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.

The  Contra jour man hid his  grimace,
watching the Punch and Judy show
with vignettes of spectators in like denial,
he  clenched his fists
fearful of the spotlight
yet he could not surrender pain

Eventually he try to break the  rules
and heal underneath.
Yet his crucifix a new seaside town
with a floodlit vaudeville
presenting songs of  belied memories
to which he can only  raise a mug
of  out of season white burgundy
apparently leading the dance  nowhere.

The Cri de Coeur
screeches urgent emotion
but their Exclamations
are unpicked , back to determination
Did the Revellers needlessly pay for this their Summer ?
But for Capricious truths
they now run fickle and jarred
naked is the heart of the matter,
a hastened path runs counterintuitive
as empty silences often veers
ungrounded.

There will always  be an Autumn spat
where the cat foils the dormouse
and the Annual taster chocolate box
arrives as nonchalant
as the  mysterious sender.
Sometimes I wish we were  boxing hares
to really celebrate an outlet for renewed anger.
Munching on my bagels, i feel a pang of Hypocrisy.
I run fickle,  planning out the chequered
season.

secrets about  secrets
imagine walking stark
unaware of streams
almost factual

She sang hymns of praise,
appearing distant,
for which marvel she did not know
a Rowan or Wren
virtues of fortitude  in an unsteady World.
Her eyes worn
had fallen upon this empty shell.
What seed corn do we grapple
a hoarse breath
and in her very own Garden of Eden.

Down Cricklewood and Hampstead ponds
eyeing au pairs from France and Germany
wheeling  their ******* -
madam's pram.
They can hardly wait for their rest days.
Ride along King's Road and smoke Gitanes,
listen to May Blitz on eight track
you don't need Einstein to see your right.
Burning September sun
hot pants a la mode
said the tawny Owl.

The  spotlight  is  on the  broken  coastline
porous - like  archers  spilling arrows
into  the vanquished hinterland.
In the ancient West  Mercia
wooden bridges collapse
uproar, as the King's regiments
long disbanded , ghosts
into fading memory.
Our  defenders, our  loyal subjects
enmeshed into the  wider  fear
our  citadels breached,
and where  is  the  valour
the self reliance of  our  septic isle?

The Gods have forgotten how to die,
in the Serengeti the Lion fills his cup.
Gerrymander those dreams furnished as overkill,
for safekeeping store them in a crucible so that,
Warriors pledge wherewithal returns,
a monstrous bounty to wrench
the loadstone enduring.

I used to count the Acers
honed red striped wood,
offering hope in depths of February,
aeons of breakfast wishes
played changes that cannot be backed down
any more than my russet creations,
I long for companionship
as earthy as bottled Bordeaux ,
only if my crocus mia pathway
enfuses with the sound
of the incurious  contendedly arriving

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

I wonder if she can chalk her hollow face
Sometimes her plumage wrangles in indisposition
Like Cormorants lacking buoyancy with  a sea breeze

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.

For fity miles
she rode on a  rare Steed
to show her endeavour,
never saying whether should would dither -
a hearth must be prepared with care
a heart's evermore if it is sincere,
dreaming of the future under a
Trestle viaduct,
she recalled tact,
your typical daughter
with thin waist
and flaxen hair
could be changed by the World,
instead she had the courage of choice,
to embroider a kindred yarn
and perform revival folk
to kinder Columbine kingdoms,
perchance early to rise?

He feigned the Wolves trail
having bathed in country ponds
Tangles and cold fleet,
flowed the scene.
Buoyed by this voyage
he proceeded to chortle,
by shaming the stunned Rainbow
The glow of  Midnight incalculable.

the rugged light stumbles like a foal
the juxtaposition of choice plays
between right and wrong
I recall the cup of forthrightness
infringed inherently
with the sad lady,
for what was said
was not even fair yesterday.
Watch my shoreline sand prints ebb
and decide on forgiveness if you wish.

Ailsa Craig, Ailsa Craig. Ailsa Craig
Why can't  I have you instead of
Kelsea,Kelsea,Kelsea,
what a favorite of the showbench.
Give me Leak the Lyon anytime
in favour of Pendle Improved.
Onions are for eating,
flavour is more important
to hell who wins on the show day.

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

Although I too have forgotten my lines
today's celluloid seems to be shedding its script
the raw talent confers a lack of oomph.
Only my projection screen follows perfection.
I'm caught in a nitrate web,
with partaken beauty firing
my basement dreams,
onward choices amongst Colleen Moore
and Blanche Sweet
testifies professionalism spoke eloquently without words

Vermilion skies pass me by
and into the night the chasm opines
an imagined Ferris wheel at a carnival
turns contra against smothering bindweed,
is this a metaphor for confusion ?
a turnaround of sorts
and with a habitual doff of my hat I bid
to draw this recurring dream to an end,
the naked view now seems surreal.
Should  I then hear the adjacent marching feet of others
surrendering their names in juxtaposition.

We still see and hear their annoying class,
business Blackberry users amplify their relic, a discourse with the plebs,
plumb clipped tones from deepest
Home counties and southern coast
tired men with families
moved to gentrified London,
at any farmers market you catch them
in their 4x4, dress down best
a pram in tow, Pomfrey  junior
their prodigal Norman sounding offspring
rhetorically the promised land,
a seed bank unending.

