in the silver of morn, little bird joyful trills
five lines remain blank
the notes won't play on
its breathe lies below the sand
where tranquil bulrushes grow


1.
in the hue of sombre afternoon
    knees drawn up to chest
    memories intent on knocking loud
cold harbour between these sheets
   no blotting out that light -- it has to be faced
there's no silver in the clouds.. so bulbous and so there
only a tie on the path


2.
can you please let me be?
need to be left alone a while
while I clean up the righteous-mess of this dread
           hours to make me presentable before that
which must be lived through

smiles can be pasted on.. by old-habit, so well-mastered
it's an old tale caught in a twist by its own wick'd-tail
perhaps some gale to shake up the roster
and relieve from parallel track.. liberate
surely, they can hear the stylised bass-chords inside me
             leave their odd-resonance
boom.. boom

3.
treble is missing..
your laughter, I can still hear your tinkling-laughter
         even as I see you being lowered slowly, slowly, slowly
s l o w l y
down into the bowels of where we all go to rest one day
you take with you.. the *one clef needed for clarity to live

shut eyes tight against that bright-red insolence
        struggle with the process of accepting the impossible
reliving anguish through swollen eyes in a clip of vision
imposing terror.. grips tummy-muscles and twists
eternally deforming galaxial-dust in my eyes


4.
in the grey of eve.. no hunger, no thirst
    place food in mouth - must
    shove fluids down constricted-throat - must
..baking sun waves at me, setting in gilt-smiles

clean out the navy-attic of my overdrawn-mind
find your blue bubblegum on the counter
and suddenly, my arms are clad in shivers-cold
                       head is spinning
I pick up the morsel, turn it over and unwrap
stare at it, discovering you.. again
tears well but never fall..
         I place the gum inside
         chew and chew and chew....................
it is you.. not lost
place the bubblegum on silver wrapping
'cause the clouds.. they offer no solution

I have to eat, my hunger grew
my sanity is toast


5.
yes, smiles can be pasted on.. by old-habit
        but not this time
why let love be secured so.. then harshness steps in
to wrench away.. leaving such monstrous-gaps?
perhaps it's safe to just.. not love..
close up the heart - pack away in congelator

(weird.. a heart is just a piece of meat)
love-letters and sweet-poems are for the eyeless
hearts for eyes.. render blind-suite
tenderly hack out these.. hack, hack!



the only remnant now.. a hard-ball of gum found stuck
      hid as a half-moon under the pedestal

still.. earth turns again
          birds sing on

your laughter never lost.. completes the score
        the symphony unfolds
as sage doth reveal.. one step at a time :)



S T -  14 Feb 2014

the farewell of the magical-masque
           the dance of the whirlwind
           the twist in valediction
a pantomime of comedy dripping in life’s heat, its tragedy blooms forlorn
silently the mountain-ranges stare
the sky-face won’t relent and contemplates the open-disease in homes*


1.
disguised as simple relief – rescue lies cooing in the palm
     crumbling in blue-ash beside your grinding-palate
     you reach for pen and paper to appease an entity unknown
shrouded in grey, no scavenger can touch the head of one
who carries blessings in the scabbard – the present worthy of now

stairs are slippery, fish are mouthing, anger grows
     symbols hop along outrageous, so stylised and signs come in decisive
     all at once, almost
there is some purchase in the widening-valley
when climbing-feet need to rest on your narrow angular-will
and wait.. (before them chips rain down)
until the merry-turnstile comes in view


2.
the worm-wheel goes blank a while
and out tunes a dastard-and-devilish prank, courtesy of blunted-fate
sacred-fillies get hacked at by small silver things and they lie slaughtered on stark-plains
and the orb dips in reverse this time
a sooty-traveller from the western-flank
               glances out at massive-figures at supine-rest
               gets startled by the rude ***-fire
eyes slit and pates distort in hostile-fever
at the starling-ingénue in mock-fatigues and fake-epaulettes
but cheering up with wry-humour makes your feet
           a touch too slow to react in time
           and the halberd comes crashing down
well, the last thought you hold before your next one
is how utterly beautiful she looked at the station
long, black hair – silky-shining in your eyes and gay-dancing in the wind
when she passed you all her sweet-love from eyes so wet and smile so quiet
and selected dried-fruit in redolent-parcel
                                   a sealed pelt-skin of unmixed-whiskey
along with fresh-baked raisin-bread in cotton-cloth
                    coarse-sliced and buttered so generous
and
a semi-rusted dry-tin rattling its bounty of macaroons through that smudgy, ***** window
what sweet-victuals to keep alive . . .



man, that journey is a long one!


                             (I’M STANDING HERE        oh, you just know I am here

AND YES -- I’M WATCHING YOU                        
                                                                ­               and no use looking round now..
      YOU CANNOT SEE NOR HEAR ME  
                                                                ­               or begging a purty-release
                                                                 ­                                             
                                  oh easy, boy.. EASY!!)                                                          ­                            
                                                                ­                                             
                   ­                                          


3.
once more, the worm wriggles in microbial-distaste
and the season’s wheel comes dangerously close to being undone
IT DOES
and seconds later, cogs fly hard in every fool’s direction
and luckily.. you catch some in your face.. mouth agape
        crushing your tongue
        splintering all your dental-treasure
        smashing half your reason
no time for moaning.. or eroded-regret.. or even to feel your lips in ribbons
for, when they turn their backs, you will know
what to do..


because you’ve picked some pearls the hard-way..
that atonement could well appear in spells
of any shape
or size



not so?





