She had always been a dreamer
never believing 5"2 had been the issue.
A Napoleon comfort complex cultivated
Believing personal leadership was inevitable
St Helena would never be an option.
Her akimbo pose was to die for.
ADÉLIE, of  sometimes higher ideal
your eyes gaze without feeling
across the Channel deemed possibly truculent.
Blinded by this scary Palladium
you should only untangle due blame.

The China Doll sensed lonelinesses
as the swirling wind hugged her
cracking her porcelain face.
She hoped the shafts of light
would fill the cracks
but the Cosmos is unforgiving
black widens, like a rivulet
encircling her dreams.

Thorny theories, swan songs
to ask but once
Anita Bryant , a  Southern librarian
swam Bathing suit
in the algae deemed
the origin of mankind,
betrothed or otherwise
whispered the newly keeper of the Fauna.

Words and phrases
runs counter as daffodils
defiantly shy from beauty
listening to the vetch's forlorn,
sometimes we face long standing fears,
in time we question
if we really belonged to this ungainly,
the word of fable instinctively  protests,
unfolding its quilt
pledging Crocheted yarns of winding roads,
we then assuredly dream of
open spaces.

she walked beyond
fearing the last creature
by her shadow,
supple palms - she forgotten
what had caused
her denizen to perceive
more than what was allowed.

the heirloom runcible spoon lies buried in  sand,
the tarzana kid has been accused of carelessness,
by such means
his holiday is horribly trampled,
this chided summer youth
now walks the plank,
its all pirates on the dorset coast.
Parents out of order
more bucaneer than relish
and Aunties only now kinder
by learned rote.

The High Street at first was marked
with Charity Shops forever in lieu
came the Pound Shops.
Old Brands stayed with us
but in turn the internet compounded the decline
perhaps cyber shopping is akin to playing pong,
the familiars, like a fire-storm evaporated,
music, bookshops, photography
whose to know the next stage?
but I bet the inner city will be hamlets
of chiefdoms,
Gertrude the concrete cow
adorned with Golden paint
and urban Cowboys
duelling in Midnight Charades

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.

He died with his boots on
but he was no hero of mine
he was the famous grouse
and hen pecked husband
of a cuckolded wife.
having made the stickleback and
jaundiced  Moon resolute .

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 .

The lost Sun dial bears no shadows
bramble is its crown
plinth weathered

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

If I possessed Batch 256309
I would be more altruistic,
listening to Brian Friel
growing stronger
on my Technics SL-D303,
faking my wall
with femme Claudine Longet,
loading expired Elite Chrome
into my stead Canon EF 1973.
.

The Prince of Heaven rotates the truth.
Stacked in whispers
hush words scrambles the floor,
arcane winds blame the new;
preservation lusts moribund  moonlight
as magic circles catch the Sun.

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 .

Even as a ******* symbol
the Shard looks worn
like a prison grandee
without a stipend to
command protection

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

beneath the dying trees
we kicked our unlettered sins to touch
and blushed as shamelessly as we laid
our inglorious resignation,
for our ashes required a stoke
to unkindle others wantoness

The stave, white and sharp
its jaggered edge prompts
sanctuary,
a curious light is thrown
it deceives the stillness.

The  rivulet carries your dreams
as will the  cherry  blossom,
an eddy of  hope will  serenade
before a certain loss shorns your patience,
of  a  love lost
and to  realise  its only  channel is  a seashell
the  sound  before  the  rivulet
where  once  you  were the  liege
but  the  coarse fisherman's daughter
left with the  whittle of a voyage
can only  laugh at  the  serenity of  your  suggestion
the assumption behind  your  dream

Stunned by the oyster beds
Arrow-smiths lost their pledge,
the silted whispers of the dying
sighed as peacefulness.

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

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.

2010 you say laughed at you
mini calendars still hanker
and sometimes come back stronger
no matter how wrong at the time

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".

