A sea of unspoilt snow
I blazed a trail alone
So long
But this night in the bitter cold
The silence of a fresh fallen snow
I glanced behind
And saw to trails instead of one
We walked and ran and grew weary
Together
And together we blazed a trail for home

K.
You are my love. My sin, my soul. The only light of my life. Fire of my *****. Source of happiness, laughter, cries, tears, and oddity. You are that bad, believe me, but never better than you are now. Your name will forever be on the tip of my tongue. But sadly I could never utter it properly. Because probably I would feel shy. I would perhaps feel ashamed, if I dared to do so, or if I accidentally happened to say it out loud. I have never confessed this to anyone else. But I need you. I know it inside and out. I crave for you so much. So much indeed. And I know that deep inside, you need me too, although you are simply too proud to admit it. To you my laughter will always remain a ring of annoyance. It will never be enough. You will always long for more - from her. I will never be enough, because I will never grow up. I will never be an adult. And she is grown up. She is more of an adult than me. She is indeed an angel to your eyes. Her steadiness startles you; and delights your senses. You thoroughly enjoy it when it is so. She is but an image of perfection; her sound of laughter is of tranquility and calmness; she is indeed a pious image, a resemblance of faultlessness. Something that I could never truly achieve. Terrific but true - she is, I mean. Not I am. I will always be a kid. Sad but true. I will always be me. I will always be your outspoken, attentive young tutee to you. No more than that. I will always stay just the way I am. I will never acquire my womanhood, nor that am I inclined to, in your eyes. I will always be a girl. A student. Or whatever it is without surely any womanly attribute. I don't deserve to break my singleness. I can never cure it. To you I will always be myself; with all the misfortune and inability to be a true woman. But I understand that I will never be a woman; I don't deserve to be a woman in your heart. I will never be blessed with such courage, as I am not worthy of that. I am not allowed to enter your realm; a whole lot that is entirely different from mine. I have always been fated to be alone, and will always be left behind, even when you are ten or eleven years older than now. I will always be twenty-three. I can't age, strangely, despite my being a human. I am stagnant and odious, I am static and immovable. I am but a symbol of a fruitless tree to you; who dreams and hopes too high without having the ability to attain its true realisation. K, I am full of flaws, I smell of defects. I am adorned with fateful imperfection. And she has none of this. She is unimaginably perfect; she is all lovely and her beauty invincible. I can never be like her. Never indeed. But I am willing to change; if that is what you desire. I'll let you think that I'm obsessed with you. I will just smirk at your silliness. Over and over again. Hmm. Sounds like you've got no other option. Sounds like you are an idiot trying to comprehend my meaningless words too seriously. But I am just what I am. These are just my thoughts. Let me be obsessed with my thoughts of you. Let me make you appear in my dreams throughout the night. Day and night. All the time. Dreams that are unwanted but inevitable. As long as I breathe; as long as I could still trod the earth, let me think and dream of you that way. Stupid thoughts of obscure infatuation, I know. Guilty pleasure. The killing of my independence, my fragility, and uselessness, yet altogether the expression of my deepest feelings that I have often tried to bury in my chest, a thousand times.

Like I said, I'm willing to change; for you. If that is what you need; your utmost desire to be fulfilled. It is as simple as that; because what pleases your senses delights me, and therefore what delights me is what pleases your senses. I indulge myself only in my everyday thoughts of you, where I could jolly embrace and trace your epic proportions in my arms. I want to touch you, to cherish you fully. I want to be inside of you, just like you're already inside of me. I want to see you by my side, breathe in your air and feel your steady but unrelenting heartbeat in your *****. Your manly *****. The one I have always yearned for. I want to feel your skin against mine. I want you wholly. I want you so greedily. I want you so selfishly. I want you to be just mine. Just mine. I don't want you to fall into anyone else, because I perfectly know they are unworthy of that. Of you. One that should be my sole treasure. My precious treasure. Only mine. Because you are everything. You are the exact embodiment of who I am. You are the gold to my silver. You are the silver to my bronze. You make all of them complete; you rid them of their mutual envy. Just like you do to my soul. You repaint my soul, you release it from its gruesome weariness. You make me feel complete, unspoilt, and undivided. You make me feel as a whole. Unperturbed and unabashed by the torment of love. You purify and keep me warm and secure. You are the one I was predestined to love. The one for whom my love was created. The one I was fated to be born for. The one my very soul was meant to be with. The one that I should cling to, and should clutch tight as mine, forever.

K, you are the only love of my life. I will always want you, although this very simple need might sound absurd to you, and on its own way even seem to be impossible. You are the answer to my prayer, from up above, and since I was but a young, sinless infant in my mother's arms. In you only do I lose my presence, my heart, senses, and the whole streams of my decent consciousness. I long for you, and even in the midst of all anger, hatred, and the world's greatest disdain, I will but always long for you. I miss you, K. You are the only source of light to my heart. My darkened heart. My terrified soul. My raging despair. And unfortunately you seem to be the only one who could heal it.

