Hob nailed clogs and leather boots are what gives this man his homely roots
I puts them under me bed at night and in the morning I choose which pair is right and that depends on my mood.

Food is also a big contributor, I'd go a mile for hot *** or a pound of tripe and gripe if they were not up to scratch.
No, thee cannot match what we lads have and what we calls our own,born and raised we've grown in God own Land and if not God then someone even greater had a hand in this.

Lancashire the golden shire,not that them Yorkshiremen would agree with that sentiment but if God or whoever it was meant for that lot on t'other side o' pennines to be an agreeable sort,
he or she would never have invented such a sport as
cricket.

We are big.
Like mountains.
If I am the mountain side, you were the wild fire.
Hot. Piercing.
Rendering my solid flesh to molten liquid and then to dust.
But only that I might grow again.
And more beautiful than before.

We face our compulsion. Spinning like mad children, in a ring of rosies, dangling dolls in the infinite black of space.
My binary star. My coupled light spinning my opposite.
Twice as bright.
Twice as beautiful.
But from a distance, we seem as one.

Perhaps this soft light I imagine surrounding you are our gods. Mouths open. Shamed by your beauty, that they could not have created you. Only dreamed you into being. They seem like fate, don't they?

And I am consumed with the constant reminder
of your absence. It plays on my tongue like bitter wine.
Leaving me drunk with want and yearning.
And so much more.

And this madness. Like a force undefined. Hurling our bodies. Like freight trains destined to collide. We can be bigger than mountains. We can be the trees and the sky and the pulse and the moon. All lit by twin stars spinning.

Your lack of light is desperate. A quiet void.
If I were a black-hole. You would be the event horizon
of my unmaking.
A voiceless abyss.
Incomplete.
And slowly growing.


If my eyes were moons. You would be my eclipse.

And this pulse. This landscape caught by rhythm. This thump. Like beating bodies. In carnal rhythm. Remembering each caress like history.

You are my legend. Your touch has written confession on my body, that I read like litany. Cuneiform.
Your fingerprint, an ancient code, written on my eyelids. Spoken on the tip of my tongue that I eat like Eucharist. That I drink like communion.

And my morning prayer is a mourning dirge.
Sung like a sailor for your return.
That you might find the wind of my breathlessness
And return to me
once more.
For I am motionless without you.

Yet.
I am mighty. Like wild beasts. I am stronger then before. I grow wise. I expand my eyes to encompass the horizon, that I may see every curve of your landscape. That I may feel every burn of your wild fire.

My longing is armor, that I wear. To conceal my beast. Like desire. Hungry. Waiting.

Tame me.

I miss your mane.
I miss your smell.
I miss your pulse, beating opposite mine.
I miss your light.

My shadow was massive. Stretching to the corner of maps.
My arms, a wingspan, that crossed time. Waiting to encircle you to me.

I have no light to cast a shadow.
I have no reason to fly.
My heart is barren.
Kept vacant for your return.
If not for you then always.
A singular place that once held your step.
A precious palace that you once danced in.

Spin.
Spin, Wildfire.
Devour my skin again with your hungry touch with your wanting kiss.
I wish to be reborn as yours.
Again.

Circle me that we may light the sky again.
And grow our horizons to outstretch the corner of our eyes.
Until we are blind.

Give me sight.
Let me see.
Let me see you.

That we might see our own light.

As one.

As yours.

Burn brighter than before.

Our footsteps echo through ancient halls,
                where here is everywhere
        and every time is now.

Caesar’s twin-edged conquests are our own
                as is Brutus’s fickle knife
        and Marc Anthony’s cunning speech.

Plague steals across our Europe
                like a remorseless highwayman -
        rosies all ringed and falling down.

We wait in Wien's Kärntnertor theater
                for Schiller’s An die Freude    
        to shine anew in Beethoven’s score

and are ushered in at Menlo Park
                where Edison's tungsten faintly glows.
        Tomorrow will bring sun to the night.

There's Jonas Salk at his microscope.
                One more test will crack the code
        to banish polio's scourge.

But nature’s caprice strews logs on our roads.
                We are dashed by a Tsunami’s rage.
        Katrina’s torrents have swallowed our homes.

Prides of warriors wade rivers of blood  
                and Darfur bullets tear into our chests.
        Nuclear Toys ‘R Us shelves are fully stocked.

We are the heirs of each triumph and treachery.
                We grasp the keys to tomorrow.
        What have we done? What must we do?

These lips are dried
I needeth spit,
These eye's are blind
From lonesomeness!!!

