Snowflakes and  livid.

He  never wanted
to be stymied or recalled.
If the Spiff could plough through
enough people as a blasé traveller,
he would bag their yesterdays.
But looking through their Zebra glasses
over time , whose  skies are really
outdone by the proverbial
"mind your own bees wax" ?
it was always the same, the arcane strain,
like overhearing variants of Serbo-Croat
on an unheated train to Chippenham.

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.

There's nothing I can hold against you,
there's almost a sternness in your voice
strengthening your steadfastness,
your eyes if they wished could rail
against light travellers.
Your own Mother who you asundered,
to supple perpetual altercation.
Dark, dark your hair will seek accord
The Ocra fields were you played
casts forth a margin of your secrets.
I pray our grave court
blinded by your  wonders,
serpentine and whistles
at the stroke of midnight,
whose union will shed
the growing embers

There's a ghost in your cabin.
Messrs Johstone and Blanch
were hang in the snow lands,
but i am not bound
older than birch
heavens no longer favoured,
familiar yet strange
a certain askance necessitates in advance,
for any half truth confessed
beyond words.

A tarnished trumpeter never redeems
future joy's subtllety
the limelight challenge casts yesterdays myrth,
as an an old man cries
for the lost passages of his never written diary,
as the ceiling of his dreams unrepaired
quivers by  dusks lament

They are digging up Richard the Third
under a car park
the last warrior King
to die in open battle,
whilst 10,000 youth cower they were
cheated out of  their Grade C's
in  GCSE English.
With Chivalry sped,
the bien-pensants long gone
another message reads,
the anonymous ripen
their secular plot,
trust in no one
not even yourself
yet blame the last of the good.

Potpourri on the concrete carpet
how can this be held as beguiling?.
Even the willows sigh by the
increasing turbulence of the wind.
Legends so few of them,
stagnating without a hand to lift
their encapsulation.
Dreamscapes  bygone
as sure as  grief rotted down,
the nightingale  stranded,
erstwhile finally.

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 .

Paracetamol  excess
prevaricated whiplash.
Indelible forgetfulness
scrapes my knees

Bravado's reckless,
Embezzling Pizza accounts
a small purse to  pitch
Under morsel Moon
I'll sneak into your heart,
a weasel checking out
the frilliest worn lace,
partaking in chunks
of something rarer,
dignity.

The Fanzine said it would be something for the connoisseur a la mode de
glue sniffing Leeds yokels rampaging Bournemouth,
even the away supporters taches already looked ropey,
until the 'Pool headed in the only goal.
The claustrophobic fury was clearly palpable
and this feat would be sealed  later

Theo pushed further
than the usual merry go round,
hungering for lucre
a pound sign today and clarity afterwards,
breathalyized for sanity
supporters parched by their
concession,
his club outbids on wanted;
a journeyman for a quarter
of the repress.

what are you conjuring?
a prime so insincere
a load brittled with doubt
that burdens the cast
for eternal avoiding everywhere.

The spindle was polished, very brightly
to set the embankment's observations
of London a swirling,
- son et lumiere
because this French glass bottomed vessel
bobbled and flustered
in beseech
of the Isle of Meander.

I sat behind your seat
and spoke incessantly,
like a corral reef
I laid myself open
part algae, part azure.
I knew then I was adrift,
too much had run under my bridge.
Longing was  academic.
Gardens become a cutting metaphor.

The next time I saw you
this  draw bridge
would have become a parapet
if you had not already known.
Only my eyes had the courage
to realise
I  no longer found shelter in your words

Down by the fenced cottage
where the hens roam
Red eyed foxes chanced
But Mother is dead
Alzheimer's to the last day
The life squeezed from her,
her yellowing eyes
a parchment for the deciphering.

From the coldness of the skies
this bleak yearning
straddles me further.
Slippers at dawn, no patent path.
I remember no  extracting lie
no brave act, trodden not.
Such echo chambers I refuse
Steadfast now gathers
the finis, answered questions.

We hoped they had cut down the ivy
even dug out the roots,
but we knew already
that one and one made three,
these renegade steps
spun like a roulette wheel,
it was just a thought
December was that month
that resolute questions
were set before the
disbeliving answer.

Mix and match,
northern soul playing.
Paul OG's dansette selection seamlessly threads
the vinyl,
Yvonne Baker - You Didn't Say a Word,
the distant sound of a
visper
frays reality.

What a linear experience
with a twisted friend  ?
Safety in solitaire set alone.
blowing away false dandelions.

