a vicarious piety
plays like a swallow's feather,
emerges cats eyes glare
specifically when its us and them,
an overheard soliloquy
by means of the gaoler's
feigned forgiveness -
plays the darkened corridors
the cobwebbed dust venerates
the curtailment  of hope

There's a fork in the road
by the Magnolia tree
where there"s a pack of complete  Pokeman cards,
buried deep in cellophane
but next to it, are shards of unknown shin bone,
who wants to be alone?
at night with a twenty year old scooter
covered in rancid buck skin ?
I thought not.

He is not really happy.
having studied Scaffolding
but for now he is un-waged
and unlike codeine, pain becomes  an inverse release.
He focusses thoughts on the past
and somehow  thinks
Manchester City F.C 1955
were an in-form team
and 1971 had the best sueded hippy chicks
with names like Sheila and Madeline
But believes in his heart, post Jubilee 1977
was when the purple  patch went rotten.

With sunken eyes
she walked a fallacious path.
The tales  of Ambrosia
aligned to the Western winds
set a naked arrow 
shooting across the morning sky,
like a startled declaration
ambition's trail, blazing
those imaginary vestiges.

Gratis I'll be the  judge  and  jury.
Faye Dunaway does  it  for  me.
Her  modus  operandi is elemental,
an acting force to be reckoned with.
Meanwhile travelling  light  with  my freshly sealed  
Olympus  OM1 MD.
At  the  drop  of  a  hat, loading slow  film
captures  the prevailing waves  of ozone
Mercury in the high  seas and I  heartily
concur  with the portent of
"Call Me a  Liar"
by the Edgar Broughton Band too.
Somethings are  bound  to  offend Aphrodite these days.

Scheiuw  you'll never know
the beauty of her beads
her gentle Aegean eyes
bluer than azure.
In her tears there's regret for
the alpha bet
for those who swooned
too low,
who came un-courtly after
the legends.

Usually acerbic Moyra's banner
read "Stop the Rain".
The cultured Men blushed
at this Brunettes moment, 
a clear case of mis-direction
" Speakers's Corner" to blame,
too many seasonal Svengalis !

Did you touch the memory of the country show,
showing  gratitude
for that faintly blowing wind that forgave
all those unwashable  sins
of omission.
After  all it was Janus and the aftermath,
that keep you on your toes
and something more will unravel
by the days end.

My house Wren shuddered
as the feast of St Stephen
passed by,
when I  dreamt  I sought Diana Rigg.
How I love Greek sounding names
But Ancient slaves
were never Di Vinci,
sometimes leaden smiles
lacks vocation
but will ring fence the loneliness.

The shutters twined
with barricades confluxed,
the fields lost in dank mist
quietly bridging this epithet.

After a while even Heaven fades,
exalted tube journeys
and flourished delicatessens
helps change the mind.
Weekend Bed sits in Notting Hill Gate,
regaling stories of  her missed A levels
and dreams of being an actress,
before being misunderstood,
in turn he intended to go to Polytechnic,
two potentially interesting people
future's denied by defenestration,
too late in building bridges
learnt by confirming hurt.

at the artists room gazing
she imagines she is a model.
I feel for her insecurity
with mousy curls
and mascara inexpertly applied
Her green scarf at times almost
tugs at her throat
as if it had a will of its own
almost pressing what's your problem,
but exactly what is this notional problem?
torn between a wish to blend in
and cover oneself in the shade
envisaging prying eyes and bruising hands
the intended model drew a blank
she could be her own steeley person

If she had her wish
she  would mistrust she was alone
and not even lavender on her pillow
could ease her excuses.

I see a tribal emnity
between the boules club and ornithpologiists,
laying  siege to the bus station
as if they were on satins
old enough to know better
but still besotted with the twig of youth

Her aspirant heart once ventured
and then she was gone
No bugle at dawn.
The Songstress's cascade
bedeviled by the World unknown,
ivy festooned Water Towers
languished by the winds screech
siphoning the brasses cheer,
the pitch standing hollow
no longer lustral
merely a speckless  whisper

Huevos Cabreaos
followed by an Americano,
taking respite from those morning Lowry figurines with their bon bon shopping priorities.
A Puerto Rican girl has just passed the La Tasca informal interview
and is immediately hugged by her awaiting friends,
life is so fast and we all think like wikipaedia, fragments of momentary knowledge ,
even the menu here has a photographic memory lock,
outside a Big Issue seller makes his first sale
the broadest Lancashire accent,
can soothe somebody's day,
here is the reality of listening too.

