cutting,
bleeding the lead
into showers,
and explosive marks.
the power house rears its head again,
pouring images down
like rain.

when she heard that i had been drilling fitfully,
she asked why but i could not explain really. so
i added the stop.

it seems that some like sticks, while others do
not.

there are a few of us, one of us is      leaving.

much of the time is spent with this or other things which pass the day nicely. linen  hangs  heavy, needles preserved. small holes ready.

it don’t work if not connected, if not tuned in, you would think the experts would know that.  we need to signal to another.

think i may like to travel to small places,
old and full of history. deep aged fabrics
stained with the words of time. to touch

light is wonderful
lifts the brain and limbs
beyond

sparkles rain the morning
once again we have the repetition

walk the rooms in horror,
see genius in corners,
there.

realise that he may cry
all the tears of life.

sometimes takes a thing of note to come dancing
yet yesterday there was none of that though highly praised for labelling