The unpurged images of day

Will not give me away to complacency

Even after fifty years of Chinese

Occupation we Tibetans continue

To resist, especially in mid-winter

When we picture our rose garden,

The secret garden of our soul,

A place where all that is, is good 

And all that is, is fine

Is writ in large, in watery wine:

Written in a tender-script divi...

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One thing turns to another thing.

This is the story of continuous change

Nothing remains the same. 

The sum Is always greater than the parts

And a metamorphosis of hearts

Occurs when we know that

Differential calculus

Plots the rates

At which things change.

However, the total always remains the same.

E = mc2. 

Energy equals mass 

Times the speed of light squared...

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We have eaten rats during this seige

These Goths want us acquiesce to Christian suzerainty.

They never tell us why we should do so

We have our music, poetry, wine, gardens and our beautiful women.

And beauty gives lights like lamps to one travelling in the dark.

The nearness of death makes one wake up, notice a sparkling jewel,
A pearl from the deeps of a distant ocea...

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You were lonesome and blue eyed
And so special to us
You should have taken a long break
Instead of a long drop from a high place.

"That Year" by Brandi Carlisle

More than five rugby teams' worth, of men, every week, dead by their own hands,

In these islands.

Young men mostly, three times as many men as women,

Nearly 6000 a year, 60,000 over a decade and....

risin...

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In Latin or in Portuguese 

o sentimento de amor

Is just the same: 

The sentiment of love

Can quickly catch aflame.

A lack in the discipline

Of the eyes breeds

A brooding wish to exercise

Or exorcise, a fire that re-iterates

The eradication of disguise

Leaving us contemplating the irreducibility of fate.

Extending the same disregard for grammar:

(declensions decl...

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Away with the moon

with her shadows and all

those sturdy penumbras

you saw in the ball.

Forget you, forget you

I  fall out of bed

and all you beget

is so-suddenly dead.

She’s tousled & sleepy,

this edge of the moon,

where

Angus, dear Angus,

just walked out the room.

His pool-side of shadows

is living alone,

with ginger-nut biscuits

and large gulps of...

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In this mild mid-winter breeze of splintered selves

The trees blend into silhouttes; and I see elves

Whose shadows transform perceptions

Into creation. And all the world of

Getting and spending grinds to a halt,

For one holy day. Death may be far away or near

At hand, we have no crystal balls. We must put

All our heart and soul into conveying the simplicity of love

To those...

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At this turning of the year

We confront an unholy nexus of fear,

Solstice: the apex of the year,

ride the crest of a wave of darkness

The drunkard's Christmas kiss

As the sun squats on the horizon

Of his squandered life

Fear you can cut it with a knife

transforms the frosty night owls of winter

Into a travesty of this lack of light.

Beneath this peak of dark

l...

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Don’t let the fat white males into your land

They have no concept of stewardship

They think they can own the air and the land.

You watched them massacre the holy bison:

The white buffalo are dead

Their bodies rot under the holy sun.

These bastards have no respect for themselves:

They are rapists and child-killers.

They love watching sadistic pornography.

They spoil all t...

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The grey skies of Manchester,
Designed to oppress,
Yes, my head is in a mess.
This place of the bee is home to me.
Old boys return blisteringly unaware
Of the significance of a long, cold stare
Lost boys don't even mention the drugs.
In a chapel-of-rest or a public bar - don't wander far.
Out in the street, a mass of metal and rubbish
Outside the flats, wrecked fridges, torn up sofas;
Th...

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With an abiding glint of love in her faded eyes, 
Brown eyes that inhabit my dreams, spark my memories,
My mother has dementia, a cross for us to bear
So saith her silver-tinted hair. She laboured for our family.
With her handbag gripped in her laughing lap,
She still smiles at my silly jokes and repartee 
We share so many ways yet she's the opposite of me:
Freer, grander, more baroque, a h...

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"My son Brandon died 9 years ago. I have returned from Indiana to Texas where he was born and mixed his ashes in with my garden. I have brought my child home." YOUTUBE comment on 'Into Dust', Mazzy Star

Photo by Matthew Cabret on Unsplash

I knew from the very beginning

The sun would rise

Teaching me to cast my eyes to heaven

Cloudy days are like sacrifices

To compensate ...

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Christmas roses bloom in the dying of the light

But it’s not a rose it’s a beautiful buttercup, slight

Like the golden marvels we used to decide

Which side our bread was buttered.

