Why are the Re investors
not stampeding to praise our  spoils.
deficit donations shame Animal Sanctuaries,
but who questions  others  economic sustainability anyway .
The land of plenty even asks for Red Cross
Do we have what it takes to stare out  this fixed point ?

The Lead School is almost draping over the Highway,
they laughed at the boy who fell behind
printed words and pointed letters,
it felt like suffocation,
young almost cubs, but they knew how to hurt
then an instinctive kick in retort
gave exaggeration flourish -
brought the flesh and shin back
and they bemused equivocalness.

Four o clock where angels and demons
meet head on,
and strangely agree on  the subject.
Callous hands and sunken cheekbones
a man of  nebulous means,
and whilst you sear in your troubled sleep
your sins have been recorded.,
By dawn the jury turns their wings,
to allow nocturnal recoil
to hasten the despatch.

abjectness is a form of inroads
toil the Woodlands Trust
all hail no coppiced beeches,
my first sighted R.S.P.B Avocet
the perplexed scale comparable
to competing blank stares,
endorphins withstanding,
clueless  and unconscionable
instinctual pomposity
suffers Nature's either
way.

to lift a canopy of shrubs
its best to trim
otherwise Twiggy
with her own violatile techniques
will become rampnant
and may need airier handling.

The thrush fly from up north
locomotives leave at 05.20 precisely,
they follow weeping  miners
with ballletic dreams
sipping  Burton ale.

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.

Angelina for the love of the Stars,
wrists feel listless
chilling self belief delusional
your wardrobe has claw marks.
A World apart?
I wonder where you keep your screams boxed in?
surely you are not rewinding
the "Cry of the Banshee" again?
Abba he indelibly forsakes
your funereal  fatigue,
for your score years has
gone to seed.

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.

Give a little bit of my Shangri La
back to me.
Lets recall the 99p Scotch best at JD Weatherspoons,
revisiting  Bradford by National Express
because we saw  "Bob Sue and Rita too" on Channel 4
and on a whim had to have
B&B; down Manning Lane.
Let's see tea shops show civic pride
serving a strong Bergamont.
No queue jumping,
spitting or cussing in the streets.
Lets not be afraid to care,
and go back to the early 1990s
on the cusp of the Premiership
to see  Notts County verses Luton Town.
Their six pointer
with an overturned milk float to presage the desperation
and long before the aerobic  internet entertained us.
Funded Public libraries
venturing openings on Sunday's
and thank Steg from
Scorpion records at High Wycombe,
grateful for all those post restantes.

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.

oblong tracks
chasm the peered envelope,
liquid marigold
awakens feuders
preserved in similes.

The winds of hope blow through
the boarding house's corridors
sober, listening to John Kay's "Easy Evil"
having finally rinsed my glass of Tennessee whisky,
that once flowed sojourn down stream.
With the best of  intentions,
hell's as current as the midnight lodger,
presiding in room 207,
her absinthe addiction
driven me to distraction
some are marooned on  the rich mud silt of life,
but I need to edge towards resolution.
a packed suitcase
whose once dreams hazed,
finally vies beyond the rivers edge.

like a darted journey
the spokes of despair,
sharpend by hazel spears
betray an inordinance of time.
Lost amongst the amber stones
light shafTing twilights furl
we succumb beseaching

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.

The corridors order chaos,
dank and dismal
he alone is free
only the sound of a shrill clap
reminds him the walls are duly served.
Some murmur to feel safe
in the soft tissues of paradox,
where the wise listen to lost sages
whose advice can exonerate
any fevered hatch.

absconding beneath the open skies
perhaps she was never accepted enough,
the hills sought her as an ionic bond
colonnades made a  portend for her
as amber resin, to beseech
the seeming evidence she alone withheld
that infinity excludes capture.

As a stranger, sometimes light
both rarified and prosaic.
voyages to new shores,
yet I do not understand your  words
Is friendship a state of mind ?
still you call those who don't, select.

No blinding light only the wariness
of the daily fracture
Croydon how I wish it was goodbye
you lost your voice  a long time ago.
I  remember how our played  out rendezvous
stripped away the pretense
I have often thought of candle light as a masquerade
flickering like a contestant
and the only cure is the drifting Coombe Woods
where I  can hide under those autumnal leaves,
finally letting it go.











.

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.

"Dear Apres",  I wrote these words after
your countenance bejeweled
with snow melting in your mouth -
assuredly hunters dream too.

The lotus fields charge
misbegotten fortune,
your whisper on this cold night
steers towards the dark pavilion
the one you left for, three years ago.
I could never hail your return
weeping alone would bestow order,
a  long stare circles myriads of thoughts.

An auto dreamer indifferently  tastes the essence of green
quietly silent screens will then self seed
and the rains court memory,
are we all co-owners, longing
the freely given lichen.

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.

Augur well, on a left ward spirral.
I never meant to ignore
the residential Wren or lazy Cat,
who always knew better
than my list of dreams.
In the alleyway with dahlias,
I wanted to think as my own,
a perchance a symbol!
now there's sacks of pebble stone and sand,
no rub of green
builders mucking in for someone's joy to settle,
side gate entrance
into a little abode no longer possibly mine.

