Me & you
And that last cigarette
And that awkward moment

Me & you
And that last bottle
And that whispered nothing

Me & you
In our t-shirt glory
And our damp hair flattened

Me & you
In our diamond moment
And our cold hands holding

Me & You
And me & you

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

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

Monkeys in cars
Strumming guitars
La la la la’s
We ain’t all that

Shaving our faces
Finding new places
Tying our laces
We ain’t all that

Appliance reliance
Making new science
Moral compliance
We ain’t all that

Leaving our instinct
Down at the precinct
Never be distinct
We ain’t all that

Barely evolved
Nothing resolved
Power absolved
We ain’t all that

Opposable thumbs
Beating our drums
Hating our mums
We ain’t all that

Intelligent beings
Believing is seeing
Rather be skiing
We ain’t all that

Monkeys in space
Saving our face
Playing the ace
We ain’t all that

Living the dream
Not what it seems
Chicken Supremes
We ain’t all that

Monkeys in cars
Smoking cigars
Staring at stars
We ain’t all that

Monkeys in cars
Counting their scars
Filling the bars
We ain’t all that

Monkeys in suits
All in cahoots
Playing their flutes
We ain’t all that

Where’s little Bo Peep
Cos we are just sheep
And this poem ain’t deep
I ain’t all that

Must have...
off road parking
dishwasher
broadband
south facing garden
space
light
and you

Must have...
secure and rewarding employment
stimulation
time to myself
time apart
time with you
and you alone

Must have...
Something to look forward to
a challenge
quality time
a sense of worth
and you
always you

Must have...
a belief that it all means something
direction
freedom
a legacy of matter or reputation
and essentially you

Must have...
oxygen
salt
warmth
water
shelter
love
and you

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

Are you a male or a female?
Manliness

Describe yourself:
An Obscure Writer

How do you feel?
Kind pity chokes my spleen

Describe where you currently live:
Community

If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
At the round earths imagined corners

Your favourite form of transportation:
Air and Angels

What’s the weather like:
The Damp

Favourite time of day:
Break of Day

Your relationships:
A Tale of a Citizen and his Wife

Your fear:
The Funeral

What is the best advice you have to give:
Variety

If you could change your name, you would change it to:
Mercurius Gallo-Belgicus

My soul’s present condition:
A Fever

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

People take ownership
of your words
your memories
and make them
theirs
  
Subtle shifts
in intonation
detail and substance
Not untrue
not really a lie
but not yours
Not anything that
has your essence in it
And they weave you
into them
through those fond
‘remembered’ words
and false
fabricated moments

Taking something
from you
labelling it
in their own hand
blotting the ink
dry with integrity
absent or not
they parade
that part of you
appropriated
Like a head on a stick
a scalp on a belt
or a heart on a sleeve
depending on their need

And you can’t reclaim
something stolen as softly
and stealthily as that
it would be churlish
it would be cruel
Perhaps their desire
to have you
as a jigsaw piece
of their making
in their sky
is the greatest compliment
and is worth
becoming part fiction
condoning a myth

Spiked words
Carefully driven
Beneath her finger nails
Barbed even

Black & white Polaroid
Tucked behind the mirror
At an angle
Jaunty
I guess they’d have called it
If ‘they’ had ever bothered
Visiting her bathroom

I think if you were genuine
I’d be intimidated

I think
If you'd seen it
That you wouldn’t have
Asked
No really – I believe
That you have a sense
Of how the scar
the shadow
the blemish
came into being
By his hand
that night

And so you choose
distance over
a tactile
filmic hug

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

Last night
I dreamt
I was a giant,
that I forgot
my favourite word;
that I refused
to have white teeth
and that I lost
my prize possession.  

