.
.
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Are not your eyes set on the truth

Or do they seek out the illusions
made up from the images of your youth

Have you catagorized the abstract from practical truth

Or elevated your opinions
to be the irreversible truth ?

Where is the lamp that Diogenes bequeathed to you ?

Do you now stumble over the light ,
over false accusations with fingers pointing at you ?

Are they not false prophets
full of wind ?

Whose breath blows out the candles of tomorow
leaving the shadows to strut within ?

Turn the words to fire and let them consume the wooden thoughts

From the dust to the ashes

Salt poured on the lashes

Burn the truth to create

light for the righteous

I sit watching brown eyes
probe affectionately through the haze
at the mirrors created by close family.
I think the intimacy that is made possible
by the sharing of wine, **** and space
in a dim room full of sad love and smoke
will never ceased to amaze me.
The men see themselves in each other
and are both heartened in their own ways
I am drunk now in my way
and The Mirror is ****** in his
and Brown (Green) Eyes is both at once
Appalachian mouths move in turns
to take a hit or a drink or a shot at wisdom
Suddenly the truth of our three souls is laid bare
on the tiny table there between us.
My heart tightens around the words
as they echo through each chamber
growing louder with each reverberation.
“Happiness is being able to breathe”

Love you, Frank.

Shall I compare thee to a motorway?
Thou hast better surfacing and a softer verge.
Alone we fight our cone wars night and day.
Now with your unrestricted middle lane let me merge.

My central reservation, thus: - will our bodywork survive this amorous collision?
My tailgate does not now rise so high.
My global positioning system points towards oblivion
But could we at least give it a try?

Oh please Give Way and let me in
Don't 'No Entry' or hard shoulder my little furry dice.
I've got the jump leads on, and although emissions are a sin..
I think - oh yesss! - I've hit the red line! - that WAS nice.

So long as men find dangerous curves excite, and fossil fuels breathe other sorts of fire -
So long last all the crazy pile ups of middle aged desire.

The gorse withers on the ground
The Sin is autumnally thin
Silence hithes in blue
Those roughshed days
are scattered with the leaves

Schemes are forgotten
Feelings disposed
Into the chamber of nothingness
do we ascend

Lamenting
Guitars are trickling
And the lamp lightly lit
We have come to dream

Drenched in feeling
Eyes drink the landscape

I could swear that each colour was
emotion-tinted
sorrow-toned
anguish-textured

How many stretched hours of living
made each heavy brush-scar?

What volume of rinsing tears
for each change of shade?

Why did the artist know instinctively that the people
were so small
in such a vast, pigment-thick world?

From this distance they feel like children
But I know that they are grown
At least on the outside

Agony
and aesthetics
amalgamate in
assembled alchemy

Are these thoughts
artist-intentioned
landscapist-birthed
painter-engineere­d?

Or are they my thoughts
reflected
by brush strokes?

Designed to elicit, not instruct
To return, not to teach
To cast-back, not to create

This open canvas
in muddy colours

A perfect, terrible mirror
Helping me gently
in my now softened
sadness