Empty flowerpots, their soil crusted
Insides clue us to once precious
Clasped bouquets. Will they hold
And love again some tender stem?
Discarded with the half-bricks,
Where the millipede roams, his
Thousand miniscule feet implore,
Beating the whispered rhythms of night.
By degrees, with each passing season,
The gathered moss gently mutes,
A glorious world of commerce,
Erupting between the little things.
Imperceptibly, away from brash
Petalled beauty they find
Steady destiny. Outside
Expectations and away
From where we see.

you won't have felt the butterflies inside
by hearing someone
say they do too,
unless you've loved somebody

you won't have stayed in bed all night and day
and ordered pizzas
in the afternoon,
unless you've loved somebody

you won't have sifted through a smelly bin
to find a thing
that wasn't yours,
unless you've loved somebody

you won't have travelled in an ambulance
whilst clinging on
a nervous hand,
unless you've loved somebody

you won't have shed many real tears
the kind that roll
into both ears,
unless you've loved somebody

Curled around you
Wire around a gatepost
I squeeze slightly
And push a gentle note
From you lungs
Half sleeping hands
Twist knots from rippling fingers
In the night, from time,
Limbs once squashed, resurface
And buzz slightly
With the orange tranquillity
Of the lamppost outside your bedroom window
My dried kisses
The saliva of pavement slugs
Travelling across your shoulders
Your hair the brambles
That catch the side of my mouth
Sometimes needing a little puff to blow
To blow them on their way
I am with you listening to the darkness
Hills folded
An earwig bumbles wearily over your cheek
With such tiny, beautiful feet
Touching your every pore
The brow of your neck
Rests the dew
Beneath the tumbling dandelions
Tumbling seed
Breathe deeply
A sharp bracing
Toes that peep out
Under the bedclothes
With the yellow dawn

She loves me not
My future settled
Among the sprinkled
Roulette petals

Chance decides
The course I take
I’ll still my heart
Not for her sake

And when my own
Free will expires
I’ll germinate
More wildflowers

A half inflated football
Thuds against pebbledash
Garage door thunderclap
Announces childhood
Attention spans
Across the cul-de-sacs
Estate to estate
Squeezed between the tip
Of the town planner's 2H pencil
And the flick of a syringe
Stupified by sunshine
Half baked by boredom
The grubby kids
With their snot soaked sleeves
Kicking out in the dusty leaves

you are the salt
dissolved
inside me
I can taste
you in my tears

you are the hollow
sound
of breathing
I can hear
you in my sighs

you are the vital
signs
I'm living
when I feel
you in my arms

My sweetness
Thrupenny leisure
Gently worn down by fickle caresses
You come to me as my dream foretold
Awestruck fancy
Shamed by embarrassment
A lilting triplet conspires
Yet peeping out tentatively
Behind a woollen blanket of squares
You come to me for advice?
Don’t dream needless sterility
Vast architecture
Hemming the fabric of life
Unpicked and seldom preserved
Purely for the sake of beauty
Don’t **** on pleasure’s past opportunities
Awake but mystified by the simple
Humdrum that everything really does
Keep revolving around a single point

deep inside an empty well
dark green with speckled silver moss
mute stone
soprano drips
my wet hands lifting up above my head
grasping rope which winches
  slowly
    upwards me
      up onto my toes
        then grinding past the hewn walls
          towards a glowing disk of night
            a starlit darkness
              high above
and then
  out into the full cold air
    above the stubbled fields of mud
  higher than the trees below
    which rustle so
  lifted by a whispered wind
    unmask the gentle curving earth
  drifting back
to black

words passed softly in the night
imagined or divine
like falling petals from a flower
each landing on the floor

a simple mattress with a sleeping boy
woken by the sound
unsteadily he walks next door
to find out why he's called

at first he's told he must have dreamt
the muffled baritone
he falls back in a tangled dream
uncertain when there's more

once again he's told he's wrong
before he's told he's right
the voice he heard belongs to God
be ready when he speaks

the boy lies fearful and frightful tense
alone in solemn dark
waiting for the voice of God
to spark light inside his heart

Solitude is a dull parade -
The things unsaid,
Or said too much,
But never really shared.

The promises and fragrant lies;
How sweet they smell,
I forget how,
I never knew they’d sour.

But for careful untold truths
That wrap us up
In careless knots,
Simplicity itself

We’d live; beyond the tangled lines
Of lives. The dull
Parade, would fade,
And fade away to grey.

Hung low in the sky at night,
brighter than a brief reflection;
the comet flies.

Small crowds of pointed fingers,
perpendicular to the comet's cares,
trace the growing sense of awe
that builds on every shore.