Everyday
mixed up thoughts,
making no sense
and every sense

You all match

Your teeth
All match

Shirt and tie
And evil eye

Skirt and shoes
And political views

Laugh and smile
All are vile

Because you all match
All of you

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

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

Out of time
to do that thing
you always wanted
to do
because
that other thing
that you should have
had checked
is serious
and those people
who meant so much
have passed on
moved on
or moved away
out of time

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

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

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

These places
so familiar
where we were
where we existed
in time
accumulating memories
leaving traces
& absorbing influences

This place
returning
a frozen evolution
recomplete
animated
by your presence
relevant again
to all of us

My first gLove
Lost on the bus
Absentmindedly
Or In the street
Parted in the snow

My stolen gLove
Taken whilst my back
Was turned

My fleeting gLove
Impaled by a stranger
In the street
On a spike
For all to see

My forgotten gLove
Left lonely
For too long

My worn out gLove
Threadbare
From years of absent
Emotion

My Christmas gLove
Ill fitting but warm
And worn
For a day

My lost summer
Lost summer
Lost summer gLove
Didn’t make the suitcase
Home

My gLove for life
Soft yielding
And strong

These are the gLoves
I have loved and lost

She was intricately
deliberate
with textures
& attitudes
& colours
combined

Conciously
random
when bathing benignly
in media
materials
& moments

Strong
yet so vulnerable
in just the right
measure
ethereal
but grounded

Beautiful
blue wide eyes
opening
to order
& closing
to sleep

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

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

How would it be
if I filled my lungs
stepped forward and blew
Would you fall apart
and drift away in the breeze
a dandelion clock
exploded by little

Would you bend but not break
and return
Would you sway
to avoid the draught?
Or become a musical note?
Resonating
Resonating

Would you turn the other cheek
blushing
Would you find me ridiculous
or become a wave
across a field of corn?
Would you make wind chimes speak
or windmills turn
Would you be extinguished?

And if I blew
Just enough
to move your lashes
just enough
to move you
Would you wait
for the words to follow?

I over heard
a doctor
on TV
who said that we
don’t really die
we just rust away
from the inside
which was news
to me
but on reflection
it makes such sense
so best we all eat
anti-oxidants!

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

Unwrapping you,
right to the
hard stone centre;
the juice,
the pips
and the skin of you,
yielding

Enveloping you,
down to your
pithy whiteness;
your zest,
your aroma
and sugared flesh,
tempting

Understanding you,
right to the
timely autumn ripeness;
the colour,
the pallor
the new shined skin,
rising

Needing you,
down to the
sweet cool moments;
the flavour,
the fullness
the simple satisfaction,
lying

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

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

Snow
Sometimes at Christmas
White as a brides dress
Rare and pure
Reality suspended
Deep beneath

Snow
The crisp clean white
Linen table cloth
Spread over
A stained table
Superficially pleasing

Snow
A new shroud
Laid over a body
Stiff with cold
Frosted ground
Crisp and even

Snow
Rippled bright sorbet
Cleansing
Refreshing
But always
Just water

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

Where is it
the softness you
promised?
Behind your ear?
In your smile or
on the soles of your
feet?

It was inferred
gently
in the measure
of your words
& touch
And strangely in your
anger

Where is the softness
I sensed
in the half-smile meeting
or did you wrap
it tightly
in your brittle shell
of skin?

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

For Sheri and Russ


the thing about love is
that you cannot plan it
or describe it
or put it into words

the thing about love is
that you cannot own it
or possess it
or keep it for yourself

the thing about love is
that you can’t predict it
or restrict it
or make it play to rules

the thing about love is
that you cannot seek it
or borrow it
or put it in a cage

the thing about love is
that you cannot paint it
or write it
or describe it in a verse

the thing about love is
that you can’t demand it
or supply it
or find it in a dream

the thing about love is
that you can’t practice it
or teach it
or know it inside out

the thing about love is
you cannot master it
or limit it
or make it sit quite still

the thing about love is
that you can’t ignore it
or expect it
or deserve its warm embrace

the thing about love is
that you can’t bottle it
or label it
or place it on a shelf

the thing about love is
that when you find it
you'll know it
and you’ll recognise its face