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

Fine legged Samantha held my hand
emerging from her shell,
buttermilk from Safeway's
matching her milk skin,
then a stroll to buy a camera.
Being that intentional,
she only wanted a semi automatic,
a shutter priority to capture my widening smiles.
I was  fully into manual
to capture both
her occasional wiles
and throw of tousled hair.
With slide film
we walked to Lloyds Park
Camelot of the possible,
as though Manhattan peered
from the east.
Clearly the days before
the Summer drought,
our slides captured well preserved images
lasting into time.

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.

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.

That watershed moment
when the eye goggles comes off,
is akin to winning the Burleigh Horse Trials
with the much coveted Trophy.
Meeting a Rambler as an equal
on an arduous fog clouded valley
along the Devil's Punchbowl,
or a French Phrase Book
that's almost perusal by nature,
under the Arc de Triomphe
How I long to be accomplished
as one of the few, rather than a
casual follower of Velleity .

August is never  lost to Summer,
she shares in her sphere of circularity
Calendula's a by-word  for prolonging,
dead-heading vies with the flush.
Lunaria's prized seed pods' legacy's boon.
In redolent contemplation.
Autumn bulbs eagerly  secured.
Amongst them Colichicums a wondrous  shrub
for late September's  appearance.

Like a Stallion,  August's canter masquerades
the truest of challenges ,
for the final  hurdle.
By means of subtle suggestiveness
Russet subsumes the Red.
Blue musters a tired
muddying  Purple.
Yellow bleaches
as though touched
by the exertion of congruity

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.......

the bundles of mulched cannas  thickens like Autumn's bracken
and the orange hues of the acer
plays hide and seek amongst the glowing skies
solitary magpies forever  speculate caution
as overgrown paths beckons the occasional stranger.
Contre jour light frames my mission
at once I understand the message
a seasonal transformation
pitches the earnestness of renewal.

Autumns crisp veneer is never right,
duffle coats and borrowed scarves
cost fashion.
But less self consciousness
and inner glare will
release the light.
And let those leafs serenade
a russet honeycombe
of dark sherry and candlelight
in a whisper.

Late Saturday night's forever epigrammatic.
I am always cleaning up.
I am tired of wasting my life with you.
I want real love,
not to treated like a fool
or being kicked around
like a lamb's wool cushion.

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

In a space of one day
I saw two off duty ex- air stewardesses
who could have only flown in 1976
when blondes and JPS's really rode the Skies,
but at 14 your  unwittingly waiting,
since then I have never
framed it for myself.

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.

Bathed in fields of  hummingbirds
an elderdown of  spring  purveys
weaves nexus  to ancient stone walls
where tomorrow's wood elves
dressed in firestorm blue
wait
bequeathing  a  symphony  of  resistivity
a causeway plied with dreams to harvest,
wills the east winds high.

Another day passes,
amounting to wishes forever gone,
moderation commending  self control
Down tools for the Sandman, in sympathy,
if he could at least meet his Golden Stranger
and orchestrate Kites for Dreamers,
he'd steer us all, assuredly.
But every year is in the same league
uncertain before it's began.
The highs and lows just worn
to create  pools of impassiveness.

Threatened curiosity rhymes better than I
A panic attack infused with sinusitis
Willesden digs clang its tentacles
into blobbed concrete.
Cringing as I walked by
Anita scrawled her unsavoury - mercy.
She could not endure a Son of a Publican
on a weekend jolt,
a hand washed duvet potested,
pitch and putt compressed
too many red lines crossed.

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

More solemn than Winter
is your August
sometimes the seashells
spoke of kinder climes
but August is a wicked month,
you have matched your red hair season,
like hued revelry
they await to be tasted your vibrant lips.

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

Just enough thread to hang yourself
an itch that lasted the mischief,
the justice of a blank stare
gives through.

The night charade and other assorted chimes at the Bedford,
sometimes I stare at the moon,
it cannot comprehend what is going on
lost devotions, hedonism, no bulwark,
it stretches as far as the Wandle river
where a
once rusted supermarket trolley spoke as an epiphany,
for the immemorial down trodden.
Maria agreed, hope is transient,
perhaps unaware of the allusion.

Her ruffled hair and trailing headphone
she stands amongst the seated
perhaps impervious to inconvenience.
Her momentary gaze out of the darkened window
sheds her personality
she meet life on an even keel
thoughtful
honest and assured over
never intending to surrender her
next stop Battersea Park.

The moralist  is playing again,
bleaching your hair
is an unspoken uniform,
with so little soul
acetates don't get played.
New words gets bandied "plebs",
but without the de-rigueur  Corduroys
or  navy blazers,
we are all be tarred
with the same brush.
Meanwhile the coach exhaust  fumes
abnegated our pilgrimage to Stamford
and we all now agree we  
lived beyond our means
in exiguous Britain

The home of impressionnists
skirts the perinent point.
Jagged sarecrows dance amongst silhouettes
fields scoff in ribboned light
moves  banks from their justled perch.
I sense something wrong
bravados movement always sways,
yet wider strokes almost monumental
allow the grey to merge into the  still night..