the guitar strings rust
dead skin clings to icy steel
frozen melody

suffused with
spectral footfall
the promenade
fades into grey
winter stone.

With crumbling
smiles, pierrots
sally in monochrome
frames and the
dead bones of
donkeys rise to
cloddy beaches.

Through salt
burned eyes,
torpid seas
heave like heavy
blankets over rusting
lungs; the pulse
of slow decay.

The wind torn sunflowers
hang like broken clockfaces;
leaden pendulums swaying.

sunlit leaves flutter -
wafting emerald silks
flicking atoms

The bus stop
was there,
but not quite there.

Something was
missing. Or had,
perhaps been added.

Buses passed,
all with the
same driver.

That was odd,
but not quite odd
enough to be troubling.

The F11 wouldn’t stop.
Yet, it stopped long ago,
a green streak fading –

a tail of memories,
the ghosts of boats –
under Bella and Bertie’s gaze.

Going back
can never
be going back –

chocolate bars shrink
and the wrappers
rustle, differently.

Winter beckons,
as humanity laminates the Earth,

shamefaced, we
falter and play in the snow.

Words –
hammered like
nails into
****** pine.

Spilt resin,
knots and splits;
scar tissue
planed and jointed –

a flat-packed son.

chestnut mushrooms
seasoned by springs sweet rainfall
chatter on tongues

A leaf, drenched and torn;
spins through apathetic gullies.

Thin veins pump pulp;
scrivened sheets, knotted in repose.

dripping fire
the oak's toes are nibbled
by rimy teeth

as russet leaves fall
each crisp lonely step
evokes you

…moonlit, the swing sags;
lank chains rust, steel corrodes.

Warm neurons fire –
salad days and grassy knees;

swinging higher,
factories loom beyond the trees.

Cold neurons fire –
churning ache, reality’s breeze.

Shivering in the
corners of shadows;

clammy skin writhes, alive with
the gritty shuffle of feasting beasts.

Razorwire slices; evisceration,
collapsed innards, black bowel splatter.

Swathed in laughing black
clobber, mouth pinched in sneering folds,

the spinning turnip
crashes, reduced to trampled mush.

pillars reflect water
fireflies skate on optic nerve

Nosferatu, Frankenstein -

Ice on spine
chillers from the
golden age of gothic ghouls.

What is so ball
scrunchingly creepy?

All that remains
are monochrome phantoms.

The chef is dying,
limp between starched white sheets.

Sour cream drips
from breathless meringue;

fading whites,
deathly pallor.

Puddles and pancakes -
the menu of the day.

The tree,
like a curtain,
veils the clouds.

Lemon grove -
celestial pendants;
awaiting gravity's pluck.

The actor Anthony Perkins
ate jar after jar of gherkins.
Green with rage he knifed Janet Leigh
what a murderous pickle to see!

... acquiescence to Nature's breath,
blown into the bliss of nothingness.

Stare
at the
universe;
backlit pinpricks
on card. Cosmic children in playful ruse.

...unwinds from the silver birch.

Sinewy branches, twist, rip,

Dangle and fall; crushed and swept

Under carpets of roots. All

But clustered dust, resting now.

the old man's breath
tears russet pages
from ragged books

A shadow that aches;
tremulous against the cleansing of light.

Disembodied substance.
The cogito?
Or secrets wrapped in secrets,
the invisible reality.

You whispered in my ears
when darkness shrouded
my innocence.

A black paged lexicon
of nuanced threats
I grew to fear.

Liquid tongues clash and lash;
ephemeral strings and impossible knots.

Forever flowing, forever weaving,
warp and weft the aqueous loom.

Typed words
Cast out into ghoulish space
Gothic panes pulse and refract
The distortion of light.

There was a thinker called Hume,
Whose bundle theory did bloom.
So, what of my self?
A curious elf,
Alone in a unreal room!

The straw is now my only connection to you -
a figurative bridge ornate with humanity.

I thought you
were rusting
in the blue
felt-lined box.

Neat dovetail
joints framed
your bespoke
resting place.

But, brass
doesn’t rust,
it only stews like
over-brewed tea.

And tarnished,
arthritic valves
no longer wheeze
a tune from you.

I wonder,
if you ever
graced a noble
stage,

or simply
bled in the
hands of a
dilettante.

I hope for
the former,
I couldn’t
bear the latter.

tumbles through
tenebrous caves;
slow erosion
lost in clacking
echoes -
ephemeral
puffs of dust.

Five-years-old and school
shoe shopping, I saw a sparkling pair.

They won't last five
minutes my mother declared.

Although puzzled
and disappointed -

clearly and distinctly, I knew
my mother would not deceive me.

From plump cushions
with unravelling seams,
silver threads cascade.

A vertiginous plunge
into sullen carpets.

You are a rock
smashing smaller rocks.

However, creeping
fissures crumble stone.

Observing snowflakes;
with each icy nuance glittering,

I forget my burning feet.

Dawn's raging furnace
succumbs to moonbeam fingers
clenching throats.

Darting silver threads
sewn without visible seam
into muddy pools.
A moment of clarity
then turbidity returns.

Blue flames lick
the copper-bottomed pan.

Inside, hot milk rises,
underneath a white, foamy tarp.

A whoosh and frothy surge of
swollen milk cascades down steel sides.

Blue flames
turn red and extinguish.

Gas and acrid vapour mingle,
a beach of volcanic ash cools.

...trickles down the windowpanes of
the blue summerhouse.

Inside, folded wheelchairs rest,
tyres wheezily deflating.

The greenhouse - plants
removed and pots upturned;

a coffee shop of stolen breathers,
the wheezy breeze of whining.

Tobacco tendrils twist, amber
sludge hazing sun-kissed panes.

...snowman.

Ruddy jowls and
coal dark mouth,

its coiled, springy
conk sniffs.

Beach ball bodied with
scarf belted at the waist,

its aluminium legs rooted
in black cartoon clogs,

wobble underneath
a crab topped tall hat.

amber leaves
on hayloft roofs
glisten with
algid pearls

Once majestic,
the tattered
linen of your
sails sag.

The ripple of
the river is
your poem;

a swirling eddy
the final stanza.

Gossamer-winged
illusion winking at the
periphery of thought and vision.

Hinterland elfin mischief maker
sparkling in ethereal glitter;
dancing through the realm of eternal dawn.

...a sibilant lullaby.

Conch shell sounds,
sweeping surf
scrubs ***** skin.

Soon -
the lullaby ceases.

Soon -
the sand dune
bassinet creaks.

The purple doll
ages but never grows -
unlike broccoli withering
into winter soup.

Fading instead -
cobwebbed, each
thread a singular
nightmare - a set, silky,
smooth malignant mousse -
bleak, black and shiny.

Blue flames lick
the copper-bottomed pan.

Inside, hot milk rises,
underneath a white, foamy tarp.

A whoosh and frothy surge of
swollen milk cascades down steel sides.

Blue flames
turn red and extinguish.

Gas and acrid vapour mingle,
a beach of volcanic ash cools.

Winter's icy fingers snap rime clad branches;
dragging splintered boles to a hoary moonlit hinterland.

arctic hares
burrow
under the grey
wolf's gaze

tangy vine tomatoes
picnic bites that drip on happy chins