The mangy lab
and the golden retriever
sat waiting
as if asking – which would I choose?
Which was no choice at all.

Both belong to me
and both would follow me
at heel.
One to dog my steps
and one to push his head
under my empty hand
to let me know I have a friend.

Ignore the lyrics.

You can't pursue love. You don't find love.
Love's not a thing to be kept or to be had -
it's a doing word
that you just have to work at.

Love is a language expressed in deeds
and sometimes needs to get ****** to best succeed,
with a focus on what is needed whatever the cost
it’s a no-greater-love
that a friend gives on the way to the cross.

It’s a by-this-they-shall-know-you love
A lake-side more-than-these love
A one-another-as-I-have love.
A recognition of our debt of love,

So live relaying a reaffirming love,
Fulfill the greatest command of love,
Greet each other with a holy kiss of love
Build each other up with a that much stronger love.

Bear the heavy fruit of love
until it ripens into a truer love
that resembles in some small way
the seed that was that original
no-greater-love,

cos without love,
well, bruv
you and I,
no matter how loud we sing,
our branches are bear,

and we are nothing.

It's never clear to me where the dreams begin and
where the memories begin
but I know they both begin
to make sense after the first dozen times and
then once they make sense they cease to be interesting and
begin to bore me and
so I focus on waking up to both and
setting both feet on the cold stone floor where the **** and
the puke has already dripped through the cracks left
by the dance leaving a dry yellow stain just so
I know for sure I'm home and
not still in the in-between domain. And
I try to recall the detail but fail again,
so I start a new story where I'm the hero and
not a victim this time and
where there's no need for heroes cos everyone is in
a cooperative mood which makes me mad
- what's the point of a hero when
there's no heroism called for
- which makes me wonder who
called me here at this time of the night
when crows and bulldogs are the only ones awake and
are the only creatures who care about the size of the moon, oh and
me of course, so what's
that make me? some cross between a black arts symbol and
a patriot looking for a fight to justify the distrust and
anger I feel about the world

- blast and ******, I need a *** and
I need to puke so I lay back down, curl into my fetal and
let nature do it's worse. The warmth soothes me at first, but
soon enough the chill takes hold and
I wonder when mum will come and
tell me it's time for school.

The answer is exactly 30 seconds later and
as usual she notices nothing,
so imagination it is then
- not such a blessing then,
despite what the teacher said.

Fruit goes off.
It gets mushy and smelly,
losing its colour and beauty - losing its taste,
eventually drying out,
losing all resemblance of what it once was,
only good for waste.

But fruit nurtured by a master grower,
a seasoned gardener,
fruit watched and watered til ripe and at its peak,
this fruit is harvested, fermented,
blended til building to a fuller physique,
brought to full maturity til ready for the table
and the banquet where no one's poor
and no-one is able to maintain a semblance of meek.

- where the gardener and the wine maker,
sit at the top seats smiling their blessing.
And the table branches out
giving room enough for the whole family gathering.

And the feast to end all feasts begins.

Truth twisted or truth told?
Collusion or collaboration?
Who can tell what lies beneath:
Politician or statesman?

It's never clear to me where the dreams begin and where the memories begin but I know they both begin to make sense after the first dozen times and then once they make sense they cease to be interesting and begin to bore me and so I focus on waking up to both and setting both feet on the cold stone floor where the **** and the puke has already dripped through the cracks left by the dance and have left a dry yellow stain just so I know for sure I'm home and not still in the in between domain. And I try to recall the detail but fail again, so I start a new story where I'm the hero and not a victim this time and where there's no need for heroes cos everyone is in a cooperative mood which makes me mad - what's the point of a hero when there's no heroism called for - which makes me wonder who called me here at this time of the night when crows and bulldogs are the only ones awake and the only creatures who care about the size of the moon, oh and me of course, so what's that make me, some cross between a black arts symbol and a patriot looking for a fight to justify the distrust and anger I feel about the world - blast and ******, I need a *** and I need to puke so I lay back down, curl into my fetal and let nature do it's worse. The warmth sooths me for a while, but soon enough the chill takes hold and I wonder when mum will come and tell me it's time for school.
The answer is exactly 30 seconds later - and as usual she notices nothing, so imagination it is then - not such a blessing despite what the poet said.

I'm seeing new weather
Not a change of a few degrees
Not a rise or a fall
or an increase or decrease

But New

Weather not previously known
Never before seen
New weather, creating new
weather-worn scenes

Thick, slow rubber, raining
Single sunbeams of light
aimlessly floating
Heavy weight winds,
viciously falling
Warm salt, peppering
the horizon and once in a while,
if you're lucky,
Musical lightning

rumoured to be orchestrated by new angels
who aren't as predicable as their older cousins.