Misery's breath is creation
An impulsive response
Repression expressed, so vividly
Like sun on a winter morning

Beneath lights that whisper
In fear of the dark
The worms of the evening emerge
From piles, half fermented, indigestible spew from the intestines of the city
They stalk along the alleys like sharp dressed felines
Awake
Unfettered

Between fluttered curtains on a 13th floor flat, man argues with woman
Morning follows night
Ad infinitum

When she cries, perhaps she is laughing?
A stone's throw from spectrum's edge
Like a great burning wheel
Strewn across barren steppes

When she laughs, perhaps she is crying?
Riding the sine wave
Like a true, commited surfer
She crashes into the water
Tears become one
With the endless blue expanse

Barrington Clomber;
He sees the world in painted ways.
His eyes like marbles in candlelight
They see the whispers in the air
They feel the touch of silk on shaven skin
And yet he is alone, Barry

More trusting of the songs of the lark than the songs of the laymen
at home with fungus and vine, rabbit and duck
He does not touch the things which he cannot understand
Duly; for they too have rejected him
He is alone, Barry

He is a different breed
borne of soil and compost - for no umbilical tether connects him to his maternal visor

A perfectly disguised interloper, in appearance
But yet he hides the colour of his soul
The alien, the absurd, the mystifying
a psychological anomaly, not destined for this realm
but destined for periodic injections and forced conversations
with scribbling spectacled creatures, who look upon him not with pity
but with analytical, fearful eyes
as if looking upon a rat in a cage
If only they knew, that he was an experiment only in the omniscient eyes of the Gods

It is the time of year
Upon which the air rests, sick
With a moderate fever
And the wind speaks more robustly,
Through thin skin

It is when the great keeper of time hastens
As if preparing to leave his hearth
And venture into the great white strokes

To hear robins
Treading lightly
Upon half frozen dew

Let me see his face
For he is seldom revealed
Unless to the weak, or the unfortunate
Thus, he is weak, he is unfortunate
He skulks in the undergrowth
And perches upon cobwebbed chandeliers
Waiting for ruin, for retribution
Waiting for cosmic coincidence
And his name is death
But let my eyes give him life

The afternoon self
Differs from the morning self
Such that
The evening self thinks about it
But not for long enough
Such that the morning self forgets
How he differs from the afternoon self
Falls into a sleep
And paints the blackened ceiling
With images
From beyond himself

The mule, weary, he spins
around a grindstone, a machine
surrounded by hounds
thirsty for his weak flesh

Upon jagged cliffs
of physical strain
dystrophic muscles
crying for a release
freedom expressed
in a stream of solace
collapsed
on a yellow plain