Is it further than the sea? What lies
beneath the beast? Will its whiteness
end the world or will the world survive?

Children ape; arms pinned straight,
shoulders hunched, racing round in circles.
The comet is a silver lure, its significance forgot.

Rattling the tombs of Kings,
from ages past,
from pasts,
passed.

a fleeting profile in a passing car
alters the flow
wipes away the high street
spills painted saffron walls
a tangle of warm hair
pressed into a pillow
as courting doves
edge sideways
along the terrace railing
high above the deep blue sea

here it comes again
the swoosh
of love arriving
leaning on a café doorway
apologetically waving
aeroplane tickets
for azure places
setting toes curling
braced
for the fall
of falling
both hands holding
with faces facing

If I left a few minutes earlier
I would have made that tube
Perhaps if I hadn't taken so long
To brush my teeth
Or find my wallet
Or kiss my children goodbye
I might have walked up
Through the empty streets
With the golden glowing dawn
Caressing building tops
And weary bus stop
A little earlier
But then
If I had
I might not have written this either

"On this site!" -
didn't you know?
Nothing to see here now.
The dust of past civilisations
blows along the pavement
crowd surfing
empty crisp packets.
Should we marvel at how
latitude and longitude
can briefly connect us?
Or are we being dared to peer
deeper, beneath
those ancient feet?
Hobnailed soles.
Decorative embroidery.
Fashionable, in their day.
The rhythms of routine,
echoes around us with
each unsteady step.
Is it history or the sign writers
that makes us feel so futile?

After all the spin is done
And news is fully crumpled
A simmering will linger on
On lonely stoves
Where kinship brews
In kitchens often humble

Those who engineered our fate
Half blind to all but power
A swelling symphony of hate
What deafness fears
The masses hear
Once sweet now sounding sour

And in their places standing
Stones or setting suns, old Gods
Not silent to those listening
When shadows long
Our rights, their wrongs
Should never be at odds

From my first howl,
To the here and the now.

Is it always true the second half
Seems to go much quicker than the first?

I know I'm more than half way through
(unless I live past ninety-six).

So will it finish in a flash? Or will it
Slip into reverse? Will the things I said

I would never do, become the things that
come to pass? Or will I stay the same young boy

Who picked the quinces from the quince tree,
Who ate mulberries in the summer,
Who had a box of metal trains.
Who was that boy, I wonder?

From the here and the now,
To my last howl.

harlequin green
halfway to yellow
you'll be my queen
on a seat made for one

winterbourne water
flows freely in springtime
when all of my colours
fix fast to the page

dancing at dawn
rolling in wonder
the sweetness of dew
still kissing the ground

starlight's a perfume
soaked in a handkerchief
snapdragons roar
when the wind's in their cheeks

ribbons a-flutter
stand up the maypole
pigtails and dresses
the tune is a round

spun from a world away
land in the distance
once a day yesterday
viewed from the mast

My habits are recognisable in
  the other me
  younger me
  still toothy me.
But they're not yet habits, they're just
  experiences
  or experiments
  expectations, perhaps.
Slowly passing one round finger
through a candle's flame -
a flicker, but no real heat.
Suddenly it isn't
  a first chord
  first love
  or first drink;
all those vampires we once invited,
they don't forget which thresholds
they can and cannot cross -
now they come and go
as they please.
Can't we?

you can recognise
true kindness
because it comes
hesitantly
and humbly
it'll be embarrassed easily
so don't question it too deeply
but acknowledge it gracefully
and bask in the afterglow

“Love is always shaded
In vanity”, you said,
“At least, all my lovers
Have been vain
Pleasing me
Pleasing me
But in the end
Unconcerned about
Really touching me
That’s not to say
I’m not flattered by
Empty Romantic gestures
I am
But I don’t want to be
Wooed by some
Accepted idea
I just want to know
If two people
Can
Really
Connect
Or if eternal
Loneliness
Is our lot”
And then you looked up
Inquiringly
Coquettishly
Your eyes sparkling
Across the table
Past the candles
Past the wine glasses
Past the single red red rose
Past my lies
Past my gaze
Towards the tumbling
Infinite darkness
Of the night

My teenage kids have never been
inside their grandma's house.
I've told them tales of footholds
in-between tall piles of stuff.
What stuff, they ask?
Magazines and books,
bags of shoes,
boxes filled with cutlery,
a printing press,
tea chests emptied of their tea and
filled with things she doesn't need.
Stuff that's kept in case.
Stuff that's kept because
some secret now insists she must.
Does she have a bed, they ask?
Furniture once designed to guide
her eating, sitting, sleeping life,
now lies buried
deep inside her hive.
Is it like the Pharaoh's Tomb?
Perhaps.
I hadn't thought of it like that.
I prefer to think of it
as honeycomb.

