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Atacama symphonic

pan-fluted melodies
whisp’ring in the wind
blist’ring radiance
bleaches desert mud
send them tumbling
along endless dunes
temp’rature drops as
an astral masque ball
strings up fairy lights
across the evening sky


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We all live in the past...

The present flows rapidly behind me, as hard as I try

To hold a precious moment in my tremulous hand.

It slips. It’s gone; I watch that golden instant slide away

In the rear-view mirror of my chequered history,

Adding to all the endless acres of slurry and mud.


Our past; the opaque, unfathomable morass

Of what once happened, and can never happen again.

All the happiness, ...

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The dogma of the temporal nomad

is an acceptance of the evanescence

of all, from the lacklustre to the astral, 

for even what purports to alter one's course

on a visceral level, has but an ephemeral tether, 

and is soon to be rejected by a newborn Present,

able solely to be resurrected by a Memory

so rudimentary as to sculpt faulty forms

using mud procured from the riverban...

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Stuck in the Mud

Four horses were stood in a Care-Home field,

Sadly, chewing over the price of hay

And how much silage they ate each day.


“I used to inhabit a fine field of my own

With lush green grass, not rubble and stone!”


“Now we’re all stuck her in our filthy coats!”


“We are literally up to our knees in mud!

I’d complain to the farmer, but he’s no good!”


“Our foals ...

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I'm Wallowing In You Now

I've always been a timid sort

Careful to look before I leapt

Rarely dived into the water

Watched the company I kept


Then I met you and blew a fuse

Saw my inhibitions do a runner

I was all over you like a rash

I thought you were a stunner


I'm wallowing in you now

The water's as clear as mud

Never been so wringing wet

Never knew life was so good



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dusk in the copse is foggy, and after rain there's

mud, so you watch your step as rubber

boots kick life into the mess.

no rainbow

lights the ploughed churning, or stars sputter at such

perfect mire, it harks instead at

mad trenches, branches

dripping onto brambles sharp as barbed wire.

can worms survive this clay or do

gills get jammed as mouths and rifles did, each


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