There is a field where
I have never been;
I could only have visited it
In a dream.
Where sunsets surf the
wild flower grass,
hot air balloons traverse
a sky that has been cursed,
to endow a setting a sun.

Escaped the family cries
caused by family ties,
under a thundering air path
as easy jet flies over us.
Bumblebees are caught in traffic
over mists of summer haze.
I don't think I have ever been more in love,

with a place.
Purple flowers bloom under an eye,
pale Cowslip stretched over each bone.
Even the sky has darkened to a fathomless depth
in which I cannot help but drown.
Where am I now?

Tomorrow it will rain here,
wash away the summer scents,
wash away the golden light
and the very sense of a past held tight.

Could this place be any better?
What if I had to remember
a different voice,
a different shape
to frame the end of my favourite day?

I am civil and undisputed. I am yet explored and ill-reputed. I have been broken and stitched together. I will fall but not forever. I have walked the length of a mind. I have been driven crazy by what's repressed inside. I am tortured by a need to touch you. I am saved in the morning by something new. I am overdone and yet opened. I am caught in judders, trapped in emotions. I am finished but not spent, I am done but haven't even started yet.

"Perfection"
Should be a profanity
Consigned to myth
We are taught to aspire
To live a life
That doesn't exist.
Glossy paper
And saturated colour
Feeds us a fiction
Force asphyxiation
Because you will live average
Statistically
And will not become
The thing of dreams
Staring out of magazines.

Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.

Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.

The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.

The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.

All flexing builds muscle.

Rough bricks form castles.

Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring

Too much
To keep painting.

a perfect half hour drive
with a perfect sunset keeping me high
and a perfect soundtrack buzzing
in my perfect battered car
down a perfect country lane
lined with green waves
and soft bluebells
smudging the hard lines of winter away
the air is still cold
but this evening is too perfect
to notice
or care
and i realise i have been driving
with a smile greeting stranger's stares.

nothing is ever finished
do not believe in the definitive
life is a spectrum
black and white exists
to those who live fixed
wander
grey is the colour
of a question
that has no answer.

my love
thy hair is one kingdom
  the king whereof is darkness
thy forehead is a flight of flowers

thy head is a quick forest
  filled with sleeping birds
thy ******* are swarms of white bees
  upon the bough of thy body
thy body to me is April
in whose armpits is the approach of spring

thy thighs are white horses yoked to a chariot
  of kings
they are the striking of a good minstrel
between them is always a pleasant song

my love
thy head is a casket
  of the cool jewel of thy mind
the hair of thy head is one warrior
  innocent of defeat
thy hair upon thy shoulders is an army
  with victory and with trumpets

thy legs are the trees of dreaming
whose fruit is the very eatage of forgetfulness

thy lips are satraps in scarlet
  in whose kiss is the combinings of kings
thy wrists
are holy
  which are the keepers of the keys of thy blood
thy feet upon thy ankles are flowers in vases
  of silver

in thy beauty is the dilemma of flutes

  thy eyes are the betrayal
of bells comprehended through incense