I really want to dream tonight,
well dream of you to be precise,
what's good for dreaming?
What lets the sandman in with ease?
lots and lots of lovely cheese!
I gorged on Stilton, Feta, Cheddar and Brie
Wensleydale  topped with Cheshire for my tea,
and i dreamt  that night,
i dreamt of you,
and it was wonderful,
so i repeated, cheese consumption again for days.
I'm that fat now i can't get out of bed
but beds the place you dance every night in my head,
more cheese please!

There are lots of topper things I adore on earth,
like cats, the moon and drunken mirth
or talking, the sea and a well buttered bun,
nights drawing in or long days in the sun.
Another thing I really like is having a shower in the morning,
it’s the perfect antidote to my just awoke yawning,
the aqua blast helps remove the yearning for more bed
the watery goodness bringing vitality to my head,
the soapy woosh invigorates and vamooses my alarm’s mesh,
I exit the bathroom feeling fantastically fresh
and when I’m sat on the bus to work I think “ohh, someone smells splendidly,
oh wait a minute, yeah, it’s me!
Now although I adore gliding into employment with the fragrance of roses
I don’t always heed my cleanliness craving after dozes,
If I’ve had a alcohol drenched Sunday with lots of venturing out
my wanting for a pre work bathe goes up the spout,
sometimes I’ll awake on Monday after a drunken slumber
and feel like I’ve been covered in a ton of lumber,
and think “right it’s either get up now and scrub myself clean
or hit snooze and have another 15”
as even musing on that is making what little energy I have sap
I pull the quilt tighter and take the nap,
the tiny jot of rest doesn’t even touch the side
and before I know I’m at the bus stop awaiting a ride,
I get on and sit down still knackered as hell
and think, “what is that that stale vino smell?
Ohh I bet someone unfortunate was sat here before me,
one of those who has to choose tween getting drunk and having their tea,
someone who everyday has to have more than a few,
then the penny drops, “Jesus Si that odour is coming from you!”
I’m weary, languid, my body is sore,
and because I didn’t shower I’ve got Pound Shop wine coming out of my pores
yeah 4 for tenner cheap plonk is great to toast the end of the paid employment week
but after 24 hours without a cleanse  it pongs pretty bleak,
I’ve got eau de toillete of rotten grape reek.
I hum like I’ve slept in a pre Herculean task Stables Of Aegean that’s been dosed in a dregs of wine pump,
or stench like a on the streets Oliver Twist spliced with a wino Stig Of The Dump.
The bus pulls up to work and before I head in I think I’ll grab something greasy to eat,
ohh, congealed fat mixed with a day on the beers stink, your mates’ nostrils are in for a treat.
I slob to my desk like the unbathed thing I feel
And ponder, “that shower later better be the real deal.”
But, I don’t always rue not having a shower on a Monday because sometimes it means I don’t have the aroma of a stale wine scene,
sometimes uncleansed has me feeling serene!
I remember one unshowered Monday as I’d seen you on the Sunday I smelt of that perfume you always wear,
cos as you’re huggy and tactile it was on my clothes, some of it was even in what was left of my hair,
and as that scent reminded me of you what swirled around me was your awesome breeze,
suffice to say that day of employment passed with ease,
as whenever I got bored of pretending to look at that work thing on Excel
i’d get a hint of your fragrance and my thoughts would propel
with,
your easy wisdom and penchant for a chats
how you like Amaretto and how you love cats,
how you help out animals when they’re feeling brittle
with the tender coo of a Dr Doolittle.
You can take a piece of junk that was discarded at leisure,
decorate it with aplomb and turn it into a treasure,
you’re a burst of energy, a buzzing sprite,
a pleasure to be around, a total delight,
you’re interested in the world, and quantum theory,
talking to you is never dreary,
you bounce around the pub fabulously gassing with the many folk you see,
opening conversations with your splendid key,
**** you seem as popular as me!
Ahh, your joyful demeanour and fantastic soar,
how could anyone fail to hear your wonderful caw;
Emma every time I see you I like you more!
And on those your perfume days when I do get home, hit the shower and feel cleanliness envelop my face
I think, “you know for a ***** day you turned out pretty ace!”!