true sadness is an echo of the dead
the torso arching shoulders stooped
a premonition of demise

but lie and hold with legs entwined
a cradled head reveals a nape
affection may revive

bodies are a cipher only other bodies read
canvassed touch unlocks a warmth
our spirits need to breathe

I feel it turn persistent
your change of tone
like a chill in the air
I'd been trying to ignore
and then I realise you're far away
unreachable
you'll soon sound sad
Cinderella without your prince
somewhere reasoning cannot reach
leaning forlorn on a broomstick
I used to think it was selfishness
your depression
perhaps that gave a kind of comfort to you
because showing I accept it
would make you think I've I given up
and if I don't still try and reason
then am I unreasonable?
I know we'll both feel lonely
I know you know
I love you
I just want you back again

ripples of self doubt
fan out across still waters
contentment is gone

let's waltz across the shadow of old age
peel off his wilted outline
capture it
like wildflowers
pressed into a page

let's tie our freshest blooms into a bunch
stand a vase inside our stooping house
tease the bees
outside the window
with their perfect lunch

let's masquerade as tragic lovers
with one last defiant dance
no one cares
if tears flow
with our faces covered

Aloneness in a fading crowd.
Waves of faces, none that see.
The blurring colours freely bleed;
A wave of choreography.

The fault line in our promises.
What once crackled, became a hum.
Entangled with angelic choirs;
The very tip of our new spectrum.

Always spinning, heading East.
Eternal coals and sourdoughs.
All that nature still abhors;
The vacuous caverns of the soul.

Ever dispersing from the tower.
Spreading further, incoherent.
On our way we greet The Beast;
A promise of eternal peace.

See it
Say it
Sign it
Sing it
Snort it
Short it
Sport it
Spork it
Snork it
Stalk it
Knife it
Fork it
Sort it
Sorted

At night, in the rain,
the wooden wardrobes
crack tight with brittle sounds;
twisting their sympathy,
with the fallen forests. A crowd
of silhouettes waver, as the blind
sharp ****** against the window.
Inching sideways, along the walls,
black shapes, ever watching.
Fear, stretches out,
a downturned hand.

do not whisper in the wind
as your voice will be forgotten

if you see others turn to stone
don't assume you'll share their fears

when you're first alone with love
choose the simplest words to tell them

and the sadness that you carry
shows you're living
shows you're breathing

If you keep spreading butter
On hot toast,
Then at some point,
You can see the butter.
And at some point later,
You can't see the toast.

the living room
the loving room
the shouting, crying, fighting room
the place we hear through the wall
the space we sink in when we fall
the comedy and tragedy
the squished up sofa family
the supine solo majesty
the all fours cursing lost remote
the idle channel flipping without hope
the picture hanging on the wall
the one we never really see at all
the bashful shuffle up before
the first kiss (first of many more)
the room that's mostly just for sitting
the room that's nothing without living

he loaded all the cups
into the dishwasher
very neatly
the right way up
as I opened it
and saw them all filled
with tepid grey water
I knew it would be
difficult to tell him
why it was wrong
without it making him feel
squashed
I would
praise his initiative for wanting to do it and
praise the neatness with which he did it
but still I knew it would sound
chastising
and his desire to please
and be accepted in the world
would shrink a little afterwards
so I tipped the grey tepid water into the sink
and reloaded the dishwasher again
with the cups upside down
he could unload it later
sometimes it's better to think
you're going a little mad
if it means you get to keep
what's good inside
a little longer

Love is a parallel line
Startled by an unexpected kiss
Love is your reflection in reverse
What others see, but you have missed
Love is prejudice sliced and diced
And served up as a humble dish
Love is shyness defeated
Reluctantly tried
Eagerly repeated
Love is a broken pattern
Broken dishes, broken hearts
Love is a crow foot tear
A silence closed off to words
Love is yearning learning growing
Old together forever
Love is submerged
Sunken treasure
Love is the echo
Of emptiness
In us

alone together
inside
side by horizontal side
  meanwhile
  two streets away
  a barking dog
  suddenly looks up
  towards the sky
the whole world
quietens
  around our intimacy

Sifting our old photos
has left me feeling
uneasy - robbed,
perhaps.
Why are these fragile
moments scattered so
carelessly across our
lives? Like a necklace
whose thread has snapped.
Beads rolling,
some slow,
some fast,
until eventually -
all the beads stop.
And in that breathless
pause,
left stood,
******* helplessly,
the neck left bare.