The Analogue diviners
200's swirled and drowned,
ISO granularity further compressed
in the midst of adversity
we will pledge our mounts
to  prosperity.

The Anorak diviners see
their market jolted, killed off  
Already Magic numbers's 64 and 200
are side-lined and downed,
all they have are memento boxes of
once household brands ,
liquidation like implosion sees,
ISO granularity choice further compressed,
those remaining niched as Professional film
to milk the last remnant of expediency,
in the midst of adversity
they should pledge their mounts
as a salvo to tomorrow.
Earmark them, gifted for
Local History Musems
pristine images from yesteryear.

The North of the Borough
is often more than a geographical zone
its a state of mind.
Always the under  
yet never standing down.
Howler down your Motorola Razr
and kiss confidence into this brick !
I want your barbour jacket
gifted stares and then blanks,
keenly seeing off your Ray -Ban,
downing your peacock pride
that overplayed our top deck

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

Crème brulee, a careless mind,
singeing, burning albeit caramelized
like a politician never normalized,
crawfish should never be apologetic
there's an avaricious  food chain
in there somewhere,
gun shot without hardly knowing
right from wrong
conceal that  powder trail
dig down to Bayou.

I used to project cobwebs
much as I had gelatin laces
laced  in circular jars

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.

She travelled from London to Weedon
if only for a day she promised to be
someone of importance,
by burning bridges.
Espying the gentry by learning subterfuge
the romance of the veil,
observing the roses by feel.

I often think of stray unloved cats 
facing  God knows what
or heartless  people with something against pigeons.
I'm fearful for the floaters in my right eye
and  how  in time talking about  Seventies  rock music
will seem affected,
with sensitivity I try  not  to gander
but  convince  others of  my  right,
the  fluidity of eventually  becoming  what one is.

The Moon went down
the fallen crest of a Queen
- beat Lucifer like a snake.

Pious black ladders
scatter young twigs beneath,
a dose of Q and A
kills all known conversation.
The kids in the back hall
score vermin
a dose of Strychnine
lauders still.
To undo this burning energy
the lay- bys
strenuously breaks into laughter

Tuesday's wallet brandished its spoils
National Express to Stoke again
to partake in oatcakes and
dreams of smoking Embassy No 6 ****
as tall as bottle kilns.
On Wednesday we will meander
to Trentham Gardens
next to Monkey's World
for a roll of cheese and pickle,
washed down with English Breakfast Tea
and later by the canal's edge
unearth some seasonal pottery.

She became brazen
or so he thought,
having come home with Monday's rain,
so he forgave her.
She thought out aloud
Stoke and pottery classes
once the greatest of eases
but with the wherewithal -
in parenthesis to "gently nurture".

The train compartment is not unlike a denist's waiting room,
some people you instinctively warm to, like a winning  smile
others you want to yank
like some milk tooth attached to the  door.
but what do I know?
aggression and fatigue
same bed fellows
from the side panel
of subterfuge.

The fjord shattered light
hues of autumn plaid
in their wanderings
to those darker corners.

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 .

He wanted to take charge of life again
and use slide film with his Canon EF SLR this barren year,
and give long stares to all those Tripod Digitalits
outside Victoria Station
creating their own version of affordable youth,
thinking pixel dust would swam them along.
He felt the strain of believing in the recent past,
please intentionally use your typewriter and record player
you need to create 1982 again!
The Christmas meal would on the 21st
like a flea in a dog's ear
too near the exile of Christmas
He feared the break would make him stir crazy,
2013 would emerge
surely more of the same.
A risible Tory Government
perhaps alternative comedy was far from dead.
"Splitting Image" would be their neutron Bomb,
Such thoughts made him want to love the common people again

I'm gazing toe fat first
at certain things I wish not to see  
like cathartic cathedrals en vue,
still I've forgotten all the rules,
twisting butter knives
runs counter, yet upwards
into spare rib cages,
will silence placate those tectonic plates
can the river merit summer this way,
as Hare Krishna bather's prays echo
blind-side towards the shady grove
already lost to the knowing season

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.

The cold dash in October
could break your ankle,
on some twig strewn iced river,
gusted by this uneasy Bravado.
And through this
we form a common bond
the strewn and promiser will led their merry dance.

It is better to shut your eyes and see again
and undream.
So rollick in the  dew,
the  resplendent  Samphires will regrow.
For were we not pre destined
to edge towards the tidal  marshes
and with dugout boats
voyage through the satisfied.
Tempus fugit awaits
to enrapture  our intricacies.

The singles game had the power to change,
all it requires is believability
and prosaic earrings with stories about Turkish exes,
welcome together in a taxi to Blackheath
home to Father's Anchor butter
and her  tireless Cat Stevens dreams
an open secret she's got an addictive habit.
Gin and on off days  
Tobacco for cultivating asthmatic lungs.
Could never understand was this an
altering cry for help.

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

There is a brisk  discountenance
in an angry Mother's Moon
for their bespoke Sons onwards,
they snap their beaks,
pea size humanity,
resurface  buried adrenaline
from hockey days,
inwardly angry at their profligate fertility.
Its enough to de merit the spirit,
then store
a prosaic promise
that when older
their *** is marked for attention,
a discourteous tail chasing.
A mark of a indoctrinated Son.