After a sudden migration
paint thick brushes hid
and pen lids leapt on nibs,
the sodden hydration
dry as dust.

You make me smile,
and the far sun hotter,
add rhythm to my potter.
Your dance in slumber out numbers all other,
my present tense that opens spaces;
I feel the sunshine on my face,
I feel your sunshine on my face.

You halt stooping low,
put the stops on it;
foe by foe,
blow by blow,
diminished,
and
flurry
in finish.
All doubts called out;
you watch them wither
in calm mood
and tense,
speaking softly
to sense,
brightening dull
that forgot the joy
of
projection

Though old

and hands semi broken by time

fingers still cradled cigarettes and wine,

they spoke of you:

caught by age but vibrant enough to do the dance you wanted,

full of life as the shell was cracking,

talking with glorious yapping,

not allowing the beating of the clock to take its toll

with all that sunshine in your soul.



Empty seats emptier without you there,



I love you,



take care.

Never won

the money lottery yet,

not that prone to gamble, flutter or bet,

sans engaged with bingo or slot machines,

uninterested in the coin toss of fifty fifty dreams.

But I should,

cos I'm lucky:

in the trillions, billions and millions of folk in the world

our paths crossed

and made my life journey better;

I cherish every letter

of your name:

so glad you're here,

so glad you came.

Its hard to deny the thought
you won't always be here,
because you won't.
One day I'll post if people want to mark your passing
they should get to a place
where your gone leaves that dreaded space.
But not right now:
now we can laugh
and you can hold my hand with love
as I'm getting off the bus,
we can argue about the merits of giving titbits
to that little tabby ****.
We can arrange to meet for dinner
in a greasy spoon
and after our fill of calories part with the words "I'll see you soon."
We can chat about football and how City win supreme,
you can peck my head
about if I'm keeping my flat clean.
Of all this I want more
but for the now
I'll be glad
that when people ask what I did last night
I'll reply that I went for drinks with my Mum and Dad.

Aww tum, it's Autumn;
stomach seizures during
season friezes;
and a leaf pleases
and seizes.