Iris and Blanche,
retired West end Usherettes,
Joint treasurers to the benevolent society,
their own Christmas story flickers ,
fearing  poverty, melted candles
for  6d - they buy the job lot,
worn, threadbare carpets cover the hallway.
Seemingly unmoved, they try to forget
this turn of fortune.

Upheaval is now the perpetual downturn.
They’ve availed themselves to
missing out on life's gravy train, 
and been met with gas light frugality.
The sunken mattress tumbles across the  wooden floor,
casting shadows over,
yesterday's hubris.

i sing only for a purpose
but cannot even carry a tune
there's been this dense misunderstanding.
Rawlings never gvies  the credit,
so its the same old  waning
with familiar  yelping dog
sounding off in the pavallion,
where hesitation seems subservient
and the planning out of kilter .

Those cruppled  crisp bags
a quick fix saline rush
theres better in pepper.
There been a lack of colour since 1972
Females were more surreal,
a midnight stint was possible then,
more than their hard pressed  
sisters currently conveying
adroit skills text thumbing
for that unfinished message.
Men no longer compliantly gallant,
merely over worked alabaster relief
with no self belief,
yet trying to project
anything other than diminished.
We have lost our confidence
verge on cloisters,
romance too few
believability never the done deal.

It couldn't get any better,
Minolta's flagship  XM system is launched,
Gotta have it with Kodachrome 64 ! Meanwhile
Fruupp have their "The Prince of Heaven's Eyes"
Ted Heath's  "U" turn has unravelled  
and the Liverbirds are on the pill,
for some the revolution is complete.
There's next year before the EEC referendum
with the chance to make the right  decision.
I'll never forget my Dad's yellow
"Ford Cortina" before the Datsun
become a better prospect.
Roll on Kolchak Nightstalker
you're Chicago's last saviour.
United Nations resolution 366
has something  to say
about South West Africa.
But at least  Jessica Harper was
"Special to  Me".

Wood Pigeons make perfect sense,
when they scatter through my hair,
sometimes the image is wavered,
but there's a certain glow of pride
that enfolds within this short life.
For my best laid plans
I'll re-thatch my roof,
to shelter my bantams
lulled into the truism
of the gilded cage.

Turtlenecks are insufficient for walks on  dunes
as are gifted sandals without enough Dubbin
but I am gazing at your familial wrist, longing on a soothe song,
trying not to imagine a life without you
possessing your smile
with uncharted goals.

We'll sing a song for Geraldine
but it never sounds the way it should,
the fury of the fritillaries
shares this poignant understatement.

A temptress gambled her livelihood
on my inexplicable two left feet
for Roman captivity.
Though I supped Galilean wine,
insubordination was not my first guise.
How I wished I was again an Ebonite
deemed as poor, but spiritually richer

Announce your atlier  
and water colour for me there ,
rest alongside clear streams,
and liffting off  those willows
from azure skies,
also blot those prying cormorants,
shade translusence with your deft touch
tantalizingly visualizing
if its autumn or winter
you wish to attest
your art to.

A fishbone's image on the wire
in the orbital district,
the white coated scientists are embargoing
this news discovery about Mars.
Grimsby is too far from home
MacFisheries here already
Liptons on the Way.

Lavina beckons but can never go out to play
on void days her Mother escorts her,
red ribbons in her hair
and lace to impart her complicit purity
oh Mother what  have we jointly planned?

The shafts of phosphorus hit the jagged barricades  
no sense was made from the order
seven by seven deep
flanks of men
was not a tidy sum
their exhaustion was pliable
the order cut like a  knife
by the mornings crescendo
the stark landscape exhibited
the remnants of the infantryman
was plan to observe
they had hardly set foot from base

The emerald moss by
the stone wheel sighed.
The wooden fence dejected,
germane vegetables
in the kitchen garden
somehow exhortatory.

At the time as leaves nestled
a hushed acquaintance
brushed by as Autumn.
Healing beneath his tongue
He tasted Maraschino again.
His bloodstream reinvigorated
by these changes
eagerly suspending disbelief.