Do we like butter or not? Was the yellow

Reflected on our chin? These flowers resemble

The wild rose – poisonous to humans –

Helleborus niger macranthus –

Enough to tangle any tongue.

Words wea...

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Wild is the minute and clear is the sky

A world of smell and sight and sound

The portals of discovery all around,

We enter this world, this newfoundland:

The sheer vividness of colour,

The all round visibility of sound,

Flesh and blood, all the half-created

Epiphanies of cloud and sky and sun,

Enter the mind and fly from  the eye -

Into the kippering sky, clouds come rus...

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I saw her in the street

We were polite, random, neat.

Forgetting what drunkenness

Created in the way of becoming diabolical

Divine Tabula Rasa – blank slate.

Once one, kind, sweet woman,

Polished floors with rage

Arms red and fleshy –

The dark memory of her soul is not pale;

It was late, near the Spaniard’s Inn,

The full moon was shining,

With all the sol...

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Love...cultivates. Goethe

We walk a steep and slippery way,

Mixing senses in synesthesia's way,

It seem as if I am a chorus in a play.

We feel by measures hidden from the eye

Time borrowed, days wasted, time goes by,

I choose to walk a steep and scattered way..

Winter seeps me into sleep, as my soul flies,

To the gist of an art unborrowed from the eye;

I l...

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“Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.”
― Basho

Open your heart to the misery

Of those who live without hope,

Learn to walk in another’s steps

To learn to extend your scope

Learn not to avert your gaze

When the world is set ablaze.

Give all that you have to give

And expect nothing and you will see

With the eyes of a child.

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my friend, Ian Kevin Curtis

(15 July 1956 – 18 May 1980)

strode up those stairs, so long ago,

and still, your voice pumps out

in all its brittle beauty

leaving the depression

and the epilepsy behind

telling us what love will do

how, precisely it will tear us apart

some will listen and never know

the man you were

me? I cannot abide the way

you hid the man you wer...

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He'd despise with his eyes those alive in sackcloth and ashes

The weaponised clones of a myopic dwarf did not do

As they were taught. They denied themselves the water

Of life. They inherited nothing.

No morning maniac music

Shaked them awake.

Those who'd once brought hope

Now mired in hate.

Over the mountain, clouds scud

Blood on the floor

And mud on the faces.

Ref...

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Calling time on the cinema queue

We let our dreams come true

It was the evening of the day

Fervourless

and blue.

At least, I still had you.

Giving up on our one chance

Of silence, it is true,

Who knows where the time goes

Enhances you.

And, so,we wound up

Like I knew we'd do:

Bruised black and bruised blue

Back in the cinema queue.

...

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the sadness of sundays
persists
even amidst
the various
reds, yellows, browns and golds
of stormy autumn

and as I walk
I have in mind
the fragility of your veined
porcelain
hand

so who am I to resist
this child's
every imperative?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q2JjJPDz3EE

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Angels  alight, a slight, feathery goodnight kiss,

behind her eyes her guardian angel sighs.

Listen! to the whisperer behind the song,

misfortune exorcised by fluttering fugues begin again

to sing a song in a minor key,

a longing to be whole and free.

Let'so roll away the stone:

for on this seafront there is a stone,

where, in the creamy moonlight of romance,

men and wo...

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Dried up, shrivelled, weather-beaten,

Rock- hidden fossils set in stone,

These evolutions of Medusa

Afflict with a petrified decay.

And all, all she gazed upon

Can never be rubbed away.

Stains dry and calcify

Deep in the  bogs, in a quagmire,

A swamp of guilt, regret

Spilt water, wine, I forget.

No transubstantiation this:

Yoked, ploughed, dragged,

Inchoate ...

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Sanskrit sati (“good woman” or “chaste wife”), a Hindu custom of a wife immolating herself on the funeral pyre of her dead husband

Moths fly high

this cold delight

of a summer's night

their wings sing,

but my mind's not right;

see the showers spark high

like flaming air

sizzling on the water

blowing in her hair

and the women heap wood

on the fragrant...

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Photo by Dmitry Ermakov on Unsplash

Fresh water suits my watery nature.
I squint at the ripples of redemption,
Watch the ducks glide beside me

Keeping me on the straight and narrow.

The call of strangers splatters across
The sky and I choke on what I know ,
And cannot even whisper out, or sigh.

Mountains and sky reflected in water.

The ordinary has become extraordinary
...

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My love didn’t come from nowhere.  

