#provincial
Cockcrow harbour:
the gulls whining like tethered dogs
about rooftops
paliophobic cars and
grounded vessels..
Look:
on the hoary horizon
a glaucous strip
beguils
with backwater.
Not putting on a show
the frigid sea benumbed..
Easily,
with a tail of emerald jelly
skim a vanishing lane off that
lustrous sheet
and watch
the trailblazing mainland
scuttle.
Now,
Only scattered dreaming is possible.
In it's bachelor pad,
cradling over crinkles,
away from the meretriciosness
of validating the real by sharing it,
THE WIND
blusters off any veneer.
Here,
stale but spry,
fare your way around the inoffensive isle
to it's most shyest of harbours:
a mouth full of silver
saving it's breath.
The windows facing the sea
seem
black & white,
their wooden frames hooked to the wind,
the splattered gulls meow
your name
in a way
that's
personal.
Of course comes to mind.
The pines
are demanding a visit,
They're whispering
so you can hear them,
each as different as every snore,
these pines know
how to grow in the sand
and still reach for
the Nimbostratus with heads in unison.
The spaces
between their trunks illuminating
the blazing needles
raining down
painting the ground
familiar
to your lover's
skin texture:
Feel her closeness
from jilted borderwatchtowers
as she speads her mire
like no one's watching:
weedy and sugared
with bellflowers,
the waves in her shallow armpit
billeting a pair of white swans:
demurely they float
sometimes as pillows and sometimes
as question marks..
Go ask the seasoned locals,
they say the bones she parked
when she let her ice sheet melt
are portals
to her noble underbelly.
Hidden in the woods
reminiscent of your heart,
the red
tank-sized stone
is sealed,
but what the lighting reach cannot
the rain shall sluice apart
dumbly.
And though her hair has
come to be
the moss
black and hoarse
as sailor's beard,
there is still time.
The void says
her noisy neighbour is nothing
to die for.
The theadbear car with absent doors
incites
to drive her
in reverse gear
to the first few
days of holidays:
her golden locks a-blaze,
her arm around your
hind-sighted doppelganger.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 2:20 AM UTC
a man
of Bastille
that Canandaigua
march till
Pacific with
their referendum
suffrages to
really inhabit
kingdom that
welcome a
pickle as
this ancestry
written petition
must declare
doom but
again with
fur trade
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 9:06 AM UTC
I am no philosopher
I am Paul from The Meadows
pulled skinny poor from the shadows to put a deal of fat on his bones
so how did I end up here?
what penalty did I accrue?
taking the ten point deduction for conduct unbecoming
I place my attention deficit on re-order that I don’t yet forget
smothered in the scrim of this Hogarthian hood every chip toothed blue scriptured face
proffers passage to a poisonous but tantalising hook
to write the junk must I taste the junk?
peddled or paddled for a sweeter flight this avenue never taken,
hedonic ingress unwalked, unwanted yet still wondered
could such deep surrender be so sweet to allow the most intimate of plunder?
am I Dante?
corralled around the streets
of a society that shows no compromise amongst the dying embers of fallen enterprise
eternal damnable gyres around a fucked **** pyre
of concrete, glass and broken humanity
with each uttered breath a cold cocktail of profanity
the bouncing soles of the air I wear may ease me over the gummed archipelagos
flag spij-speckle guaran islands slab secure and fast
against the counselled wash an eternal fossilised chaw
that resists the fiercest chemical blast
lost in this sea I cannot be but shaken by the waxy man with his head of startled hemp and coterie of cracked carbon
as he breaches the domestic brink
turning a key, his shoulders hunched in protective shawl against
the spittled spate
he stares back through me
for sightless miles insides out, front to rear, then scuffles, rattling, townwardly
cannot resist the insecticidal compulsion of the green and white purgatory
where the neatly stacked wash of fluorescence makes oven ready your heaven
amid the threnodial thrum of
a hundred syncopated Siemens
following that shuffling cortege of the bussed in dead and dying
I am dutiful, altar bound, avowed and accursed the host with the ghosts in this haunted mall lost and lonely within England’s mountain green
it is no longer the god bothering needles and blunts that draw the crowds
as flat screened pharmacological rapture,
that trinity of distilled, medicated caffeination
lead a once pious nation through a precocious dream
maybe Allah yet sees here his
Jerusalem and leads his children
upon England’s land of crescent green
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 1:16 PM UTC
Forgiveness eases the soul,
Overwhelms each one and all.
Unity is what we need.
Nevertheless, we have it now,
right now, indeed.
Differences among us should not break
us apart.
After all, it's our institution that would
take the hurt.
Trust and trust you shall reap
In times of doubts and during mischief.
Openness sets your spirit free,
Nothing more, nothing less if you keep it
everyday.
Done is the past,
And time to move on at last.
You and me, each one and all, this message
is for meant to be.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 5:13 PM UTC