The d'oeuvres are no longer being served,
and the spaghetti' with clam sauce
not so fetching,
over my white tuxedo.
The service is  inexplicably hurrying  
at the Cafe Rouge;
this gushing turnaround,
but with a  Gewurztraminer in the waiting,
has somehow has moved  me,
more than the curt  waitress Jeanne,
thankfully her imaginary grudges receding.

A Mare births in an open field
pristine the new foal
born as free,
that quality  never apply to you.
Emotional attachment seems self serving
Offering a new perspective there's no nourishment
unless its a one way tendril
a deadly nightshade blown awry ,  
the scope of your unfolding feels determined  - latitudal!

on cloudless days we besmirch the suns reign
the spirit hankers for Autumn
the baltic coast apposite
launches thy being by the northern skies,
a trinity of light  leds to the caucasus plains
to reveal Edens gardens
and locate cultivars of apple
and vine
to graft onto our dying seasons

A seemless trail
plays to the audience
undressed could tomorrow
even wipe your brow ?

Sitting pretty Thelma answered
because she was thirsty,
the mildew in the bathroom
reminded her cold air snagged,
random thoughts of the hunting sea grasses
quickened the wish to be free,
a clear voice set in motion
this captive flow .

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.

in the rubble of our hearts
we are surfeit,
barren edifices decry
past treasures; now forlorn-
forgotten.
those unwitting  trojan horses
long usurpers  of discord,
survey their kingdom whilst
a few survivors dream of spiritual renew
in this darkened unpredictable place.

Restless hidden away
opaque shafts blade
the windowsill.
An appetite too shorn
of confidence
welters prism
of carriages too far gone.

The Neon chatter box
says lets all talk with the same tongue,
he said he was sorry for before,
his moustache quivered under this
sanguine strain.
Most of us are foxes
who glady forage through black sacks,
some of us sit bow legged
quintessence in a darkened room
and siphon others gloom away,
but there's no standard release clause
their eyes rock with the tide
until a printing press is sought
yet their Universal probity ignores
the jammy Neon chatter boxes duplicity
embossed as the stalwart he now wants plangent marching in step

You tasted marzipan on her lips
but you wanted the steadfast of  Marchepan,
a fuller denser taste
already the deceit ran through your veins.
The Night keepers have  moments
with their concubines,
and there lay the rub.
Your betrothed only smiled
in half uncertainty.

The Grapes you feasted on
swelled your eyes,
receding hopes
chasten powers,
having played with grief
to shore some unrequited resentment
you withdrew.
The beast of envy has scorned sanity
to  improve his venture.

The candor of colour plays havoc
on the jaded wallpaper,
ravenous cracks in the ceiling  cry mauve pain,
tantamount to walks into woods  with unseen prying eyes.
Yellow I recall was the fixer, the foil  of the tableau.
We have all been burnt, having offered our souls into the nexus of assumed sincerity
and still become twice removed.

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

You felt a Monster
when your Hamster Wolverine  died
Did that almost turn your head to Sylvia Plath
Yet you are decidedly amongst the living
and should never pilgrim with Mannequins
When Life's bedevilled by doubt
can your wise  friend find rhyme with you
perhaps to Scarborough and back again
on some weekend decider.

Tate and Lyle, Mrs Beeton
and now attitude.

Wassell with cleft mouth
saw beyond you
pale hand in blue light,
cannot stay here.
Dietrich he would not die for you,
he sees Angels elsewhere.
He'll rather unfurl their muslin robes
under dappled silhouette,
swelling the Danube.

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.

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.

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.

A Galax of blossom
the woodland garden,
Solomons seal and Euphorbia too.
Cinderella
a melt down of lavender blue.
A walkway abode of enchantment.

You're naive
like a chiselled wood cut,
worse still you're all alone
the rage has worn through,
autumn shades flicker
eyesore,
you rub your occasional disbelief,
childlike glances dim further
the available light
retorting again.

all she gives is second place,
but does hungrier make you better?
her cheek bones porcelain,
like contemplation,
without frontiers.
oh to be a truculent fork.