The prehensile snout of a Tapir
is  posturally renowned,
but  I am no caricaturist
unless I required Rhinoplasty
Neither am I an
Air Force Major or a Fireman,
never having shot or doused in anger
never clanged quid pro quo,
I am a wordsmith, without  a necessarily  dangerous  course,
a wedgeless door stop this side of juxtaposition,
trying for a profile,
riding on a buzz,
to think so few images
could  conjure so much verdure

An Open hearth can never console the feelings inside
Those Northern Cerulean skies tarry
but I pick myself up when I listen
to the forgotten silence
between hoping your words
carries invitation.

Barricades and Floundering
drift alongside the edge
and what is specifically excluded?
cantankerous vetch,
its bitter wiles.
Life rough-hewn
on a cusps of Moon,
whose dust return as
Libertines and Rakes
Born from the same lumière
with moral relativism to confound
and saddle such consequences.

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 .

A whole new light means
your spectrum rests indeterminate
silence alone  cannot  disguise
the sense of foreboding,
darkness parades,
platitudes never vivid
a plinth to past  glories
shorn whose rueful  possibilities
shuns new growth.

Syntaxes and ulcers
Dead boots breaching civility
two by two we walked
towards an upbeat anthem
only upset by the limitless
possibilities from numbskulls
inviting chaos's stupor

The ****** for any Allotment holder
is harvesting Pumpkins with foliage,
for October, with the clocks back
they'll relish digging over the ground
looking forward to another year.
Meanwhile the Farmers markets at Herne  Hill and Dulwich
will set our retro chic spiraling,
a half loaf of brioche and a Mrouzia Tajine purchased
amidst the newly  penny conscious
"adequate provision" becomes our norm.

The Riche brothers and sisters
compile the remainders
of Manchester City programmes
from 1958 onwards, rusted staples asides
in a shuttered room,
Moorhens and crab apple bloom outside
keeps their e bay cottage industry bearable,
residual poverty waxes and wanes,
children always inheriting Granddads' stuff.

Ersatz coffee, chicory and dandelion,
a dream of self sufficiency
the town has regained its prominence
reverting to old style timber
chevaux de bois,
a smithy as new
as time unfolding,
the spaces between buildings
allowing the sun to divine down
sentimentality decked on back- stools,
speckled sepia blossoming
a petite fleur coronation crown
becomes renewed strangers.

Aspirant almost Leica
deftly fashioned  
fully throated
astro revved.

Commonality we've surrendered
the Public House now a seeming  relic,
we've been paid with others speculation
and remember convenience always gate crashes,
neighbourhoods now meekly surrender,
still November is our mono chrome
a telling time
stating past standards did exist,
the corner shop is now boarded
primordial no more:
the proliferate supermarkets triumphant
advertising opportunities for local people !

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!

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 .

From the croaks of our throats
upturned winter wonderland
whistles incessant Good King Wenceslas,
whose crown is the most deserving here?
but knowest all roads led to ruination,
a frail rain has already
castigated any twinkle dust
and the only braves
are the iridescent petrol  streams glimmering  down
the  forsaken motorway  for January's finale.


.

The inner city is relocating
every day there's new direction,
sash windows replaced by double-glazing
robust masonry sandexted,
the muffling of the bespoke past proceeds.
Yet Parties and boom music,
testify to weekend strain,
Sometimes we get more than we need !
How I have longed to reside in Catsfield
nr Pudding Hill Lane
amongst  the 888 parishioners
and live with a Battersea rescue cat
a victim of London neglect,
someone's got to live with  Phoenix  rising, I suppose.

Had the world enough;
counting daises and peas in the pod,
and the idea that lovers never stop believing
or shady nights refrained,
in pristiness  abound
theres nothing to lose
in the power until now uncontested

The honeysuckle
regimented like  battalions of soldiers
its scent carried  by the  wind's discretion,
white flicks of impervious  cinder,
a burning season
whose sulphuric  palace
left  no doubt
the  high church of summer
was descending,
envisaged russett on one hand
muddy grey like a chagrin,
come to soon
the expiration.

The dawning oasis
with vin d'une nuit  drenching the sand
sees the good driven out
The long haired suitors
are voided by decree.
Storks bask  in the sun,
as Saint  Nicola's Paris jolt
ends before the carnival begins,
the fools largely spent.

Had anyone heard of her accidentally?
elsewhere there's no trace.
I saw this paradigm of time drift by.  
Leastways Nikon F / Nikkor lens
ER Ektachrome caught her beauty;
never  flighty  Lavinia  Stone:
1/125  F5.6  stood her evergreen.  
Grained figurine, patient as light.
Portraiture from heavens sense,
cloudy drizzle
times eminent on blue rays.

It must be progress
when Alpha to Omega
is uttered by a child.
Can their BBM's really
create a new World vision ?
Are part time Revolutionaires
thickening the Plot
and will the threatening Sword of Damocles
ever be ploughed into something
more askance ?