I'm a schizophrenic hypocrite,
thankfully not in a medical way
I don't have to pop pills everyday
to keep an essence of danger under control
and to stop my head doing backward flips and forward rolls
to curtail bad thoughts and contain OCD
wake up and think "what's happening to me?"
but sometimes i'm full of mazy bomb blasts
and crazy contrasts…
Now I love animals and their brilliant ways
they brighten the world and add happy to my days,
I could be walking to work in that new spring sun
and spy a cat on a wall and think “ohh, how fun”,
I’ll bound over with a skip and say “hey you, how’s it going,
although it’s bright today your purr has really got things glowing!”
Or in a Saturday beer garden when I’m kicking back with relax
a dog strolls in his owner and my attention is instantly rapt,
I’ll exclaim “ohh, is your pooch friendly, please may I give him a pet?”
If the guy answers in the affirmative I’ll proclaim “hey big doggy I’m so glad we’ve met,
you’re a lovely doggy aren’t you, look at your slobbering face
and the way you wag your tail I think it’s pretty ace!”.
Or I may be having a saunter round the park taking in some stupendous views
and see a stretch of water and decide to have a peruse,
as I get closer I think “oh I can’t believe my luck
look at that raft of lots of lovely ducks!”.
So I nip to the shop round the corner and buy a loaf of bread
and think “ohh you top paddling guys you’re gonna get real fed!”!
So I chuck plentiful crumbs in the water making sure they all get their fill
of some luscious Warburtons down their chomping bill.
I do love other creatures though not just the ones who go meow, woof and quack,
even the tiny ones who fur and feathers they lack;
I could watch a ladybird for ten minutes and be allured by it’s spots
and then be wary around those minuscule red mites that look like little dots,
ensuring that I always check before I sit on a summer wall
so my plonking down doesn’t squash them all.
Or if I’m walking home down a dark passage way on a rainy night
i’ll get my phone out and use it’s shiny light
to see if there are any snails that have come out from under a bush
so I can daintily skip around them and avoid that awful shell crush.
As for spiders and moths in the house I never **** them I always put them out
And then do a Usain Bolt stance in the living room with a “I love you insects” pout.
However one Thursday when I was off work on a day in lieu
and thought “ahh I’ll venture out as the sky is blue,
I can have a wander with some music and then go see Mum and Dad
but before I do all that there is a shower to be had.”
I stroll into the bathroom anticipating a lovely clean
but am greeted by a sight that is less than serene,
walking on the ceramics are about 14 microscopic flies,
I had to squint to view them, they were almost invisible to the naked eye.
I mused “hmm, how am I gonna solve this they are too flimsy to catch and put outside,
and what receptacle could I place them in to take on freedom’s ride?”
As I’m deciding what to do I see more of them coming out of a hole in the tile
and I say “look guys me you’re beginning to rile”,
then I glance some Dettol wipes lying next to my tooth brush
and in a instance obliterate the flies with a sweeping rush,
I chuck the death tissue in the bin and feel a swell of guilt,
“I thought of more understanding stuff I was surely built,
I got rid of them without compunction because they were disrupting my aqua blast
I hope this killing streak doesn’t last.”
Post shower I’m feeling better and believe my murderous bent has gone away far
pop my ear phones in, crank up the volume and saunter round to see Ma and Pa,
but it won’t just be Mum and Dad I’ll be pleased to see when my feet land on their welcome mat,
it will also be lovely Poppet the cat!
I like Poppet loads, she’s my whiskered friend
all my love to her I always send,
her wild meowing tones are one of my favourite sounds
it’s awesomely brill to have her around,
sometimes when I’m drunk her name slips off my tongue,
that’s how I know we defiantly belong,
I can be gleefully inebriated at a festival
and I’ll just say “Poppet!” and feel more happy full,
Pops Popsicle Poppet, I adore your tabby chest,
ahh Poppet, you’re simply the best!
I get to my parent’s house, call her and she comes running with that bounding feline whizz,
and I exclaim with joy, “ahh, there she is!”,
I give her lots of petting and start to feel all catty rich
but then I notice she seems to have a itch,
I say to my Mum, “is Poppet okay, she looks like she’s having too much of a scratch?”
she replies,  “yeah but I think she has fleas that are more than beginning to hatch”,
she continues, “I’ve got some flea treatment though so those little vamps we can quickly dismiss”,
I reply, “nar, it’s okay Mum, I’ll handle this.”
I say to the fleas, “come here guys” and take them and Poppet to one side,
and remark “look today I’ve already committed insecticide
and I really don’t want to do it again but you’re putting Poppet the cat in duress
and she seems distracted rather than purring in my soft strokey caress,
and I don’t want to deliver a ****** bomb of flea killing pollution,
it’s much better to find an amicable solution,
so if you could just jump off her now and end your inhibiting lease
I promise I won’t hover you up I’ll just let you go in peace.”
I give them a few minutes to mull it over but then see Poppet frantically biting her thigh,
“now that is ****** it, no more Mr Nice Guy!
right you little Dracula *****, you’re about to find out what really *****,
it’s being on the receiving end of my “you’re perturbing Poppet” wrath,
you’re about to take a real long Frontline bath!”
Without remorse I dowse them up and that is that,
“bye bye you tiny ******* Vlad The Impaler *****!”  
See I love all the animals, I really have to say,
just don’t cross me on a Thursday,
oh, and I eat meat way more than a bit,
i’m a schizophrenic hypocrite.

Describing clocked,
noticed
or
not,
held in seconds
forgot.
Memory unplanned,
shuffling in minuet
minutes made of you.

My mind; as fast as the track on Brands Hatch,
on Tinder you get a fast match,
but spoil it with sick head quick **** pics,
you *****, you're patriarchy rich.