My father was a bastard, a sailor on the seas,

My mother just a peasant

Spent her life upon her knees.

The noblesse oblige:

The drinking and the drugs,

Was countered by Intelligence

And a tingling in the blood.

We were the late Romans

Much diminished and now, finally, gone.

For since the death-stroke of 1453,

W...

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The red glow of our one-bar electric fire

Reflected on our hardly bearded faces

The multi-coloured music of curved air

Synaesthesia rampant, the sweet smell

Of burning Lebanese hashish everywhere

That thick and smoky sweet sweet air.

And young Nick Drake still alive amongst

The flat-fen-lands of Cambridgeshire

Five leaves left a common currency  

And me the lad from the ...

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Rose, the loveliest of pagan namings,

She said she can see clear to another day

1967 and the happy trails I followed

That landed me plum in Golden Gate Park

Then Palo Alto in the pacific sun

Looking for a revolution

And this is it:

No empty-headed technologies 

Still no silicon in the valley

Just a box of rain.

It's a long-ding-dong time to be gone.

A...

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Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what's a heaven for?  Robert Browning,"Andrea del Sarto", line 98, 1855.

Kicking off his work boots on a day of lazy gooseberry bushes and old Daily Heralds

Jack's eyes slowly rose from the mess of laces squirming around his fingers,

(memories of the front, the hot metal of the gun, fingering,  lingering);

His eyes rose past the d...

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Stand here in your own blood,

My brave heart,

Your shadow and I spy

Firm, thick wood.

The dark lights of Christmastide

Afflict us

Red and green sunset drops

Create an awesome flicker

Of candle-light and in the mean time,

We mark the end of the hologram-life.

No disguise

All begins with grief,

Such great wordy statements

Fall through the looking-glass

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The woman time forgot

Is beautiful today

Moulded in clay, frozen

And unrepentant.

She will tear you apart

With a look, or, maybe, a knife.

This lake by which

She lives is frozen.

Dare we skate

On such thin ice?

Glaciers melt

And water haunts the air

Birds migrate and block the sun

And, still, we have not fled

All that we once remembered

Cities, technolo...

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Not fit for purpose

And all their other clichés

Batter down the airways

Assuring us that greed is good

That we can borrow and never repay

Seeping this repetitive, lying shit

Deep into the soul of the nation,

Leaving me marooned

Growing old with the weariness

That travels through the blood:

As I try to pass by these nets

Of race, nationality, class, religion

But ...

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And I saw the souls of those who had been beheaded because of their testimony about Jesus and because of the word of God. Revelations 20:4

All across the Nineveh plain the lights are going out

Crosses driven into the hearts of the last of Mesopotamia’s

Christians. These Assyrians, speaking Aramaic, the language

Of Christ, have been loyal throughout the long centuries

Of subjection t...

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His denim shirt ripped

And blood-stained

It was such a shame

Mick was a dealer, 

A user too;

Smoked what he sold

And sold what he grew

But County lines geezers

Had swamped the north

With the Psychotic stuff,

Packed full of THC but also:

White Nurse, White Stuff, White Junk

Skunk caused, Horse delivered

The knifings 

The knifings

Caused the pain

And t...

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And I live on a dark star

On the edge of a black hole

Which I will fall into any day

Now there is a singularity of night

An utter absence of light.

The colours leached away

When I wasn't looking

And now the music is silent too.

What should I do?

The speed of light

Is certainly

Insufficient to escape

From this orbit of gloom

This reconnoitring of grief

This...

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It was an ordinary, wet north Manchester night

Of solid rain, unremittingly wet. And cold.

When, suddenly, all the rivers in all the world stopped flowing

And all the summer colours leached away and never returned

And the wind it is so cold and it still stings like hell

And the sky descends into the air

And, all of a sudden,  you're not there

And the blackness is...

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squirming with words,

squabbling, fighting,

reeling with words

sore with myself.

so sore with myself

a world of regret,

begets

this absence of you.

O! I wish I could turn words into wishes.

O! I wish my days would fall into line

my eyes could rise for you

without the slightest disguise

for you.

Evening is so heavy, the rain has been & gone,

these...

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Quietly, she spoke of tea, toast, the faint after smell of cigars,
Let us say we met in a room: curtained, peeling, private.
Briefly she consulted the winter afternoon,
Reviewed the deadening, leadening sky.

All was discreetly done.
No presences danced beyond no lifted curtains.
Darkness had silted us away.

Words, like spoons, stirred the air.
We slipped into a net of inquisitions.