when I was very young
I was always falling in love
   carelessly
  blowing
dandelions
not really knowing
the seeds could
settle and grow
(LATER)
autumn's fiery leaves
watched noble rot
kiss the sweetest wine
as careless fingers intertwined
(MEANWHILE)
a thick dust gathered
beneath my bed
caking boxes
of memories

tell me about love!
the contour of skin
shallow breaths
and midriff curves
rising, falling
pure caressing
backs of fingers
touching games
around the parts
that have no name
but tell me about love!
i wish i could, why
is it here? clasped
behind a naked thigh
a fragrant sweet
a slow unmasking
slightly clammy
hot beneath
the white seams of
a single sheet
but what of love?
we came without promises
connected without lies
held secrets in our arms
and lay there undisguised
there isn't shame
to love and leave
perhaps the rest
is make believe

I never see the stars
  above the city lights
I never hear the planets' roar
  above the hum of engines
I hardly see the seasons change
  beneath the city's shameless grind
the money
  changing hands
the chattering
  passing lips
the crying
  newborn babies
the city's hearses
  silently
driving the old, the young, but the dead -
  to be burned and scattered
I live here with all this savage beauty
  trodden into the streets
  washed out by the rain

I'm sitting on a riverbank
holding the fishing rod
its line resting limply
on the rippled water
no hook, no bait
no float, no weight
I can have no expectations
living beneath a vivid blue sky
boats passing with a glazed stare
the knotty clouds are curious here
circles dance among the reeds
some swirl together all as one
I can have no expectations
when I haven't begun
when I am no one

I can't tell these stories, any more.
Each time I tell, they spill a little,
Now all that's left seems slight
And brittle. And I can't tell these
Stories, any more. If you listen
When the rain falls on the path.
You may hear the sounds of sadness
Or of joy. That's because the raindrops,
Are the scattering of pearls, from an ocean
Far away - too far from land for seagulls
Or for me. Tell me why you want to hear
These stories once again? Do you think
That somehow, things will be the same?
With every word that's ever heard,
There's a wave of tiny atoms. And when
Those atoms shake your ear, they'll leave
You feeling lonely. And that's why I cannot
Tell these stories any more.

the very sound, enough to gauge
beyond the words that spell the rage
softly passing like a stream
or spitting out great lumps of steam
the meaning sometimes lost on me
but not the rising power inside
released at last by ebbing tides

and in this great cacophony
I hear my own strive to be free
from all the ones that share the same
telling details that you might blame
so let us listen to each other
with open minds and gentle hearts
while chasing this elusive art

My waking, sleeping journey,
turns thoughts onto their side.
The falling words of consciousness,
untangling like lies.
I feel a rising otherness.
Misting up;
rolling patterns,
haphazard phases.
Observe too keenly
and they fade.
Watch sideways
and they grow,
into a twisted cadence
of heavy silence.
Ticking over,
before the drive into dreams.

Thirteen doesn't have a door,
not a window, nor a floor,
but inside there's a family,
I hear them braying endlessly.

They snort beneath a broken clock,
it's face gives disapproving looks;
"Why are we so down on our luck.
  What sorcery has run amok?"

Umbrellas open in the hall,
hints about their careless fall.
Upturned horseshoes on the table,
should leave no doubts about this fable.

Overt belief in superstition,
is not a very modern position.
But it's cruel to think that others' ills,
are solely brought upon themselves.

The words trickled over your lips
A petrifying waterfall that sprayed
Phrase with icy shards
The words
I did not hear
Although
I know that malice this unkind
Springs from greater hidden pools
Out subterranean empty halls
That echo slightly with the drops

Resting weary
Post
Posting Christmas cards
Done with
Donning smiles
Resting hesitantly
Not quite believing
There isn’t another pipeline
In the pipe
You
Aren’t
Here
Constant companion
My interface to the worldly
Wakeful wanderers
Nothing seems so easy or
So tragic without your humour
Your thoughts touch me
Because I know they’re travelling this way
Not because I am the TV detector man

Here come the long dark nights.
Absent neighbours' outdoor motion
Sensor light illuminates the same
Wet washing on the sagging line.
Our dog stares up with haunted eyes,
He watches shadows hang beyond
Damp spider webs and chewed-up
Pegs, spat beneath the fallen leaves.
A goods train on the Goblin line,
Feint sparks, will-o'-the-wisp, from
White flashes on the heavy track.
Soon the days of Saints and Souls,
Will sweep the ghouls away again
To covens steeped in wickedness.