As futile                                
as the listening thrush            waiting                                  
for worms                            
to rise                                    
on your neat
and easy
astro turf lawn  ‬

Find this remnant
in your imagination
because it makes
no sense to me

Is this the moment
when the mother ship landed
in the Pennsylvanian mist
unrecorded
except for one
never believed
in his part dressed
bare footed
madness?

Or the instant
just preceding
the screaming timber truck
wiping away a soul
craving solace
and kind release
to join his life love
so missed
so loved
so long?

Or maybe
God Fearing
our bearded
noble nobody
is standing
in the presence
of his God
and Host
meek, mild
and speechless...

Secret movement
& murmurs;
I see you
in everything
Light and dark
combine
to make your face

Shadows and bird song
evoke summer days
When we walked
talked
& explored;
bonded by our blood
kindred in our kind
sharing nature,
time and contentment

Kings of all;
pathfinders,
brothers,
scarce valuing
sublime
extraordinary days

our kindred
coded
poesy
fading
failing
from the very moment
you found it
in your hands

my whispered
particular promises
for you only
petal borne
complex yet
simple sentiment
temporary
as our days

elemental
all of the things
I want to shout
I need
the world
to know
I cannot die
with this unsaid

pressed dry
safe booked
stored and secret
coded corsage
never worn
above your heart
our summer garland
dust

Worn thin
your finger tip
stroking
my long cold cheek
& your dry lips
I am ageing
With no real right to
But not in your heart
My shallow shouldered frame
Combed wet hair
And potential
Staring back
Before I knew
What incredulous meant
You knew loss
Gravel pit deep
And dark

Because when dark clouds
Come low
You shine through
Gifting light
and your honest warmth

Because when shadows
Cast over
You offer simple
Generous
and welcome salvation

The largest human eyes
I ever saw;
I wanted it to count
for something,
ditto the five fine long bones
of the foot
I was born loving you
I just needed your face to arrive
to make it so

Tonight I’m kicking daffodils
But you’re best not asking why
As I fear
that what you’d hear
would make you want to cry

Tonight I’m kicking daffodils
But don’t ask me to explain
As I fear
that what you’d hear
would make you share my pain

Tonight I’m kicking daffodils
Alone and in the dark
As I fear
that you my dear
might just be the spark

Tonight I’m kicking daffodils
Cos I’ve nothing else to do
And I fear
That it is clear
That all I want is you

i feel
retired
or maybe i died?
Haunting
this house;
confined

The ghost rules
restrict me
from moving
outside;
cruel threshold
Interior

i am real
in the dreams
or on the screens
of those
i choose
to haunt

The spiders are back
Hanging their fine lines
Head high
It seems
Impressively mid-air

Slick shiny slug legions
Leave the lack leaf space
Sliding
towards sleep

Arthritic branches
Swollen knuckles bare
Grasp
At the clean fresh
Cold autumn air

All of those you
danced with
laughed with
loved and
lay with

All of those
you shared with
ate with
gifted
and played with

Remember them
their smiles
their warmth
their stories
and their eyes

Remember
their weakness
their strength
their energy
and their lies

in remembering them
you live

You were
the sight
the sound
that began it all
the gentle
warming
the convection
of currents
emotional and thermal
through the simple cup
of milk
the simple cup of milk
that now stands
with a skin
of white slime
impossible to shake
from my finger tip
impossible to
consume
without the sensation
of disposal
of other

I adore you
being alive
every moment
significant
& celebrated
  
Washing chocolate
from your happy
teeth
with clean
cold wine
and joyous laughter
& later

I envy
your still
unhaunted sleep
& guiltless
dreams

As the munificent
folded
beer mat
beneath
my table leg
you stabilise
my flaws

you settle me

Summer dusk
Swifts
screaming
Carving elegant
impossible arcs
against the
marbled blue

They whistled
Walking early with their pals
because the deep cold black coal face

They whistled
Shining hard their Sunday shoes
because their boots could not be clean

They whistled
Reading close their Daily News
because the lock-less outhouse door  

They whistled
Climbing up the muddy *****
because the spiteful  Maxim's fire  

They whistle
When again they think of that
because the screams
because the screams