1978 Liebfraumilch on the road to definition
with Joanna,
she danced in 1971, un shy with fringed  mini skirt
to yet  indeterminate  future carousels,
but the years have button holed her
executive responsibilities
glass ceiling you see,
but there's always the possibility
that without the drink she'll smile discretely
parfait

As ever sobriety turned the night late
ever panic twisting like a harbinger
once rolling tumblers contained  the torrent,
but she's fending her weary stance
to regain control, sharpening  the razors edge
the tiresome inordonance!

Your smile unfurls
steadfast in Northern harmonies,
the merited  determination
patient as a breath.
The Oars swirled past,
their energy awoken
to be wooed by the wistful
under the momentariness Moon.

A garden shade
Munstead White
a pocket full of delight
by means of useful musings

Surrounded by flickering light
it drew an eventide Vision , his brother
James the Just
appeared amongst the wretchedness
who shared the dank breathe with  me.
Though I once supped Judean wine,
insubordination was not my first instinct.
Now I sought the Ebionites
deemed as poor, yet the wine of their tree
seemed to flow through my bidden cell.

The moonlight  fills  its scope,
grounded as we are,
we could  never  intentionally die
although  hives abide by us
their sting is not inevitable,
Are they the ghosts of honeycombe?
only having been
offered a brief nectar sauce
These fears are all inflammable,
yet speak of  the wisdom untouched
by  jealousy.

The breath made you glad
the believability of feeling closer
as a stone I could never sink
you would be the ballast, the anchor,
the celestial guide
the giver.

Roses of consternation cry
as the lambs  are driven.
Is steadfast an exit or a cry for help?
Sometimes being crashed, bottoms out
and strife as a personal  armament;
merely becomes another structure.

All is not the same as I learn,
the hunger to disengage.
To give a  wide  berth
these battling  contrasts.
Only took a  photograph in medium  format
a glimpse a shutter's worth,
to  share in this  ovidian  downturn
and then walk away.

There is a fissure in time
its a long streak ever widening,
even the candlestick maker senses
the future.
Serena is the odd one out in the village
with an enchanting garden backing on to the forest
but the land grab is on
and the houses are a coming soon.

Watching shooting stars pull and wane,
barbed hope fences us in
wailing  against wilted hands,
easy to scorn the universe
by conjuring the moons scythe
to chide daylight,
unwisely burdened with a sigh
a thankless enmity
strips the hidden away .

Questions  cluster like  rain clouds,
it's often easier  to hide under autumns anonymity,
and sling this old  life into recluse.
Yet how could I slip away
and  honestly believe there was a reason?
What if the promise of tomorrow was marshalled today?
to be offered flourishing hope,
only by renewal does one  give,
unless  my heart  is snagged
it  comes back  to changes.

Oblation, shared light !
suppose work rest and play
tackled a different subject
previously.

stet and stumble,
both wavering excuses.
I never meant to re impose,
the scars you carried
as you set out  with your new retinue,
denounce in lieu of reclamation
if you wish.

Fly away, Fly away fast
The Red Baron got you in his glass
with his finger on the trigger
he'll shoot you down in a jigger
and your end will be the same
shot by the Red Baron,
falling from the sky
like Icarus in flames .

Because I was not set
you chose to find me
Your  umbrella prodding
intent to startle
like the  Rankine scale.

I am pausing just for the now
the passing Moon scoops its urgency,
plaiting  silver shadows
through my blinds.
Closing my eyes
thoughts of her,
are like re-arranging furniture
as if someone was walking upstairs.
I know she would have accepted me
because I offer no excuses.

Like a blase fencer
a stab proof jacket
touches
serenity

I love the natural evilness of Monkshoods
their dark blue hypnotism,
but if contained and recognised
there unlikely to be of any threat,
unlike people of course
of whom you could say where
not naturally evil
merely acquisitional -
with all those fault lines that runs from that
headstrong and running on empty,
said the poet as  the nuclear laden train
passed by the suicidal rail line.

boundless neverhood pockets
the lost crumbs
of comfort too often,
servitudes discordant words
quivers by termitys  foil.

They are cutting staff at the Lido too.
A job seemingly important
and only now in hindsight  not quite good enough.
Beaten by a 4-4-2 team -
by formation swimmers I suppose.

Fledgings playing against the Big Stars
hard hitters pummelled
just for their supposed being
Headliners durability chiseled
the chips are down
and the Fender spreads
a hard rain

The wind sighs for itself
a germane seed of an idea
is often forgotten- asleep in a garret.
Cyclical breathless words
cries bleeding magenta.
How many  chances  are  swept
only to be whittled
ever weeping to the point
where the Kingdoms that once
craved absolution are emptying.

As the words became full cycle
tendrils became benthic
an extraordinary Work.

Crow's feet circling
your eyes,
mere embellishments,
your words
full of inner meanings,
lets superficiality
drown in other's phrases.

Civil servants
caustic charms.
Forever Old School
Duplex stairways.