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You wore a paper white quiet
like the spaces between      
And that’s when I realised
that we-
Are a misprint
unique, beautiful in a way
but never now to be.
Not the great return to form that i hoped for but getting there slowly.
We tied a knot in heaven
and left it there
suspended in the air
unaware of the care that lent there
we stare, bare of emotions
for those we sent there
surely it was god’s plan
between that ISIS and
the American man’s man
but wait
I don’t rate the
Wests lack of responsibility
they attest not to the culpability
and without an ounce of timidity
suggest that their
interactions are near
the vicinity of humility
when really Iraq
was left gutted like a
listless fish
to be added to the list
of countries
America and Britain not great
Felt the need to mend
not with gentle hands
but with the bayonets hate.

left without infrastructure
a poor suture on
a shambling wreck
Iraq limped on
to suppurate into civil war
which we condemn and abhor

but somehow haven’t the
nous to implore that we have been here before
The imperialist shadow looms like
a hound, as we espouse civility;
Irony abound.
(Hate Isis for what they’ve done; palmyra particularly hits home, but we should have sorted iraq out properly before leaving.)
Rain let itself in
Through the window.
Emerald moss rugs grew.
Braggarts smash the slates,
Windows and tore out the
Milky way marble.
Capsular mushrooms
Bulged with spores,
on dirt carpeted floors.
Wood rotted
bricks crumbled
stones ached.
Sun peered in through
The oaken ribcage
The chandelier grew green
and became a surrogate
A stack of newspapers
Gathered woodlice and
Poison ivy hugged the legs of
The south facing windows
Like a lover Scorned.
The doors fell off
In rebellion
as the burdened porch
broke with old age.

But the house knew love
And returned to the earth smiling
Edinburgh 2015
Out of the window
a courtyard yawns,
Passion flowers overwhelm
sun-brushed brick

A cat paws a
gutted cassette tape,
whilst pigeons
steal into the
forgotten yard building,
with newspaper windows
and wonky slates

I guess they own
the vestiges of the old
car in there now;
rust on rust on rust
Their own kingdom
in old boxes and older dust.

They aren’t aware,
of the lunacy of it all;
this human race.
People are just
no good to
each other.
Money before morals
before health
before warmth
before kindness
before love
before life.

I envy them,
they only
to worry about
Oast Cottage, Lamberhurst, Kent
The Night Left
With the smack of a
Panko breaded sunrise

Poppies in the garden
And passionflowers
through banjaxed window frames

Brusque Coffee roughing up my arteries
Damson Coloured smoke
Bacon & Bacon & Eggs

A little vignette of perfection
Let this morning dawdle
like the hangover that chased the stars out.
Monet was painting up my vision
while the droves were driven out.
We stepped out to the derision
of a tenor waterspout.

The town outside is dancing
in the ruddy neon hues
and I’m ****** whilst Amsterdam-ing
by the slam-dunk cognac blues.

And a cap was shaking coppers
in an out cove by the way,
where instruments and owners
had begun to play.

The bar stools are all swaying
whilst the festival ensues,
and I’m ****** whilst Amsterdam-ing
by the slam-dunk cognac blues.

With the rhythm of the rimjhim
and the stamping our feet
we sing our drunken-whim hymn
whilst we stagger down the street.

And we had sunken five; still sinking
Im strung out, slammed, and stinking
Four sheets to the wind and freaking
about what I had to lose.
so that’s when I got to thinking
had an inkling to the linking
between my errant drinking
and the slam-dunk cognac blues…
It is
The greying stones of old buildings
Weathered people
The palpable cinders of coffin stains

Draped flags Drooped heads and Drained faces
Sequoia’s ancient as Methuselah Falling in once lush meadows

It is
Diesel and gold, and diamonds
It is, dictators and conservatives
It is murderers and mutilation
It is the lies we tell to children
It is the scars on my brothers back
It is religion and regalia
It is an indifferent and inhumane god

It is the desperate stare of the ravening children

And it is life.

And you deign to tell me I need
Your god.
I hope we can teach him
how to love…
An earlier one of mine when i started writing again a few years ago

Then it came
It came clattering
It came guttering
with furore and fight
with rhythm and rhyme
like many dancing feet.

On steel roofs
On downy pines
and baobabs
and old cracked earth
Pattering and shimmering
drawing dust from dirt
women and men from houses
enshrining the sky with their trembling hands.
I watched you unravel
You sat beside me
And slowly I listened
It with cadence ebbed
As you spat truth after truth
And in your moment of leaving
I loved you more
But was powerless
As you disappeared
Into the night.
And later
I assume,
His embrace.
we spill
into the dark
Sanguine moon
guiding hands
and mine lead
so softly
to the lily-vellum of your thighs
a fuse-spark
a cataclysm of ruffled
hands on your apocalyptic hips
your lips are rhododendron honey
your lips are codeine
mellifluous and urgent
as the pressing heat of a black summer night.
This Poem is based (loosely) on my university years, written in Canterbury on a visit to old friends 02/08/15
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