This skin is cold
I need ones warmth
Tis a soul
Of relic torch!!!

Mine heart is pounding
Im drenched in sweat
Their only tears
Of wanting best!!!

These pupils fatigued
Fading twins
I seeketh a beginning
That has none end!!!

The bed is emptied
No pedals layed
I'm still a fool
A lonesome slave!!!

Days of ring around the rosies
Pocket full of posies
Ashes ashes
We all fall down.
Days of bluebells
Cockleshells,
Evie ivy over.
Jack and Jill went up the hill
But we all know that it ended badly.
Wasn't it great
When we didn't know the history
Behind our childhood?

the shoulders are the dampest,

soaked with exchanged comfort and bittersweet grief.

amidst the mourning there’s always the systematical process of the farewell –

the only way to guide us to the true end.



we do it with fire

to purify, to cleanse, to return to dust.



we kindle affections, relations, intentions,

and nurture a flame that always grows out of control,

leaving loss and lament to burn our hearts.



condolences blur into a soft hum,

nothing unites us in our differences but

sometimes it only takes the pathos of cremation to realize that

ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

there is nothing left to say
everyone is speaking
gets louder everyday
a din of cell phones blaring
ads harassing to the soul
where went our truthful daring
all is stripped to twice produce
what’s then ten times over-tolled
clichés were born of meaning
but, oh, what great vigilance
note how keen the public eye
one thought of valor seeming
and the marrow is ****** dry

the straw children run and play
their ring around the rosies
but burn the field of posies
for television tells us
today, roses are more chic
and love has lost its justice
romance is just hide and seek
affairs come in litany
for want holds no salience
in lands of great industry
good girls know no prominence
past the throned celebrity

and god is a silent place
where everything is said
like symphonies of poets
softly writing in their heads

My mama’s shoes,
Fit my feet too snug, now,
For me to look cute, still, slippin’ them on.
I’ve no need of her lipstick, nor her raspberry rouge,
To make my face look, more, like hers does.

I’m a big, daddy’s girl, who has known the world,
But, not quite enough to really fit in.

--

I still heart,
Sunshine and rosies,
And, playin’ with mah toesies -
Eatin’ froot loops and pokin’ at roly poly’s,
Makin’ colourful cupcakes, covered in sweet gummies,
To eat inside forts filled with last winter’s lights,

Too,

Eatin’ Caramel Delights, sneakily,
Stolen, in spite - of the weight,
I was fightin’ so easily.

--

Perhaps,

When the adults are all done - playin’ house, for fun,
I’ll bring my cookies from the fort, to the table.
We’ll have coffee and speak of the stats,
For the week and laugh about,
Hart's becoming unstable.

And, I shall wear loafers,
That pinch at my,
Toesies that fidget,
Crazily,
Beneath my seat.

i wish i was bigger, dear April
so i could give you a ring
like daddy gave to mommy;
a ring so small so round.
but today, dear April, let’s sing
trees in puddles ripple
mudsplashing holdinghands as
we laugh and cry
because the summer goes by.

i wish i was stronger, dearer April
so i could carry you away
because time is a monster
sleeping under your bed.
but today, dearer April, let’s dance
a ring around the rosies
with May June and July
and let’s pick all the poppies
while spring is in the air.

i wish i was taller, dearest April
so i could hold your umbrella
while we parachute to our dreams
and i’ll catch you when we fall.
but today, dearest April, let’s float
up up up like reverse snowflakes
all the way to the moon
and then uper than the stars
because winter is ending soon.

(i wish i was younger, everdear April
so i could see you again
and smell your hair in sunshine
like angelscent memory.
but today, everdear April, i’ll remember
the way we sang danced floated dreamed
all the way to the moon of marry
until you fell away like a leaf
sailing in the winds of autumn)

Running always round
and round
and round
and round
a' rosies
what the hell are posies?
we hold them to our nosies
sneeze
cough
sneeze
cough
inoperable
3 months
Jesus Doc, I need a smoke.