...

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Emotion recollected in tranquillity

never did quite do it for me:

I see the river Thames,

I see the people flow,

all kinds and conditions,

in rain and sun and snow.

There's

the Green man in Kingsbury,

a pub which abhors the National Front,

or, you may wander in Kew Gardens,

or, you may sometimes have a punt.

Westminster traitors to the north 88

Brixton dreads to...

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Ordinary life creates

These empty spaces

Inside of me

Composed of God-knows-what:

Certainly lacking in originality.

Pale-blue eyes

On a snow drop face

Seen-through lace,

Seen-through lace.

These empty waiting rooms of the heart,

Set to tear us apart,

These ventricles of the brain, never the same.

Birdsong flung

Into fond recall

A dry-stone wall,

A dry...

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In the apple market

your south London twang

accompanies the many undulations

of time.

Your wild androgyny

mirroring the mirror

of yourself

skimming off the water

of childhood,

like a shaking dog.

You lit up, spot-lighted,

an iridescence of sound

Ziggy!

Your songs were the water

I needed;

Your terse verse

spread underground

watering imagin...

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(dedicated to the everlasting memory of Harry O'Neill: Au revoir comrade)

an old olive oil press rusting

at the bottom of a sandy garden

in this occupied territory;

children lying prostrate,

bleeding into the soil;

a man

murmuring.

about a weight, a burden, something.....

lifted.

We disciples could not hear clearly,

what with all the muffled explosions

and ...

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haunt my days,

she whispers,

butter me up quite,

she replies

the green groves

of her painting

are sleeping

now

there is

no disguise

her speckled dust

is faded sunlight

in her too-familiar sight

her soul

declines from the light

she's a-tumbling

through the grasses

O! she's a-dying

here tonight

out of mind

and out of s...

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Blues come by night baby and blues come by day

Have to watch yourself,  not get taken away, down

To the 12 bars waitin for you in the drinkin’ stew.

Washed up on the morning

Drinking again at noon

Blues wait round the corner

Seize your soul so soon.

No matter what you do or think

The blues are all the same

The lonely lies, and the cryin' shame.

Blues hi...

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If all the days of all the years were made of wine and gold
They’d be present in the light of intelligence in this one dog’s eyes.
This friendship across species — a Buddhist mantra –
Rocks me like a good old boy, befriends me like the rain..
He’ll be with me when the gates fly open —  and the light pours in
Again, we seek out the depths, the shaman-spirits that will be:
Seen, glimpsingly, d...

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Photo by Guillaume Galtier on Unsplash

Too many words

and

our hearts are

conspicuously silent

when addressing

midnight feasts or Lenten fasts

nothing lasts

except the majesty of the momentary

singularity of an event horizon

where voices echo birdsong

like dark eyes at a funeral

warning us of our own death,

granted not foretold,

follows in our foot...

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When I were a boy, a nipper, a kid

Wild flowers on a concrete waste

Were always blindingly yellow.

Flowers rooted in the cracks along the road

For me, the yellow-bloomed, only for me.

Whether I was hungry

Or stuffed to the hilt

A slash of yellow beneath the sun

Was reason enough to have fun..

We prisoners saw her

And we gazed in awe,

Seeing what was really always t...

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He was shaking  uncontrollably when I walked into his shop,

That skinny Asian shopkeeper.

My thoughts of the beautiful, white Crescent Moon

Were soon lost  in the ebony skies of late November.

Everyday complacency fled like winter sleet melted.

He'd seen the glint of the knife on that coal black night;

It was, he said, stutteringly, "the one in the hoodie, with no facial tattoo,

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Opinions can be ignored, mocked,

That's fair enough - satirists like Swift'd be lost -

Otherwise

and, of course,

No-one has the right not to be offended.

I am offended everyday

By the complacent, middle-class old

Bastards who hang on to every penny

And have the empathy of granite

And so easily condemn

Those poorer or less well-educated

Than them.

I love the nove...

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Yes. We spend too much of our short lives

Chasing the mot juste, the phrase, the image,

That will reconcile all, bring all to mind.

To ease the pain and to make amends.

But there is no end to the way of art

We must learn to wonder as we search

For the right word to express. What?

That fleeting sense of something

Far more deeply interfused

That has its home in the setting...

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Forget me not blue

As an Alaskan blueberry

Endurance is a flower

A bulb in winter’s depth

A rare-repeated wonder:

A sin we must forget.