I sit here on this lonely windswept ridge
Overlooking a wild place
Of peathag and bog and wild heather
Of outcrops of gritstone rock
Standing like rotting teeth
In ravished gums
Bleak and dreary in the rain
But still a place to be loved
Hardy sheep graze the barren slopes
Watched over by equal hardy men and dogs
Out in all weathers
I'm lucky
Because I know the tracks and trails
Crossing this wild land
I know the streams of fresh water
And the sanctuary for my nights rest
In my small lightweight tent
This is wild Yorkshire
As yet an unspoilt place

Man is  born unto the  rainbow of opportunity.
The dazzling palate before him as he draws his  first infant breath.
Perfect and untainted, this tiny being as he  enters this vast world.
His only purpose being his very existence.
The sheer wonder of this colourful land in which he finds himself.
A world of moments, of sounds.
Of touch and scents.
Of visual exploration through those eyes that have yet seen no horror.
Skin that has yet to feel physical pain.
Soft and unspoilt as he nurses close to his mother.
Skin not yet a fortress behind which he will hide many ills.
A skin that will learn to shrivel in shame.
Harden in the face of fear, like armour.
And wilt  in the absence of love.
Bloom  turning from rosy red to sepia.
For though man is born unto the rainbow.
The horror of humanity is diligent on his heel.
It’s hulking cape of  blackness, angst and despair.
As man destroys all he has been given in nature.
Turning his hand then against his fellow species.
Born into a roiling sea of corruption, control  and greed.
Where the myriad of healing greens,
Of mysterious purples and creative oranges,  lost forever.
Their brilliance fading like an aged tapestry in sunlight.
Turning to browns and greys.
Leaching their beauty through a lifetime.
Until there becomes only  blackness.
Until his is the dark heart of despair.
Bleached and brittle like driftwood on a desolate beach.
Washed up and empty.
The human condition and its agonies too much to bear.

Looking out of the window;
a ribbon of duck-egg-blue sky,
fringed by the sun's late light,
is sandwiched by grey cumulus.

It frames Sycamore tree tops,
red tiled pyramids with their expectant aerials
pointing West, littering clean lines.

It is a mute view;
serried bins wait for the mornings collection,
cars sit dumb, curbed,
their daily commute completed.

Two starlings flit, silent,
and in the far distance a high contrail is picked out
in gold as a thread in blue silk.

For five years this view remains changeably the same;
unspoilt by the entropy of new perspectives.
This is the summer of un-broadcast malcontents,
pacified in Brazilian spectacle. Days simmer here and there.

Soap operas filter through,
made to massage the message
of consume and discard, of holidays and pistons.

And in the mornings, that never come,
we abandon the cars that cannot diverge
from work-honed routes,
taking to the air from Sycamores as Starlings.

June 2014

I write as I’m told,
Of the sights that unfold,
Of torture and torment and bliss.

I write for I can,
With the spirits at hand,
Filling in parts that I miss.

For the laughter and cries,
I lend you my eyes,
To see what it’s like to be me.

Close your mind,
Clear your heart,
From this world break apart,
Eventually you’ll start to see.

Hear the line in your head,
As if it’s just been said,
Write it down as another unfolds,
For it comes as a voice,
Unspoilt by choice,
Though supreme by the questions it holds.

Conifer-covered hillside
in the hinterlands
of this sleepy town
on a warm day
in this mid-June

The unspoilt soil
neither grieves
nor revels
and there's no revelation in that-
just what you see.

It's just what you see.

The quivering quakeys
can't hack it even when they cackle-
an attempt to unravel the shackles of
their incomplete alchemy-
cause it's never enough

one laugh is never enough.

The high's always flanked
by a sunrise so rank
as to wrinkle the brows
of the loudest and proudest-
the laughers and criers, or livers and die-rs

Just give me the bliss of the birds
and a big lidless urn to retire my fire
when the work week expires
when I finally can see even truth holds some lies
and when the sun sets too low to appraise the horizon,
I'll fly.

I'll just fly.

Fields of green is surely a lovely scene
unspoilt of man's vision!
Which seems build on everything
plus adding pollution!
In between swaying trees plastic bags
lot's of cans and rotting rags!

Any idyllic view fly tipping is common
saving money the priority!
With a touch of pylons and mobile masts
and those wind turbines to.
Land spattered with concrete and steel
in despair helpless you kneel!

Completely drained at what's being done
over two centuries plundered.
That's detrimental to earth's natural order
continuing to **** the resources!
Certainly will take it's toll on civilisation
like the Mayans obliteration!

Has this happened before and now replaying?

The Foureyed Poet.