Out in the night
Young
among
the raging masses
Feeling heroic
without reason
Seeking sensation
without knowing
what to feel
Making it all up
as I went along
Learning the language
of love
in a vicarious
hilarious
wondrous stupor
of righteous alcohol
fermenting bright-eyed
hormones
Spinning on my axis
broken glass
disco ball
fly-eyed
superman

The last bird
in the last tree
will sing
What else
would he do?

they said
take life
take first breath
take a big step
take a chance
don't take life
give it away

Don't paint
your house
yellow
unless
of course
you intend
to expire
there
ensuring
at a stroke
ease in finding
for the noble
ambulance crew
and impossible
to sell
for those
who never
visited
you

Wisdom imparted
from an angled
grand grey person
to young me
as they seated
themselves
pained

I never dwelt
at the time
on its meaning
Was it licence to
be a hedonist
to burn bright
and short?

Or sage instruction
to refuse
time and pain
any influence
or maybe to go
find a cause
a war adventure

to take me early
just as their friends
had been
flaxen haired smiling
innocent of
everything
and never old

I gaze
at my shoes
because
your views
aren't mine
& we never talked
properly
about the big things
the things
that needed saying
and this eye contact
awkwardly brief
has no point
cos you don't
look back
at me
really
even in anger
& I have tattoos  
because your pallid arms
and creamy backs
are not mine
& I can't sing the blues
whatever they are
very well
or well enough
to make me rich

Ageing gently
watering eyes
back dated tears
long dammed
seeping
through
the failing
seal
of tight lipped
kisses
and
learned
enforced
stoicism
such relief
at last
to cry

The fascination
is again immediate
it stops me dead
Automaton emotion
sympathy washing over
a feeling of something
out of reach
of privilege
of loss
It's something like
a girl friend I once nearly had
a song I had forgotten
a line from a song
that I always get wrong
a night that I want again
We are stupid
And we'll die
I never reached
an uneasy understanding
Something I cannot describe easily
It feels like a real future
somehow
Dystopian broken and flawed
of course
but even then...
Absolute beauty
the unknown
and dignity in death
dignity and poetry in death
light streaming through
and rain
of course there's rain
there's always rain
huge silences
and behind it all
that music
that music that makes
the future seem now
whatever that means
Doll
Robot
but still pain
still the knowledge
of what the end means
from learned
and invested
memories
so human
more human than possible
already dead
but able to share
the most delicate
honest
and fragile moments
that create guilt
in me
somehow
from somewhere
the link
is the sepia prints
on the piano
and the very essence
the thing that drives
the fascination
is The dove
and those lines
spoken like a king
like a saint
with a wonderful warm heart
full of all of my sadness
somehow
and
The unicorn
reminding me
that it was all
fabricated
by the hand
of man

I make stuff up
all the time
some stuff I make up
I think
You think
Is about me
when it's not
and some stuff
that I have made up
that you know
isn't about me
actually is
and you're in
some of the stuff
that I have made up
but I think you knew that

her teeth in my bones
given gladly
unappreciated
to my shame
not eternal
though
none of them
her teeth
my bones
my shame
all temporary
at different stages
of  decay
slowly returning
to the elemental
for someone else
to give
to take
and perhaps appreciate

Buddleia
Butterfly
Brown field
Oasis

Through cracked
concrete
scarred
car parks

New blue life
Mosaic winged
Delicate
Renewal

Chunky chains
brick built
rust puddled
and beautiful

Mixey Kit
in the verging grass
sleek wild and still;
breathing too hard
for young lungs,
black leaking eyes
and nose

Patiently waiting
for the inevitable
midnight fox;
too new
to know
to cherish it's last
sun dappled hours

You keep changing
by inches
ageing by moments
gradually shuffling
towards the light
but I only notice
when we are apart
for a while
when the hours and minutes
can be collected up
into a bundle of time
that means something
in the grand scheme
of things