Some make a rigid Valentine decision,
and decide to treat the day with derision,
they say "it's manufactured and just a unit shifter
containing with anchors, no lift her."
Moaning "it's nothing, a card from the shop,
you're doing the curtailed capitalism hop,
you balcony scene flop."
Well, well done you feel more confident in your expression,
and not have to validate your impression
as it's taken as it is,
nice, that must be bliss,
but what is wrong with a day that says this...
a knowing I want you with a hall mark,
the look of arrive in my ball park,
a box of coca to give you a clue
that I really do, I really do love you,
flowers abundant to tell you how great
you make wow myself and anxiety alleviate,
maybe a reason to go for a meal and chat to the hilt
about how we are fantastically built;
any day that acknowledges this theme
is serenely seamed,
and,
not stupid;
high five to cupid!

Just when it seemed like you were done
lost to the turn
you appear
with the most full of ends,
not frail or wanting,
strong as you ever were
at your height;
the most bright
of goodbyes.

Every time
you're a Valhalla,
or some other land,
the most rushing meld of pallor
in our heldest hands.
You're a pinnacle of journey,
a warm and safe abode,
in the burden of the box
you're the lightest carried load;
my shoulder no corrodes.
You're the best seat at the banquet,
you're the high in every view,
you're the finery in gliding,
you're the wing of every flew.

There is a lineage that flows
down the years,
when on the street you wish new people "all the best" cheers,
it happened before,
and will do again,
whether your steps are faint
or three score and ten.

It's a hum of the ancient,
a dropping of time,
an impromtu greeting
is totally fine;

the hold of wonder,
a hug from a space,

just for a moment

all

in one place.

I wish i was the compass you never used at school,
Or the land inside your head you never tried to rule.
I wish i was the alarm clock you always put on snooze,
Or the pillowcase you drool on, when you've had too much *****.
I wish i was that video, the one you watched until it broke,
Or the grub you gorge on when you've just had a smoke.
I wish i was the money you found when out of food,
Or your translator when your words are sadly misconstrued.
I wish I was the carpet when you are scrubbing out the stains,
Or your dreams of solitude in chirping country lanes.
I wish I was the bugle for when you play the horn,
Or the nurse that shouted push, when you were being born.
I wish I was the marker pen when you’ve run out of chalk,
Or the words you use when you decide to talk.
I wish I was the keyboard when you press down too hard,
Or the place you go to after you’ve been bared.
I wish I was the stones you wear around your neck,
Or the jagged rocks which upon, your ship you wreak.
I wish I was the water that is filling up your lungs,
Or the ladder that you find when you’ve run out of rungs,
I wish I was the horizon as your walking to the hill,
Or your softest blanket and your greatest thrill.
I’m wishing all was well,
with us.

When you slightly explode
a sky still
still
fills with fireworks.
Just a dab of your fantastic
&
lights are lit
everywhere;
tiny steps of wonder,
illuminating.

The field just behind our house looks glorious,

do I think that due to beautiful sunset aesthetic or as it leads to the home of us?

I'm not sure but on the twilight of today
I have it made either way.

As long as he was
encased in cold,
getting shorter all the time.
But,
in spite of the horribly havocking eyes of study
he grows
and burrows;
the best worm in the universe.

It's all the same but different,
wise guys still get hints,
Polos are still mints,
sand castles still do best on the beach,
James still has the largest peach,
supercallifrilous
will still be expealidousis,
they'll still be osmosis,
my fake sibling will still be my faux sis.
They'll be dawn still & moonlight thrill
& silly cats on window sill, still, still.
They'll be puns on the hill & run of the mill,
they'll be hibernation curl to blossoming trill, chances missed & days to rue
& summer nights with joyful coo,
but still's not the same
without you.
Because there is one less friend of cats & dogs,
this little world has one less cog.

You,
the platform of merriment
moulded to the moment;
always the best seat in the house

If not for
you
letters lessen tween
Mum and me.
No "just give her a bit of milk Simon"
occupying a space or
"she's in now, she's safe, she's by the fire place".
"No, don't give a cat bread"
unsaid.
Unsaid.
Thankfully we've feline fine
with purry lingo bopping;
I love you
and
love the sight
of engendered convergence
by tabby dynamite.