In this-world-of-my-creation

In this world-of-make-believe:

Cancer, the death of children,

Are falling autumn leaves.

I see a road before me

A  road I walk in vain

A road through Trawden, Lancashire

A road that’s no...

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Like a swimmer driven by a whirlpool of distress, Without a  morsel of hope, lampooned by regret,

In a storm of my own making; beseiged by clouds; 

I hide. Adamantly anchored to a despair, twenty fathoms wide

I'm riven by the whirlwind of my observable distress;

Starving and  alone, my anchor is the live-long day and yet, and yet, I fade away. 

Dressed in a black haze: dappled sunli...

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Photo by Allie Smith on Unsplash

Than the regiment of day

Can drift my head away

Back to the cancer hospital

To the chemo and the radio

And injections in the vein

Thank God it didn’t enter

My brain. It’s your loved

Ones take the strain.

I remember Emile, yes,

Named after Rousseau’s

Eponymous hero. He hoped

It had not spread. Married

At the weekend, h...

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These fingers point at letters

Those letters point at words

And then the disturbance -

Occurs

My love she was a vixen

And howled in the night

Those feelings they just left me -

Despite

The mourning which continues

Throughout decades, in a line,

My lover she engages me -

In time.

These swirling skies of fortune,

The lakes’ grey and white despair...

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Siegfried Loraine Sassoon, CBE, MC

An Anglo-Jewish volunteer - did his patriotic duty

Joined up on 4th August 1914.

He was one of the First World War’s greatest poets; 

A fearless soldier who won the Military Cross for bravery,

The citation read:

For conspicuous gallantry during a raid on the enemy's trenches.

He remained for 1½ hours under rifle and bomb fire

Coll...

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The guest was uninvited but arrived anyway

In this universe of moulding, he is the clay.

The freezing blizzard of my heart departs

As I look out of my window into this universe of things

And, for a micro-second, my wounded heart sings

With love and with the lack of love,

With all we seek to find

With memories buried in

This golgotha mind of mine.

I am no different, thoug...

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Do you really want to sit there on the 21st floor

Mixing matches, making matchstick men to bore

Your friends witless as you, once again, tell the tale.

Of when you once went north, further than Watford vale,

I know you never doubt yourself, my rhyming cavalier,

But a little word of warning in your shell-like ear:

Waiting for promotion to SW3?

Waiting for the loss-adjustors, to...

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(This poem is dedicated to the beautifully lyrical music of rapture and redemption which this young Californian, Judee Sill,  produced prior to her tragic death by heroin in 1979.)

She's the shadow of a shadow,

She's the smile upon her face,

She's tantalising, like music,

Released from time and space.

Her image is a mirror,

Of glance and glimpse and gleam

On St ...

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The sting of the wind
 On this cold black night
 Reminds me of my
 Ancestors who rode
 This same wind
 As they trudged to work
 On early shift.
 This  connection, now, is
 Deep in my blood
 Deep in what I mean
 When I say words
 In tones that rhyme. 

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For those who know and know how much they still don't know. Bloodfever

Photo by Jeff Finley on Unsplash

I remember falling as a child

And being lifted by a faerie-wild

She kissed my cheek and mussed my hair

And then she wasn’t there.

……….

Some blind folk see the fairies clear,

For faeries are always close or near;

Oh, better far than what we see

Are faer...

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A rose garden at altitude under occupation

dormant in mid-winter

I picture the rose garden in spring

as the secret garden of my soul

where all that is good and all that is fine

are written in a tender-script divine

where persian berries tantalise the taste

and the morning prayer bells undulate

the breakfast figs are fine

as is the watery wine

and these chinese herbs...

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The times of wonder have gone

The wise women drugged

Into submission.

Forensic psychology reveals traces

Of long-forgotten faces

Which, much like Munch's silent scream,

Degenerate into nightmaredream.

Desire, in all its lurid manifestations,

Falls into disuse,

And all is as it was before:

A flat, grey concrete floor

Krema I at Auschwitz

Eminently productive

3...

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The last decade before the big three score

and ten. Best to keep on the move, evolving then?

A rolling stone gathers no moss, they say; not in

Keith's  head, anyway. Soon it will be the freezing season

With all those greens and reds – the hollies and the ivy

and the grateful dead. The starship could fly us, fly us clean away,

But most of us are yard birds, creatures of home, I’d ...

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That long-held sax note- divine 

Makes my soul jus drift away

The smoke, the booze, the horse,

The girls. Sum o'them, thin agen.