Are you a male or a female?
Farm Boy

Describe yourself:
The Milkman of Human Kindness

How do you feel?
A Change is Gonna Come

Describe where you currently live:
Island of No Return

If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
A New England

Your favourite form of transportation:
My Flying Saucer

What’s the weather like:
Same again

Favourite time of day:
When the roses bloom again

Your relationships:
The warmest room

Your fear:
Right wing rant

What is the best advice you have to give:  
Don't mourn, organise

If you could change your name, you would change it to:
Danny Rose

My soul’s present condition:
Accident waiting to happen

Snow
Christmas
bridal gown
rare and pure
reality suspended
deep beneath

Snow
clean white
linen cloth
covering
a stained table
superficially pleasing

Snow
a fresh shroud
over a body
stiff with cold
frosted ground
crisp and even

Snow
rippled like sorbet
cleansing
refreshing
but always
just water

Old Gent,
shoes immaculately bright,
walking in bursts of 5 yards,
shirt un-ironed
by her hand
long since
and a gravy stained tie
knotted modestly,
he found a smile
to light my day
and made me think

Tired on the train
I listen
A young mother on her mobile
solemn faced but beautiful eyed
angrily confronts
her daughters father
with a maternal mantra
How do I tell her
When I have all her tears and questions?
I guess he keeps hanging-up
or the signal is lost
The words repeat
almost verbatim
and repeat
and repeat
No-one looks
everyone listens
And then in the vestibule
a smiling South African
recounts with passion
about the Jacaranda
turning Cape Town purple
around this time of year
...he missed his stop

I find
some eyes
shine innocent
naive with
camera love
unconscious gaze
that gives
warmth back
not the
pouting posing
dead eyed
child woman
making mock
of what
she thinks
the world
wants of
her
high gloss
no warmth
gangster prankster
doll
magazine
cover lover

Are you a male or a female?
Hey, Dude

Describe yourself:
Funny sort of bloke

How do you feel?
Clutching at Cheese Straws

Describe where you currently live:
The Bright Side

If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
Casablanca

Your favourite form of transportation:
tightrope

What’s the weather like:
Today is not a day for adultery

Favourite time of day:
Nocturne

Your relationships:
Romantic

Your fear:
Snipers

What is the best advice you have to give:
No Surprises

If you could change your name, you would change it to:
Barry Bungee

My soul’s present condition:
Fits and Starts

The cynic
sees rain coming
The optimist smiles
at the chance of
a rainbow
maybe
Sitting on the edge of a cloud
dry and expectant
across the street it's raining

This is where it will happen
I know
I can see it
There is something connecting
With me
Old
New
A deja vu
A you knew who
Steps are familiar
The light hits the floor in a way
That does not surprise me
Or fascinate me
Catching dust drifting

So there is this
Shadow
Whistling
Walking between dark places
Following
Tracking
But never connecting
A glance of his profile
Stirs a memory
But not a strong one
A summer hazed
Warm water
Recollection
Not damaging
Or spiteful

It’s ivy;
classic palmate lobes,
invasive
substrating you
totally
gripping grabbing
combining and climbing
through you
in you
and around you

It’s ivy;
removal fraught
with complications
without treatment
it will smother you
growing through your
lungs and eyes
stealing away your life force
naturally
yet unnaturally
brutally
yet gradually

It’s ivy;
rip away the tendrils,
superficial salvation
Roots and knots
woody and substantial
in you
Occupying your spaces
invading
pervading
all that is you
within and without
of your skin

It’s ivy;
evergreen
drinking draining
your air and water
Rapaciously
Disgracefully
and as I write
I'm still unsure
which metaphor
I was trying for;
love
Malignant Neoplasm
Or just sadness

Anthropogenic artefacts
Heart attacks
hearts attacked
Dead calm gyre
Tide line debris
You and me
and I
Beach combing
the detritus
of us
and them
and they
Invasive spaces
hidden faces
aroma of decay
Kicking over seaweed mounds
Lost and founds
Seeking out sun sparkled jewels
the aroma of decay
the plastic looks like ruby
the netting gossamer light
life moves amongst the mass
massing moving living
and dying
I save one shell
to liberate the memory
To fix it
in the opalescent bisque
pocketed
treasured
that tide line
left behind remains
from us
all of us
Everyone tries
amongst the stinking tangle
of uselessness
of spoil
to see the value
to seek and love the life
appreciating
interpreting
beauty in our tideline
Personal life left overs
the things we leave behind
left behind
beached beyond doubt
dried beyond quenching
Those hours
objects
people and places
those cruel elements
took away
Stripped from us
only to dispose of them
because they could
because we could not stop them
Tide line
physical
metaphorical
epitomized by those eyes
that shell
the reason
why walking on beaches
makes us feel better

The young will know what to do
They always do
with their inate sense
of now
to act, react or start again
As needed