People say to me

"you're always happy you, you always have a smile""

And they're right, right now in this moment I do smile,

because in this time of a little while

all is content,

and Heaven sent:

my Hazel shines wonderfully, with all the bright in her heart,
Amber never stops scampering her dreamself from the morning's start,

my Mum and Dad look healthy, going away seems far from their door,
and angry Poppet wags her tail
but then gives me that cat face i adore.

My many amazing friends are astounding, I love them as much as an eye wants to see,
and I blush with the bloom of joy when they want to hang around with me.

So when people say

"you're always happy you, you always have a smile""

I think,

well course I am,

this beautiful life is running wild.

In our held hands
the hot sun
and wet rain
the same;
not noticed the bloom
in another happening
of now.

Saw you returning again from your broken home,
would you ever fix those spoken tomes
you try to say in a troubled tongue?
you turned on something
that was off long.

They criticize
and don’t canonize,
bless you.
we always want you out,
always want you over
the raggedy gambler
With the four leaf clover.

Watched cruelly from the bar
you keep alive,
tracing slip ups


They criticize
They criticize
and don’t canonize,
bless you.
we always want you out,
always want you over
the raggedy gambler
With the four leaf clover.

Your open arms
You’re open hearted
Look what you started

The end of the start of something
erupts,
off the cuff;
no whims,
just ordered fall,
to the floor.

3 year old girl attempting peekabo

Me - Ahh, that's good going! What I always do with peekaboo is do it round a door!

Goes behind door & does peekaboo

3 Year Old Girl - *laughs

Me - Ha ha! I always do peekaboo like this with My Cat, she loves it, she always says "meow" when I do it!

My Cat.

I love how our proprietorial just rolls off my tongue,
it makes me know
that we belong.

As leaves fall more
in
the wind
and
no longer watered
hanging baskets
become
leftover
summer caskets
you're still here:

you, with your never-ending arc of abundance;

making every season,

making every year.

You are migrating too slowly,
to leave,
with leaves.
Wings beat to come back
and look back,
if luck's back.
This autumn;
falls done.

Thanks for the amazing interlude,
it was beautiful to see
and talk to you.

You do look a little bit older
than you used to

these days;

your youthful visage
a tad thumbed by turning many page:

but despite the so called age process
you still simply merry everything with the fantastic of elan:
oh what a guy,
oh, what a man!

You're as bright
as a big
beautiful wall,
not solid
at all;
an enchanted vast
master class
that marks a phase
of amaze;
a light pass win
at begin.

After three thousand brilliant minutes
we part,
but,
no sorrow when we do,
those minutes were with you.

Sans communique
thrown asunder,
for ages now you've enabled wonder;
I'll miss you sat in my hand easily lit,
my starry ace,
my ace conduit.

The blood had fell
for many a year,
the bodies never ceased to drop,
and every person shed a tear.

In the awful years of The Great War.

Bob joined up in January 1918
as he had turned the age he had to go,
him and his friends went to enlist
as English pavements filled with snow.

In the awful years of The Great War.

Fred was from a near-by town,
went down to enroll with fear in his tum,
he didn't really want to sign up,
as he'd miss his Cat, his Dad, his Mum.

In the awful years of The Great War.

Fred and Bob had a torrid time
in that drowning stinking mud,
and met when they were deployed together
after The Battle Of Belleau Wood.

In the awful years of The Great War.

They clapped eyes on each other in a trench
and their hearts simultaneously began to flutter,
wonder stirred in their souls,
words of love they wished to utter.

In the awful years of The Great War.

They were both drenched in horror,
shrouded in a bombed out trance,
but began to feel some ease
with every stolen glance.

In the awful years of The Great War.

They talked in down hours,
how they'd eventually leave Hell, sit hand in hand, try to forget what they had seen,
full of peace and calm,
in a field of summer green.

In the awful years of The Great War.

When no-one else was looking
they'd try and dull the machine gun hiss
and find a tiny space
for a fleeting enamoured kiss.

In the awful years of The Great War.

Inevitably they got *****,
talked about what fleshy designs they could be,
Bob said, "I'm up for owt!"
Fred replies, "oh, perhaps you could *** on me!"

In the awful years of The Great War.