Malaise words floweth from me,
as the rain taps this diffident roof,
where snap picture lovers sit in booths,
As i siteth on the hill!
tenacious muse...
Dearth of rosies line these chalk cracked walks,
Just complainers complain and gaulk,
as thine mergers thy own self sees breaking!
the earth seems quaking...
Saccharine duet,
a cloaked baggette,
a diamond in the rough i only heap to unravel..
the mound has turned gravel, where tombs whence layed..
Stanzas to post on paper,
clocks to do no favor,
as when time passes,
soo doth thy memories...
full yet unplentied..
Veneration is scarecely innocent,
the young grow older, the bold seem colder,
as neither hot nor cold,
thou could spew them from thine mouth!
a red immutable couch!!!
Unprecidented lingo i want to perfect,
where a queen and me will flect,
on now,
and thy new tommorrow.
ourn own oak thats hollow!!!
two sage stoic's,
where when thouest fall one shall know it,
and lend you their hand,
and NOT a tounge lashing!
ultimate blessing...
Two herasies made covenant,
two births on their own planet,
One spirit to their magnet,
as One profuse enigma ,
Provincial to god and us...........

air comes cold when it blows in the summer
fields now bare star crossed lovers
made way for us; the calling birds
we wait outside the doors and curbs
alone on branches and powerlines
our silhouettes aren't hard to find
old walls of bricks, of straw, and birch
have wavered not the mighty chirp
crows and sparrows in the night
are unlike you, we need no light
here come machines and bustling towns
rings of rosies falling down
no need for such when you have wings
take comfort in the flying things

In the corner she sits and stares
As she watches me through her contemplating snares
Laughter fills the room
As she approaches & brings with her unprecedented doom
She grabs the light within me
And starts a waltz, ignoring my plea
The laughter starts to fade
Ring around the rosies with never ending words she played
Leading me further into her corner
The funeral she has planned, needs a mourner
As I step towards her, my eye catches the light
My Soul clinging to every inch of the internal fight
Lady of Darkness wraps me in her coat
Using a broken cup to scoop the ocean out of a sinking boat
Suffocating as my toes find the oceans floor
Realising in that second, this was a make believe war
Lady of Darkness sinks beneath me
She finally heard my plea.

You're distilled
soaked through
reverent of
task at hand

pondering
complexities
that play
ring a round
the rosies
all day long
in your head

longing to quiver
******
and touch

common sense
would tell you
you're **** Out Of Luck

to put it bluntly
You're ******!

The wrecking ball long since
demolished boyhood house zen
located at 324 Level Road,
a once nonagricultural,
pastoral, rural residence,
which soulful yen
I called home while
veritably sequestered, quarantined, positioned...
sprawled atop spaciously shingled roof
countless years (B)efore (C)ovid-19
scanning distant horizon
for unsuspecting barenaked lady,
perhaps said goo goo doll sunbathing

catching rays while maybe listening
courtesy iPod to WXPN
one among several favorite stations of mine
one hotmail (male) buzzfeeding
avast fancy feast
home sweet home
since February 28th, 1968, when
Boyce and Harriet Harris
deceased parents then at their prime
both transplanted Brooklyn
Borough citified folks,
hankered to escape urban jungle
quickly acclimated livingsocial in the country.

Aforesaid domain didst span,
once assumed, encompassed, incorporated
one hundred plus acre wooded estate
(analogous to fictional land inhabited
by Winnie-the-Pooh and his friends)
listed in national register
as "Glen Elm", where ran
woodland surrounding a golden pond
favored by Canadian Geese,
but under game plan
of commercial developer Donald Neilson
(a tall lumbering
"all business no play doh" man.

Soon after aforementioned builder/realtor
bought expansive land
blueprints soon drafted for
an army of vinyl city
exemplifying Little boxes
on the hillside ditty
Little boxes made of ticky tacky...gritty
material upending wildlife refuge,
ah...what a pity.

Impossible mission to stop industrialization,
the das capital way
spurring thy preferential longing
for nature preservation oye vey,
and to make a million bucks in USA
if land left off limits
for propertied class today
then in the near future,
an aggressive builder will sashay
confirming prophecy
scooping up gobs of profit
out maneuvering competition

analogous to a marathon relay
race quickly witnessing little boxes
to sprout all the same
by construction workers,
hired brawny hands to maximize
American middle class dream
asper buying affordable home
nailing steady income,
viz all work and no play,
after acquiring a mortgage to outlay
which prospective homeowner
doth figuratively hammer away.

Their choices limited indeed
maybe there's a green one and a pink one
and a blue one and yellow one, how zing
free enterprise, and they're
all made out of ticky tacky
held together on a wing
and prayer they all look
just the same sporting lawn
anticipating family with young children
ready to play kiddy game
such as: Ring-a-ring-a-rosies
A pocketful of posies
A tissue, a tissue

We all fall down
The king has sent his daughter
To fetch a pail of water
A tissue, a tissue
We all fall down
The robin on the steeple
Is singing to the people
A tissue, a tissue
We all fall down
The wedding bells are ringing
The boys and girls are singing
A tissue, a tissue
We all fall down.