The young will speak up soon
They always did
permissions irrelevant
finding new angles
clearly seeing
that there is more to life than

Gods and Tigers
but not that much
They will set the new tempo
carve themselves some sense
from our nonsensical inheritance
In them I trust

When I was a cat
I slept too often
Walked away
And never really thanked you

When I was an orchid
I bloomed and faded
Promised much
And revelled in my rarity

When I was a wave
I broke hearts on the shore
Moved sand
And probably disappointed

When I was an apple
I ripened and then fell
Rotted slowly
And was never shared

When I was a candle
I burned bright and short
Lost form
And ended on your finger tip

And when I was a young man
I slept too often
Promised much
Probably disappointed
Was never shared
And ended on your finger tip

I am next to you
on the kerb side
about to happen
I’m in your sleep
latent and patient,
inevitable
I am in the water
about you
waiting to envelop
rinse and silence you
I am the bullet
anonymous and inert
until decisive
And I am the spark
the word
the reason
the consequence
Undiagnosed
and undetected
I'm not your nemesis
don’t expect me
But I will be
So don’t predict me
or hate me

Fit
in a photo
fitting the image
I had
you had
of The One
an anonymous glance
a moment in time
a kiss possibly dreamed
excitement and hope
those eyes
that smile
the dress sense
you imagined she would have
the way she smoked
the way she drank
laughed
and cried
assembling the jumble
of what you aspired to
required too
The standard reached
by all too few
Into a photo fit
fit in a photo
fitting the image
that you have
gradually piece by pieced
accumulated
of what she should be
could be
would be
or all three

So there’s this English Patient
cave set up
Cold, quiet and dying
Alone
and a sense of properly sad sadness
A deep and thorough sadness
not just dropped my ice-cream sadness
But dying alone and cold sadness
Could bring you to tears thinking about it
I expect
That kind of sadness

So the candle is flickering out
And no-one is coming for you
You realised that hours ago but never stopped hoping
And the end of your life is there – shadowing against the cave wall
Flickering in and out of view
Ethereal and unreal
And you laugh a little at the ridiculousness
Of your plight
And you trace your own fingers around your face
Your thirst is irrelevant
And you start thinking about what you have been
Where you have loved
And who
Pictures begin to come to mind of beauty and ecstasy
And then you fall into satisfied eternity

Spindly &
light weight
in all but impact;
complex and vaguely French
visually

Lucidly liquid
wondrous explanations
of the prosaically usual
evoking
something essential

Revolving the silver ring
around her so
delicate finger
with her thumb
even that was enough

Summer print simple
red red lips
& unceasing eyes
the scent of taste
& the precision of an artist

He couldn’t imagine
how to love her
& so he very much liked
at the appropriate distance  
without regret

Mechanical love made
Breakfast consumed
In silence
Commute never commuted
To something tolerable
Suit creased
Like experienced skin
Tremor grasped
Into fist
And denied
Tired tired eyes
Hole in right shoe
MOT due
And years to go

Her reddened eyes
reopened
it seemed
like she had been crying
but she hadn’t
Not a tear
But for that moment
as she refocused
approaching awake again
It seemed like sadness
burdened her
had surrounded her sleep
sending phantoms  
to populate her dreams

I don’t care
About your perception of my
Saccharin sentimentality
But I know
That on the day
That humanity kills the last Tiger
That the beauty in the world
Will have gone
Our science-fiction
Will start to be fact
And magnificence
Will be only ours to create
Melancholy though it will be
If we are to be Gods
And make this world our concrete
Functional costed playground
Then the poetry will need
to be **** good
The music  
Better
And we will need to
Reconnect with something
That will make it all
bearable  
forgiveable
and worthwhile

Some places have more history
More echoes of things past
Than here
Some places are where gods were
Passing through
Leaving traces
Some places evoke and provoke
A sense of substance
Substantial moments
Ripples in the plane
That resonate

Some places are marked
By mans hand
Names and dates and hearts and truths
And some places feel right
Feel comfortable
Appropriate
And some places
Keep close their secrets
In the depth of dust
Some places even possess you
Calling you back for more
Making you remember
Their history

As free as a paper bag
in the wind
As welcome as a sun rise
after night
As refreshing as a wave
breaking cold
And as capitivating as a spider
making silk
That’s you