At the time the wind stood still
he found discarded keys
to an Autumnal hut
and  bounded opened its door
he felt the joy of those  sprouted aliums
Which he hurriedly planted in a drill

The offer of  exploration
is as clear as a dusted chalk board,
fading into oblivion.
This developmental poetry  course is
turning lop sided,
who wants to record a hushed whisper,
chasm five ways into  the inner self
or recount a  colour,
with an emotional resonance.
The ghosts of the past fail to impress.
They cannot compel.
Surely the now is more pressing
not some cultivated  co-dependency

There is no shelter in this emerald  isle.
We are authors of our own hastening,
shunning simplicity and  the covert.
Fear is now permeable
its utterance  loitering like a well worn thread
turmoill  thickens livid  eyes
translating  further woe.

There is nothing more than composing
sonnets  and blank verse,
like Larkin and Heaney never willingly leaving home,
seeing character and landscape grow:
no television, by view of partition
a barbed wire sandwich
a calculated drip feed reaction.

I cannot see her being a troubadour
there's too much work to be done,
she only hangs around the fringes
lacking  that inner feel,
once she sang the Worlds Requiem
but her interpretation lacked punch
had she the wherewithal needed?
Her jaded baggage indeterminate now
lugs her capered turn.

Their presence sketches like acid,  
almost pythonesque  
point blank opening bus  windows
in the chill of the British  winter
only because  their  ,
over clothed shopping sweat
induced the delirium,
stares the weary answers why not !
If I could only notate your wrongful expression
to sweep away your feigned surprise
the world would  right itself.

The burden in my Heart
is also for our good Name.
I always knew they would close down the shop.
The City Guilds sweeping shadows.
A man in a Trilby hat dot's what's left of our pride,
he plays fickle to our once Emporbium,
sanguine like dishes of indisposition
should bicker with the hand sewn purple curtains,
like a sacrament permitted just that once
at the time the betrayal turned cold.

I fear for rusted Anchors
my World is losing to groynes,
the high Tides now poses myriads of questions,
all those categorial compartmentalisations
by my friends who recalled their Spring.
every different nuance uttered,
unless its guided by the future
I will shortly never share in their words.
The submission of responsibility to learn as much
sweeps the tide of the unquestioned awake

They're playing for high stakes
the debonair with a new coiffure
has spread her moment thin.
The surpassable  cat's eyes junctions
sped her dreams spiralling
But Heather's not for turning
Dappled with a moon lit high

Snowflakes and  livid.

I  am busy chasing serpentines,
figures of eight loiter
at first hesitant then alliterated
before a snarl shakes
off the dew from a Renaissance figurine.
The opposite of azure skies
will proclaim Da Vinci's motivation
But his David is no hero
he presides as resolute
as ecclesial stone.

At the time as the leaves turned colour
a hushed  slither of an acquaintance
brushed by as Autumn rising.
Healing beneath his tongue
He tasted Marchpane again .
Dazed by the impending changes,
temporarily taking stock.
At the time as the wind stood still
he found his trusted keys
for his Autumnal hut
and opening its door
he felt a rush for those
composted stored Tubers and rare cuttings
as they awaited his thoughts
an outpouring
his selection an inspired command.......

She was an exceptional light commedienne,
her lungs bursting with joy
indeed with finnese
she additionally dive acrobatically
into enraptured  hands.
But her better stage half urged
period dramas
her thick southern drawl deemed unsuitable
and if it be said
over reaching,
she find no true instrument,
other than to burn in her Autumn days
filed under regret.

Pick me up in the passing Winter.
Snow threatened, train timetables
bidding for curtailment.
The past shone resolute
Health and Safety was a by-line
but today's invidious un-motivation
has its own Cellophane steering wheel
to pace  our growing passivity.

Paracetamol  excess
prevaricated whiplash.
Indelible forgetfulness
scrapes my knees

Shes my white mountain, faceless,
an antidote undetermined
labelled avalanchial
but never contradictory,
in the frozen glaciers
where the wild track progmulates morsel light,
I will fight stupor,
tranquility solidifies
before the imminent .

The shrill wind carries  through decaying buildings
pits loneliness, despite "London Pride" blooming
like it did in the last Conflict.
Philistines journey home on Circular pathways,
we are all  in a dearth of orbital now,
is there enough opportunity
to resurrect the heart, that neon centre
before the People barriers whittle .

You never have to be a flower again
or play those kettle drums, Sheba
bygone from sleeves, dalliances worn.