The wardrobe

stands

empty,


panels of pine

no longer

brushed by the fabric of you.


The doors close,

sealed by a magnets kiss -

a mannequin's tomb.

Winter beckons,
as humanity laminates the Earth,

shamefaced, we
falter and play in the snow.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

a flat-packed son.

...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.

pillars reflect water
fireflies skate on optic nerve

…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.

The tree,
like a curtain,
veils the clouds.

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

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

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

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

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 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.

as russet leaves fall
each crisp lonely step
evokes you

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

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

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.

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.

chestnut mushrooms
seasoned by springs sweet rainfall
chatter on tongues

...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.

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

You are a rock
smashing smaller rocks.

However, creeping
fissures crumble stone.

From plump cushions
with unravelling seams,
silver threads cascade.

A vertiginous plunge
into sullen carpets.

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

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

...a sibilant lullaby.

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

Soon -
the lullaby ceases.

Soon -
the sand dune
bassinet creaks.

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

Inside, folded wheelchairs rest,
tyres wheezily deflating.

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

You whispered in my ears
when darkness shrouded
my innocence.

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

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.

The sponge
is soft and as
light as innocence -

the colour of
honey and distant
fields of corn.

Lemon zest hangs
like paper lanterns
in vanilla coombs

and sugar glistens
like specks of glitter
in children’s dreams -

illuminating
crumbs in the
labyrinth of ****.

Observing snowflakes;
with each icy nuance glittering,

I forget my burning feet.

amber leaves
on hayloft roofs
glisten with
algid pearls

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.

Rolling sky like,
the grey and blue pushchair
became a cloud.

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

Once majestic,
the tattered
linen of your
sails sag.

The ripple of
the river is
your poem;

a swirling eddy
the final stanza.

I am tall - though not tall enough to see beyond the trees.
I hear screeching gulls but are they mere Sirens?
I smell and taste salt on the breeze. Does the ocean pulse?
Cradling my head, I wonder.