Man, the flash of the crack o'th drum

The thumpity, thumpity, thump.

He jus stand there in a haze

John's  soprano sax, Miles' trumpet

Blowin the blues. All the way To Missisip

All the way to me cryin in a ditch.

Those weary, weary blues. No ...

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Circumstances compel me speak

Ye gods, (for you have them);

From the first of the world

Down to our own time

Don’t frown, don’t shake your head,

Listen to this elegy for a passing time instead.,

A soldier silenced, banned, expelled, made dead.

While life continues, makes the crops no longer joyous.

The sheep forgot, the cattle, bees unkept.

Be thrifty with ...

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These long, black evenings fill me with premonitions,

The falling of the leaves remind us of our losses.

Captain Wilfred Owen killed in action 

During the crossing of the Sambre–Oise Canal

One week (almost to the hour) before the signing of the Armistice. 

Such terrifying bloomings of a malignant fate,

A godless irony, force us back into our centrally heated caves.

We dream on...

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As we draw close to Remembrance Sunday and all the praising of the armed services I wrote this to show how we really treat those who risked their lives to protect us.

Baffling how he came to be a pauper, he thought,

An ex-serviceman, me, still with an upright back.

Thing is: I never really arrived home. Did I?. 

Not a real home. Everything had changed.

Belfast, The Falklan...

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Those words you don’t remember,
Wind tearing through the sky,
Your soul is packed with fortitude
While sparks fly.

……

The coals flare into flames, a pettiness
Of heat. Suddenly, replete: golden sands,
Crystal brooks, silken lines, silver hooks.
Glimpsing what’s already there,
She begins to mount the stairs.

Who cares?

……..

Say, a friend you trust implicitly,
A lover you migh...

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The sky is grey today with streaks of blue

Swirling northern skies reflect sombre horizons;

Behind my back cumulus clouds mass

Over the hills, conspiring in their usual

Ragged silence. In front of me are drear

Trees laid bare, a mist of water's in the air.

Caught cough, cough, coughing in the peasoupers

Of the past, I pull my scarf tighter and focus keenly

On the p...

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Photo by Marius Masalar on Unsplash

“Without music, life would be a mistake” ― Friedrich Nietzsche

A waterfall of notes, rising, descending,

Splashing into my mind, heart, soul.

Music will never grow old.

An arpeggio series of broken chords 

In and out of order, splintering, teasing the ear. 

Plunging into minor keys, soaring into waves of luminosity.

Notes th...

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"First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—

     Because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me." Martin Niemoller.

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I made close friends on WOL

Rachel, Devon, David, Jacob,

Poets of enormous scope and range,

Silenced for their free expression,

Is that a good thing? Whatcha reckon?

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She's the flinger of plurabilly teas,

She was, once-upon-a-golden-time;

And a good time it was two,

Despite the old hairy gobeen man,

Who was a-coming down a road,

drinking from a can.

She met a nice-uns-little boy name Baby Tookoo,

Her mother slopped her drat story.

Her rather had a leery face:

Sin, sin, Jesuitical-sin

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"Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.”  TS Eliot

Every day, regardless of the goodness or evil lurking in my soul,

I see kipper skies, placid blue occasionally, but much more

Like the swirling, crashing skies of Turner, like the flaming skies the young Mozart

Saw in his mind's eye, when he was adding

Note to eloquent note to produce t...

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(for Kathy 1940–2019)

Photo by Marcus Cramer on Unsplash

She was close to death — 

her loved ones bereft.

I read between the lines,

just a habit of mind,

then looked again,

out of the side of my eye:

more and more, as time passes by

what we perceive

we half-create.

Buried in the earth,

she's still looking at the sky,

a rumble of thunder,

passing b...

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Dripping into what passes for daylight
In these northern climes,

The moon fades, wind and rain shower,
Trees sway, on this formless holiday
Light, such as it is, tucks away dream,

Children — washed, tired, pale -
Know it’s Halloween
I know it well:
Tired ghosts forget to rise again,
Witches stagger into view
As all their magic fades away.

Clogged motors roar
As the October mist l...

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County Lines spread

Evil

A cross all the living and the dead

Their line is our time

We need them, fled.

A spring day in late fall,

She can no longer stand 

Tall, crumpled, bent,

She has lost the lines that link

Her to her family, friends.

Now lines link:

Road, rail, phone,

Needle, plunger, sink

into an unguarded atonement.