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

Stasi shredded stripes
bags of systematic
bureaucratic
destruction
of memories &
moments in time

Bagged, gagged & tagged
in sylo’s
bunkers full
crammed with broken
histories
fragments of faces
letters
postcards from beyond
blue, yellow and green
in grey

Inhumane
cynical destruction
of hope
slivers of the disappeared
commandeered
processed
pushed
mechanically
through the sharp teeth
of a hungry system

The greatest reconstruction
Reconnection
Resurrection
Of a nation
Continues
Every weekend
As the many mend
the states’ excess

A spider
Still
Drinking the life
From a bee’s
Thorax cup
In sunlight
Between the dagger
Fronds
Of a palm
That I planted
Drinking tea
I watch

I’ve been picking away
metaphorically
I think
at the edges of my skin
for a while now
trying to find the end
of the coil of string
that I dream about
Excited by the thought
of that moment
when I begin to extract it
slowly
very slowly
feeling it unravel
collecting it between
finger and thumb
slightly damp and ******
still white  

I see others
scratching at their surface
trying to find the same thing
I am guessing
trying hard to experience the removal
the extraction of something self
yet other
I walk behind the crowd
amongst their cigarette butts
wrappers and chewing gum pellets
I see
yards of string
some knotted
some platted
and some rolled into a ball
I collect them all
dry them
and box them

I still dream
of my skin
the string
and that feeling of
excruciating pleasure
not sure what it means
if anything
not sure what I learned
but the tactile
facile
act
of drawing out
that which is within
unseen
itching and coiled
stays with me
and by inches
satisfies

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

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

Collective memory
Reclaimed from drives, discs & sticks
Because we own it
We are it

Immovable cultural concrete
Vast empty spaces
Where industry was

New even smaller devices
For making things easier & quicker

The very same love
Awkwardness & despair

A new neat way to eat
Retro hetro metro
More yellow
& probably less meat

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 night it stayed light
We closed our conversations
Ended them
Finished what we had to say
On the very same day
That we started them

There was no hour to leave
Or a time to arrive
Curtains remained un-drawn
We could see into everywhere
And it seemed that the sun hovered
Between the hills for hours

The night it stayed light
Your eyes stayed open
You never closed them
Not even a blink
I stared into them for an eternity
And meant it completely

There was no next day or today
To separate us
The **** crowed in mid-afternoon
And we drank hot chocolate
For breakfast like the French do,
We strange cosmopolitans

The night it stayed light
The owl never flew and the bats waited
Patient in barns
And I looked at you in pyjamas at noon
With sunlight on your hair
And I felt humble
For being allowed to love you
All that long day

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

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

Satisfying seasonal
sensibilities
bushy bright
and so dressed
with ceremony
and love
being celebrated centre
of attention
baubled and draped
with gaudy glitter
trusted with gifts
but only for a day

As mood and
circumstance change
no longer loved
or needed  
left to thirst
age and die
coldly discarded
in a road side gutter
thin and losing dignity
then shredded into mulch
or hacked to ugly pieces
and burned
so goes another commercial
Christmas

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

and still
i feel
guilty
for the
bumble-bee
jarred
thirty years
past
and it still
makes
me
sad
that I
trapped it
and
left it
forgot it
to die
and the
glass
enhanced
buzzing
like
tinnitus
haunts me
and the
slowing down
dying
recurs
in my
dreams
and the
slowing down
dying
is me
in my
dreams
in a
brick
tower
like a
lighthouse
no moisture
no air
just a
spiralling
staircase
and music
and breathless
and flightless
and hopeless

and that
humble
bee
still troubles
me
and I
wish
every time
that the
memory
returns
that I
could
undo that
moment
and
twist
and
release
and
observe
and
relax

Uncle John’s gone
Heart
on Sunday
in his shed
He left his stamps
to Sam
He’ll sell them
and his neatly folded
nicely worn
shirts and sensible slacks
will soon appear in Age UK
And Auntie Lynn
will maybe have
twenty years
a widow