Bob chucked, "ha ha, I'm up for that,
anything to please you that is in my power!'
Fred responded, "great my love,
I'll look forward to a *******!"

In the awful years of The Great War.

Fred and Bob continued their covert romance
and anticipated the day when Fred would get a jet of Bob's yellow
but then one became their leader
was the most terrible fellow.

In the awful years of The Great War.

He waltzed in and stated with arrogance,

'I'm now in charge of you, you ghastly bunch of ****!"
He was the most frightful man:
Major Barthomley Pitt.

In the awful years of The Great War.

Despite never seeing combat
Pitt did pontificate, "deserters he would shoot,
cowards would go up against the wall
and the scared get the gun boot."

In the awful years of The Great War.

But what Pitt hated most
was "men who go up other mens' rears,
I ******* hate those sodomites,
I ******* hate those queers!"

In the awful years of The Great War.

Pitt continued that he'd "rooted out sin
whether it be meek or mild
and I have filled with bullets
those who enjoy copulation like Oscar Wilde!"

In the awful years of The Great War.

In the middle of this diatribe a shell exploded,
the debris torn into Bob's arm,
and a mustard gas cloud appeared
before anyone could raise the alarm.

In the awful years of The Great War.

Fred had got a lung full,
Pitt cowering started to look for his own cover,
but both Bob with only one upper limb working started to think about his lover.

In the awful years of The Great War.

Bob ****** on a hanky as he knew ammonia
could relieve the toxic gas and stop a man from being dead,
and in a desperate lunge in the front of Pitt
placed the sodden rag on the face of Fred.

In the awful years of The Great War.

Just a minute ago Pitt was shouting,
off on one of his vile anti ****** rants
but just 60 seconds later a puff was giving another puff in front of him
a pair of hard ons in their pants.

In the awful years of The Great War.

Bob and Fred were rushed to field hospital
and of that abomination of war did get away,
and were both still bedridden
when on the 11/11/11 was declared Armistice Day.

No more awful years of The Great War.

After it had ended Bob and Fred moved to  separate houses in a village,
Bob's inheritance made this dream,
and they would go deep in the woods
and be their serene supreme

No more awful years of The Great War.

They would laugh about how they had made it,
their glee made the sun more brightly beam,
on this peaceful blue calming day
Bob and Fred found their field of green.

A happily ever after The Great War.

Mime a fake lyric true;
i'm a relic without you.

You make my tummy smile,
like cats do,
I see for miles, you’re a good map too ;
siege my horizon,
shifting the blue.

It's delightful!

You're as delightful as Christmas snow
and when I realise I haven't turned my MP3 player up as loud as it can go.
You're as special as laughs with friends
and those books with happy ends.
You're on par with brilliant beaches
and as wanted as succulent peaches,
I love your reaches
to me.
You're as fantastic as a rubber ring to a sinker
and as Friday wine to a weekend binge drinker.
As great as the on time train when i'm running late
and as ace as a welcoming gate.
You're as fine as a clean bill of health,
there's lots of WOW in your wonderful self.

You smiled, and the whole world shone with you.

Delicate as a tadpole searching for hope in a raging sea,

precious the fledgling who scrambled to the top of the tree,

special the speck that thunders through time with right now brief,

important as the greening for the saddest lonely leaf:

an emerging butterfly

casting wing by a motorway,

you're amazing as the love that makes this day today.

I imagine well
in multiverse tribes you'd be,
always existing
next to next
with others
in the easy shine you give;
all your moments gilding a live.