Bring me the men, said Bettina,
bring me the men of passion,
bring those of high class, those
whose purses are overflowing,

those whose mothers spoilt
them rotten. Send me the men
of lower classes, bring me those
whose voices scratch the ears

of the well bred, send me their
hearts in jars, carry to me their
coins gripped in hands. I am a
lover of men, I soak them into

my being, I smell them in my
dreams, their hands are my soft
saviours, their tongues are my
snakes of satisfaction. Let loose

the sons of shallow mothers,
unloosen the tame of heart and
loose of tongue, let me embrace
their bodies, hold their penises

with tenderness, kiss their lips
like one possessed. Men are the
bane of all women, said my mother,
her eyes were undone by my father’s

ways, his heart was of ice and his
body of iron, he cursed me with
his dying breath, his torments I
boxed away with the dried up

flowers and cast off underwear,
he dwells where the heartless
reside, **** his soul and hide
and eyes. Bring me men of a gentle

disposition, those whose skins
are yellow, whose hearts are soft,
who shudder at the thought of a
good ****. I am the daughter of

pleasure, a niece of hot sexuality,
a sister of the free and untainted,
unspoilt by the ways of the ones
in charge. I see men in my nightly

bed, in between the sheets of plenty,
on the mattress of my desires; they
are the lamps that burn my pleasures,
my lovers, my treasures. Bring me

the men of the cloth, the God lovers,
the ones waiting for the last salvation,
let them loosen themselves on my
desirable flesh, bury their holy noses

between my plumpish ****, their tongues
upon my skin, their souls free of the
maybe promises. I am the granddaughter
of Venus, the lover of men and life,

the keeper of the long ago wishes,
I am the one they think of on their
bended knees, the one they lift to
their heaven in their daily prayers,

the fulfiller of their deep down desires.
Bring me my comforts and my gentle
end, my last good kiss, my final ****;
bring me the echo of them crying or

loudly laughing, the last farewell,
the good time lady, the last bad belle.

I wanna say ghost crumple but fear the retribution for assuming something other than

something I vaguely remember no that's a downright lie as flagrant as a flag flapping

in defiance I remember so well as if branded by that moment scalded by my focus

your post-****** scent and that smile in both your eyes and your own cascading

laughter the honest laugh done in private when truly experiencing wonder and the

baby smell in the crater where your neck joins your skull to that body your body

young and heavenly unspoilt like a river's passion cresting itself and returning to

your carefully manicured shores I wanna say paper cut but anticipate the ache the

burn that will cause me my body my brain my heart we called it spleen in previous

times something other in the future no doubt in my mind my heart my body the echo

of recollection of a different color and a different flavor than the original worn into

something other by the abrasions of both time and nostalgia a different shape all

together taken by this memory but its intensity a twin identical and more perfect in

reflection of your reflection in a sunlit moment the denim blue of curtains unable to

contain the refraction sliced delicate by the broad leaves and your bare skin still

glowing from a washing and a shaving and you are lost in your own reflection

humming songs and curling your hair bleached shocking white with blonde intention

natural roots so Nancy Spungen but more or less that much more careless and

ruthless a thing you were in that moment only I couldn't and didn't know it I wanna

say please just leave it, but I daren't and I shouldn't and at the time I couldn't couldn't

bear to think it but really just like cancer I just knew it and I didn't and you didn't and

we stood there and I wanna say we let it but we didn't and it happened and now it's

just reflection recollection and despair

Trolls are
Faceless behind a screen
Preaching words of places they've never been
And feeding the flame to those who wish to perish,
"Just get another one" to those who had a recent miscarriage
It's all rather barbaric.
To have a tongue of barbed wires
With poison filled salivas
It's all very toxic.

Trolls have destroyed lives
behind words of a keyboard
Each keystroke a string of disasters
Each sentence a blood spilt on unspoilt grounds
And when death occurs they are no where to be found.

Trolls are underground gremlins
Who believe that building a bridge out of the corpses they make
is the only way they will ride to heaven.

Judge not lest ye be judged
But I believe the contrary,
I have not known your pain
I have not known what you suffer
But I will not wait for the words to buffer
For the videos to buffer
Just to hear and read your words
About how I don't belong on this world.

Build your bridges of corpses
Ride your keyboard horses
You won't be able to destroy
What has already been destroyed.

I don’t know about those pastoral scenes
Those bucolic and primordial endless greens
Unspoilt trees and murmuring streams
I know the concrete and the pavement
Uneven cobblestones with cracks in them
With dandelions growing through
Only sometimes

I love the later more
I’m in love with the concrete behemoths
The back alleys of life
The gnarled bouncers (unreciprocally)
The curious glimpses at weathered flyers on the floor
I love the sterile street lights and the worn faces ILLUMINATED by them
The ushers and hustlers and cautious taxis
The drunk geniuses
The night-swimmers
The nudists
The opinionated
Etc

Yet life whittles down these loves for that of the
Calculable
The
Regimented
And
Controllable
Etc