Scoffed Pink pigtails nestle on rusted wire.
Captives  and their butterflies,
borrow hope till  dawn .
Way back they surrendered their dignity.
Hallowed chapters of  Collegiate sobriety
tussled  wearing a dress like a **** of hay.
How can they un- burden future  perception?
I know of the fire storm back home
but the expectancy is forgone
Extended with shame
Pink Rayon complies disparagingly
already moribund.

The  living windowsill  heaves in shyness
dappled moon flowers readily indolent,
Saint Joan alone shone in salient hope.
Ambient light peculiarly treads on others' footsteps,
as reticent prays find tearfulness enough
to make the Angels  cry,
egress only,
until we've drunk our Peace.

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.

Peter windowsill had a one track mind,
crystalline thoughts vexed him
a  suede  fringed woman had him smarting, but he's not the worrying kind.
Oh to be a Postman the best things come as future vermilion diaries
but birth mother's never recall their clams,
she's as attentive as a Cuckoo
sounding her new hatchling.
Peter window shop resounding
a chip off the old block

I wonder how far his shadow crosses
the stop line?
to rev it up a beat
in high Parenthesis,
further than the dirt tracks
towards the flinted road,
indeed to be freer than that.

She dreamed of the Mountains
beyond the historic oceanic driveway,
between the scorching morning sun and back again,
her illusions were rash and reckless in themselves.
Long Beach from the sea
suspected strangers
as tortured scions,
they will un-bridle your Yin-Yang
your mind is all that is left intact,
hands prosaic with lanolin washing
ablute  your American dreams

The Sun King has a musket
for his amusement,
he'll fire at Sages
Glacial his fall assured.

I tried for the rope of ignorance
to jettison seemly hope
but the four winds conspired
to drain  any thought,
whose intention complexes
the placebos already prescribed.
My ex howlers on the phone
she's asking me to give it a rest.
Already I sense she's swallowed,
the part that cannot make amends.
The siphon of good sense
wears thin like a DJ's copy,
should I  kneel down
whilst  finding lost sense?

Shadows over  the moon -
sickles jangle towards  my feet.
Even too  much  glue cannot  be  washed away.
Profuse,  there’s  no coolness,
when the  wicker  Woman has  shorn  you
of  your  inner  sense.
Even her  poetry  was  mercurial
and  the worst is
the fallout  is  inevitable.

The mirror of the  soul
a spectre of sepia
besides an unassuming smile.
How could we ever save ourselves
when the gold turns to silver
on parched lips we were led
to where dahlias  preside
in buckets of sand,
albeit temporal
How can we ever be said to boast?

Don't let the Human Race down
theres too much loitering on the breeze.
Best un- invite their crypto smiles.
and Everything is Corporate,  
bumbling politicians with no screen presence,
gauche PR  and easy pretensions.
Foreign intervention snowballs
as an afterthought
by men of limited intellect
balancing their variegated inconsistencies.

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

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.

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

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.

Headland and Flounders
drift alongside the edge
and what is excluded
bitter vetch, its famine vouch.
Life was then hewed
on a cusps of Moon,
their points return as
Libertines and Rakes.
Born from the same ideal
with choice to inform
and saddle the consequences.

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

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.

An answer is seldom as long as the day,
vaguer than a whistle stop
we gathered pace
recalling that question
we thought as clever,
those fledgling time lags
have since prolonged
the prodigal quest.

Peas in a pod muster.
Incubators already have inchoated
second best is not an option
From their little Red Houses
carrying the hopes of the World
albeit 95% Pass failure.
They always knew
45 KG's was never enough,
they have a capacity to even out thought thought,
professed middle class values,
iconoclastic Red double-deckers and love of the Bard,
there are no standard institutions
because like the last batch
spatial awareness
assumes their worth as peerless.

Coiled beneath a sleepers rafter,
atoning for the numbness
chosen, not felt.
I burn with a dark desire
to achieve an infinite satisfaction,
paraphrasing every minuscule sin
not fortified,
every schema variegated.

Aching legs won't carry your lazy ideals
The light patterns on the veranda dissipate
your past Summer's glory
Aged arguments still tarry a cast
and slightly overdoing it at the Lido
promised more than capability
as your range shrinks day by day.

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.

If I contemplate a Rose
redolent Rosa Moyesii blooms
come to mind
yet  the merest thought  of  snaffled hips
would snag
all thoughts of morality
and I would course
to live life as honest
as the gladness
I had pricked out.

The taking of Roses
their ovaries lesioned,
stamen's blanched
Is hubris now mordant  ?

The blank pitch is as devoid
as helicopter sycamores
hovering over vacuous brown bags,
broken fingers
that once played the Viola
point to an emptier sky.
With apparent reason
the abated audience channels
sideways,
sadness slipping
the podium long rusted.

With cushions to embolden practice
his teeth chattered like a monkey
a juddery fall did him remarkably well,
he was like a comet awry
a soft landing edified his standing,
merriment down the chimney
depuis Decembre .

Too many gestulate but Im already down.
One day hard hitting without thought
but now I willingly break bread
with my eyes pointing down.
To imposter anybody else is a sin.
No sympathy weeping branches
a twisting wind as lore is
more likely to see the light.