot hovers
little starts the
bother

of learning to cross
from his big brother

flaming torches in scattered line held high
crowd shouted back behind a safety line
celebrants, ministers officiate in stripes


dressed darkly to intimidate memories of war
red suited stranger rides along devil's tails
splitting ****** for laffs and noise spitting
arc light ahead of spent charred bullet case



screams evoked. stifles laughter as the smoke
evokes the War in mud so here : sticks are rifles.
over amplified comes over as cod eulogy flashes
the ears while sincerity plays out the church gate

we stand flickering eyed



"Feed the World ..."

murders silence

saviours hurry

"Turn it off, Harry"



Peace after a slowed to halt drum
Torches squared parafin trickle
air with smokey wax and uncertain
light that makes black to meet
the dark


poppies burn by the church gate


plans broken into an atrocious
conflict of split fuses sputtering
orange stars into painted skulls


burning splints takes cordite's place
making the air like thick magasines
filled with dum-dum bullets. homages
to horror waiting for the drum .


march.

the parade moves starkly on

cowboys

then

pearls

and

Devils tail.

oh robin in the tree
one beady eye on me

the other
a bother

for the black bug
wings wrapped snug
on leaf of the Lilac tree
under which we drink our tea

to my eldest I turn
and a story is born

dear child keep strong
sing loud and long
yon robin has proud chest
for he sang without rest
to save a princess

'Dad!!!!!!!!'


It's true. for once the bird was dour
lived in Royal ground. Feathers brown
singing to please the princesses crowd
until. Horror. Illness. Proclaimed loud
'Princess was dying having lost
love for life broken hearts cost'

little bird he loved with all his heart
and by her window a song did start

inside in a week sickly state
to her beat did the tune relate
and morbid promise was made
that it was to be her final refrain.

the bird sang through the day
and through the night. stay
by her and steady stave
no food or drink did it crave.

For on that wooden sill
a ***** splinter a thorn ill
pressed ever closer into chest
of that songbird that took no rest.

slowly the blood began to seep
and single flow set to creep
along the ledge up to edge
of drop onto sickly hair
shocking the poorly girl sitting there

her eyes filled with pity for another
that song of love from red chest cover
over fidelity, hope, courage and caring
that lifted her to desire life sharing.

A rush of her own blood carried her
to pull that splinter from the feather
stained forever red
for a life, by love, led.


'Load a Bllx Dad'

tables claim street
space
shaped like sheep
pens

foxy shepherdess
orders me
Mr Wolf marks
my card

economics of
ergonomics in consumption

wandering is nothing but
distracting.
the pace is rhythm
making and recalling
music and verse until

eyes focus on juxtaposed
man with club foot and
pan bottom black eyes.

discordant dismissed song

they're not always there
, breaking,
when wandering .
the percussion stops
in crowds . Revery then
a swarm consciousness
of street starlings
part one mind part
mindful of pickpocketing
magpies

one can always leave
spin the record back
and step on as just
you.
wandering about in
rhythms is a mercy
from deadlines.
a must have time
to pace to
when you have no
destination.

trashed hormones and so I go
deeper red . no skin.

just me spaced on your lips.
parted slightly. pink tip
catching against hard mouth

too far to hear.
to near to deny.

look.

i'm feeling marigold.
zesty , Sun like
and

hoping you eat flowers

contructs that are
made of parts.
a new whole function
persists.
no switches.
changes are intentional
in the design.

desire from subject
as if dance
made a
baric battle
bless the ground

matchsticks animated
from dust
are
insoluble
voluble in
incantation that
are
lazy laments . shifts
of pressure from the
id (who understands nature)
to the ego (who esteems in published forecast)

in flows of gritty water
the dust people that travel
on the wind

morning star
Venus falls into
fiery sunrise

Lucifer rises
from embers of the day

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

spun sugar filaments in a silver bowl
lights blink out-of-time between
music
over-loud
over-layers
ride
to fairground
ride

'bit wrong' artwork for eight year olds
steal scenes from archetypes
of
last centuries Hollywood

eager faces watch
sugar grow

(fresh spun - waltzers
bash crashed belts on - dodgems
polyestered rabbit - hook a duck)

learn candy floss pink

comes out of plastic bottles