Her lines enmeshed in this stinki...

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dedicated to the men and women of the Syrian Defence force, and the Kurdish YPG,  who, with the help of volunteers from around the world, defeated Daesh and are now seeking to defend the feminist and democratic Kurdistan from NATO-supported Fascist-Turkish genocidal murderers and rapists 

My parents were Christian, Serb,

I remember the icons in my mother’s house,

The smell of meat on...

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Absinthe, this pearly-white,

Clouded, aniseed-tasting drink

Stinks but is addictive, especially

Here in Paris on the left-bank,

Near Montmartre

Where the Institut is

Where we plan, conspire,

Work out who is the traitor

Who the informer, who the liar.

Anyway, I am always thirsty for absinthe.

I am always thirsty for wine too

To the extent of our boundless, limited e...

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Out of all this mush,

With a little bit of a push,

Emerge fire fly.

O! fly so high firefly,

Illuminate the sky, firefly

Take a break, firefly;

Phosphorescence on the lake,

Fires fly

Float over the image of moon,

The lapping of the lake

Firefly, a soft-bodied beetle,

Firefly, related to the glow-worm,

The winged male and flightless female

Both have luminesce...

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Kurdish poets with military experience have fallen silent and I am bereft;

Poetry has always been the main pillar of Kurdish literature

The fight for their land and the fight for their identity are the same.

The Kurds are not divorced from the west - Eliot's influence on al-Sayyab  for example -

And the hot wave from Arabia did not destroy the Kurds, many are Christian, Ezedi and secul...

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The cold autumn rain falls full in my face,

wet westerlies come with a trace of winter;

as I walk, I take account of my losses.

My mind drifts into the past:

a phantasmagoria of well-remembered faces

tumble into the valley of the shadow of death.

Phantoms afloat, all around me, looking quizzically

at the remains of a life long left or soonest parted.

The trees of this woodl...

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Winter on Mount Sinjar in 2014,

By the Christian calendar.

That year lasted forever:

Such a long, long time ago,

Now the Turks have come

To do the work of Daesh

And the Sunni tribes and foreign Salafists

Conspire to kill the Yezedi, even in Lalish,

Our mouths expel a hidden heat

It is the soul of the Ezedi.

Never before has the sun

Filled us so full of tea...

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Walking down a dusty, dirt road in Rojava,

near the border.

Sand in my mouth, tears on my cheek.

NATO jets flying under Turkish colours,

bombing, massacring, the soldiers of the Syrian Defence Forces

and their internationalist Kurdish YPG allies —

a modern International Brigade.

SDF forces are now, this minute, pulling soldiers (Kurdish, Arab, American, British, Serbian, ...

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Planet earth she suffers

Torn at by your knife,

Slashed at by machete

Exploited all your life.

Poisoned by your chemicals

Murdered, raped and pillaged

Consider the obscenity - 

The whole world is just one village.  

But you really ain't bothered, are you?

You've got your money in the bank

You own your slice of heaven

You're comfortably numb, to be frank.

..........

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David always told the truth to me

and, of course, we argued endlessly

about what, exactly, was 'true':

both working class self-taught autodidacts,

what would you expect us to do?

I continued to learn a lot from David's poetry too

Until his mighty verses were expunged from view.

David told me the precise name and location

Of a church in ancient Antioch,

In war-torn Syria ...

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We were in a public garden 

In England in May.

We sat together

In mild, balmy weather.

We did not track those

Who moved around us.

They had their instructions,

Undoubtedly.

We looked at the water, and we looked at the ducks,

And the weeping willow tree was there:

Reflected in your eyes,

A subtle disguise,

I dropped words into your ears

Like pearls.

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The Gracehoper was always jigging ajog, hoppy on akkant of his joyicity.

James Joyce, Finnegans Wake

Complain with the full force of a Jesuit priest

Whine like a man who knows he's out of time

Casuistry and sophistry work together perfectly.

But poetry's more about the wine than the whining

About seeking to express the inexpressible

Whilst complaining about just how d...

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Beneath this beach of sand and shells

I see the image of the rolling sea.

Such new-found-land frames and hides

These wide horizons; I walk along the cliff:

Sheer drop upon the windward side,

Embedded trilobites, beneath my feet

Quartz and Muscovite from the granite

Weathered by the winds and waves

Sea-formed outcrops, hidden rocks, caves.

Time carves the face of all mank...

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"The lamps are going out all over Europe, we shall not see them lit again in our life-time"  British Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey.