S T, 30 dec 2013

She lay with her back to him, face to the wall, says: “Nothing is black and white. All shades of grey. I wanted it to be… just wish it was white.”
She placed the cracks in her voice at calculated places, hoping but no reply expecting. He is usually not aware of her subtleties, the hints to the real state of things, with her. Then he lays his arm around her as he says: “At least it’s grey, not black.”
Her eyes widen in the dark but do not flinch, and she pulls him by his hand closer onto her, wishing it was the only touch she needed to bring her the ultimate comfort that she wanted, that she needed.
“But I’m afraid, the black will seep in and make the grey darker.” She swallows, suppressing her fear for speaking fatalities. “Sometimes it seems like it has and does.”
Silence falls over them as she waits for an answer; the black stylised curls he drew on his wall gaze back at her, with still, reciprocating wonder.
She reminisces to how she drew curls on her own wall, with the artistic charcoal she got for her fifteenth birthday; it was a meagre gift from the one to whom she would lose her virginity barely a few months later. Now, the curls are gone, and her contact with him fell away soon after the fact, reduced only to sporadic visits on her part.

Finally, listening to his steady breathing in sleep, she is convinced he had given up the conversation, feeling comforted that he reassured her enough for now. Her eyes remain open still though; they peer through the darkness as if it held her fortune, solitarily illuminated by the stars shining through the skylight above her. It is relating conflicting prophecies however.
If I was as pure as white, no black could – would contaminate my love for him, she thinks. But white is for virgins and she has been in love before.

© 2006

No, not a ghost,
but aptly stylised as the dove,
the brooding feathered presence -
with a tendency from the first
to spread, to hover, and then to swoop,

not slow to sing,
commentating, or annotating
where exposition is needed
- a narrator if you will, both direct
or by human pen and voice,

a catalyst, an expectorant,
not hesitant to disrupt and prompt
a change in direction,
keeping our toes agile,
challenging our stale agendas.

Not a ghost out of sight
that we might pass through oblivious,
but a bright presence,
ready to swoop in at a moment's notice.

The most Holy Spirit.

rubicon hangover
sherbert lemon sunrise
butterscotch *******
with an afterbirth smile
pastiche or phantom
beautiful proportion
cutting mothers apron
the circle of time

location location
circumnavigation
stylised continuum
great britain is a lie
mass for the masses
blood on the carpet
thank you for not smoking
its a marvel we're alive

thirty thousand drowning
thirty fathoms counting
suffer little children
not in my back garden
slumber in a haven
sleeping with forbidden
waterfalls and gravestones
selfish over soil

war americana
revolutionara
helicopter complex
compliment our ego
nuclear disaster
what use is a master
fall out over fallout
tinnitus and drones

avalanche of feedback
pentatonic ***** slap
abstinent castrati
carry me away
shiver orchestration
gentle fornication
sexually vacant
naturally vague

In a world where all half truths
Are more dangerous than none
Taking sides does of necessity
Place yourself outside the truth
Of things that are truly eternal
An’ lets transience rule the soul
Revealing all that’s writ above
As deceit writhing down below
Boot heels in the worried earth
Churning up that fearful storm
Tearing stones to bleeding dust
Blinding audiences to madness
Dressed in vestments of sadness
To be born poor and beautiful
Is to really never stand a chance
In that rich an’ very ugly world
That taught us all how to dance
To the sound of magic in the air
Coloured flowers in our tresses
Stardust on our boot heeled feet
Dancing visions along the street
Before the nightmare kicked in
And the coloured lights fled out
Leaving us all in black and white
Lost for days at the lack of light
In our stylised monochrome hell
Taking a chance on another dance
With the dark side of that moon
Spinning alone in a broken room
Fixing thoughts on a turning table
Flowing from the eye of a needle
Stitched some souls to living hell
Burning music to the pits as well
To rise again in sounding beauty
Today tomorrow an’ all eternity.

I believed love is immortal, irrational,
and sometimes, tired.

I liked the idea of an impossible god.
In all of love has there ever been such a lover as you?
Out of desire for you,

Sometimes heaven is when I’m away from you, god.
Sometimes heaven is only the two of us. I know you
understand.

Transferring the investment unkind, from mountain to cry.
The plan believes itself to be special,
having been assured of its specialness since birth.
The feeling that takes soundings
and scrapes, aims,
and knock-down blows us.
Reduced to an equality.

The loose tangles of habit and taste.
Thinking of ourselves as more than distance corrects the attachment.

In the time it took me to retrieve my cards,
the connection imperative became a stylised refusal.

I tear my way through getting to know you
The unnatural ease of disentanglement.
Unhappily having, to spend time.

Placating the public during
lockdown needs more than
just Netflix hence a vaccine.
But ask, why the lockdown
if the virus is just a normal
Winter flu with a different
name and number plus the
world war two marine mine
logo designed to look like a
thalidomide octopus with
deformed tentacles a science
fictional Jules Verne/Disney
genus invention stylised in a
sequential arts department
of the perception deception
section at the NWO offices
financed by you know WHO.

None brave enough
to state that was a terrible crime
things that shouldn't happen
you were in the wrong to do such wrong
No, they twisted in warped stylised form
to blame the innocent and build deceits and lies
illogical depraved excuses says its ok to rob your grannie
because the money she has came from your grandfather
its ok to rob the priests at the Prayer temples
afterall the money was collected from worshippers
its ok to steal from your neighbours who worked hard
while you do not to work but sit around getting drunk
its ok cause next door great great great grandfather was a chief
and anyway they are quiet gentle people who won't make a fuss
and anyways you know Robin Hoods and The Grapevine of doom
which criminals can call on to make problems disappear quick or else
No one is brave enough to speak the truth and state this is not right
except the neighbours you broke into his house and burgled
and you can extend your Grapevine all over the world
you are still shameless disgraced pale faced thieves
and your twisted grapevine does not scare me