Thankfully there are many days of the year I adore
that are gilded with flight and resplendent with soar,
even in the midst of supposed bleak mid winter frown
they’ll be a jive and a boogie at a dance in Town,
where it’s far from chilly in a huggy warming soothe
and all is fine in a January’s groove.
Any day in March could prove to be ace
with the appear of a friendly face,
as then chatting swirls with balletic gymnastic,
our rhetoric full of the pirouette of fantastic,
what was just another night of the 365
becomes made with the joy of being alive.
Spring usually blossoms with a sure run,
the unfurl of gentle, the know of hotter sun,
blooming naturally with the grace of the trequartista,
as well as the long weekend off for Easter.
Every morning gets brighter just a smidgen,
summer’s encroach feels fab to be lived in,
under verdant leaves clarities’s clear
and then tent is out because festival’s here;
“Hi my name’s Simon, what’s your name, how’s it going?”,
as music plays and vino is flowing,
“what you like Buffy too?  Ahh man it’s so great,
“yeah man it’s all about love and never leaving life too late!”.
And yeah when I get back I might be a comedown mess
but I love you festivals nevertheless!
Then September’s coming soon,
for fallen leaves the ground makes room,
what once was glistering in the green of the hour
curls to the gone of fading flower,
that’s okay though as that’s just the way it goes,
everything is transient, even great loves will someday part,
it all has an end, that amazing start,
it’s the bit in the middle that makes it serene,
the make of the moment believably supreme,
plus round the corner it’s Halloween;
where ghoulish attire can get “ohh, good call!” and a laugh
with a 31st deviation from the usual dress path.
Then in a few days booming lurks
in the here then disappear of fireworks,
as well, in November, there are frolics with friends
and those fireworks are yet to end.
Now as you can see all those other days of the year I marvel at their behest
but, if I had to say, I love you the best;
I start putting décor up in anticipation of your arrival
I feel festive butterflies begin to rise and spiral,
I get out the banners when I know you’re coming soon,
I throw tinsel all around my room,
as I want you to know that when you get here
my heart is full of splendid cheer,
you always make me smile with consummate ease
as welcome as July’s warming breeze;
as soon as my eyes open on your morning
I feel the effulgent skip of the dawning,
I rise to greet you with wide open arms,
“yeah, you got me, I fell for your charms!”,
every second with you is full of wondrous thrill,
you are top, you’re easily brill,
your magic tactility, the sing in your touch,
aww, I love you so much.
So yeah all the other days I don’t love you any less,
just you Christmas Day, you’re simply the best!

Fortunate fireworks
sing when i'm near you,
such a bang in the sky.

Your walk of safety
saves me.
Stopping things that
could grow
awfully,
near you,
i'm in awe fully.

Die a perfect death,
imprint be erased
and dust disappear,
ceasing to exist,
never missed.
No weeds to remember
a blossoming splendor,
light, unsung.
Do not die a perfect death.

Close to smattering
without wrong;
cease hurry,
and gallop.

It turns
and you turn,
away for a while,
as if you never were,
but
no swansong
heard.
Goodbye
is lost
in smiling strength;
no mourning warn
in morning warm.

Once water ran with life,
reflecting light,
until the sun shy.
Oceans teemed
with dreams
and landed
on a verdant shore,
sure of love.
Now arid ground
covered in contours
carved by racing streams
stares at starless skies,
awaiting rain from empty eyes.

I'm glad when humans were new they walked about
and didn't just sit and stew in their own juices,
they got up and toured the hue of places,
and saw unfamiliar faces;
"Hi, how are you, are you a person too?  Fancy setting up camp?  If you need a light I've got a lamp!"
So cities emerged and created verges
and separate surges,
blossoming splurges,
in concrete or tent,
which is great.
The only thing is that means our location
can kinda pre ordain our destination,
as in I can't say...
"I'm going now Mum, just having a walk to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon."
Or
"Cheers my friend for the afternoon talk, i'm now going to stroll to the sunset in New York."
If we are not there we need plans to get there,
bus, then a train, then, maybe, a plane.
Our want can't just be unravelled,
if it's distant we need to travel.
As much as I want to say, "hey Lou, what you doing today?
Feel like a dally in the park with thundering larks and then when the light goes dark come to my room and create our own spark?" i'm restricted, constricted by distance, our distant dance.
But
distance is not just measured in geographical far,
not every journey requires a car,
sweet synchronicity ignores miles and yawning gaps,
especially when there's high fiving in our synapse;
ahh, to spend Sunday drifting in and out of naps,
without eyes on the time,
intertwined in the sunshine.
Yeah, distant may seem a trial
but galaxy hopping is nothing
if it's really worth the while.