Old Royal Enfield bicycles

propped against the wall,

a gaggle of men,

then, in the far distance,

a gable end

and look! a house

windows left wide open

in this Cheshire heat.

And, have we forgotten,

if we knew at all,

this...

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Words we remember,

Echo in the brain,

Bouncing off the surfaces:

A few will remain.

Wind rises around the window pane,

Blowing a northerly gale,

A rain-splattered man, with a sorry, sorry tale,

Inhabits the soul beside me, half-way to hell.

His tale is built on lies, my friend,

Deceptions ripe and drear,

Tales we tell to children

When their eyes overflow with fear.

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For all me life I have been living among 'em:  savages. savages in suits.

Now they are becoming increasingly loathsome to me.

As a kid in bed I was alone, like a boat afloat in the sea.

Spotted land? Savages abound, in the suburbs, in the town

Savages abound.

Cultivating selfishness, meanness and spite.

Their unholy trinity: y've made yer bed, now lie on it,

spare the rod and ...

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If a hundred seas had separated me 

From you. If our sea of troubles were endless, too, 

If I could spend just one in a thousand years of nights with you

You could parcel me up and remove me from sight

Hide me away, like a kid:

The cubby-hole under the stairs,

Was for wetting the bed:

I banged and banged me head

But nobody ever came.

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The long days are gone already

Grass prepares to stop growing

The fields and trees take on a tint

Rivers begin to change their courses to accommodate the coming winter 

Colour is leached out of the landscape.

Mosquitos do their final, annoying dance

We are dust and shadow. Again.

Who knows whether we will survive another winter

The gods above? I flee the calloused hands of ...

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Squirming with words,

squabbling, fighting, reeling  with words

sore with myself.

so sore with myself

a world of regret,

begets

only

this absence of you.

O! I wish I could turn words into wishes.

O! I wish my days would fall into line

my eyes rise for you

without the slightest disguise for you

finally, it's only you.

Now

this evening is so h...

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It was the model spitfire in your front room window

That identified you, separated you from that tribe,

We call ‘the old’.

I saw you sometimes at the shops, your movements slow, deliberate,

Arthritic, I thought, I was wrong.

You carried a basket, the old-fashioned clumpy kind.

And you were always glancing behind you. I thought it was the traffic

You feared, but  it wa...

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 summer rains' quiet incantation, the animals come and go,

                    in the far-distant, the snow melts as the river flows;

                    time is a demon

                    the animals know.

                    It’s looking for you, y'know:

                  ...in the abdomen – demon go

                  ...in the albumin – demon go

                  ... ...

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Tell the truth, but tell it slant. Emily Dickinson

Born, bloom, die

All in the one day

Blurs a glass darkly

A physician’s proof of breath

Marked by her girlhood’s fleeting fancy

Of a garden romance

A moonlit dance

With Chopin playing lightly

In the darkness

And no rectangular wooden box

To be seen

Instead a thing with feathers

Whistles through my head

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One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star. Frederick Nietzsche

Photo by Zane Lee on Unsplash

…only the vestiges remain:

Conduct a forensic examination, scatter the remains:
Fragility of the body,
In the furtherance of the truth,
Note the devil’s-in-the-detail,
Condemned at the root.

A roof for his daughter,
Over a precipice-by-th...

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A baby crying for her mother

Her face a clutter of creases

As I hand her back to her mum.

Imagine if the mother was the victim

Of a roadside bomb and nothing was left

For the baby to cling to. What then? 

Continue with your crossword?

Mutter 'rather her than me?'

Compassion fatigue - honestly!

A desire to leave this mess behind?

Develop mindfulness? Yoga, clean living...

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The guttering rain of home 

Stains my memory

Longer than churches

Stand.

Is it duty to devotion

Or devotion to duty that keeps

Me standing in this field of ripe poppies?

I don't know

How can we translate this chaos

Into words?

The grammar of suffering

Is indecipherable.

Lost in translation

Faith no longer floods my mind

My mind reminds me

That my veins ...

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I am a saboteur,

I sabotage my hopes;

for fortune is a fickle friend,

she smiles when you don't need her,

leaves you like a falling leaf,

a mimicking procedure.

Such measly moments of the past,

do not last:

Kicking through leaves

of a stormy-day; 

before Dawn found me

gathering windfalls in my night clothes,

tumbling into heaps, red, golden brown–

crazy colou...

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My life is a work-in-progress

my writing and poetry too

the advice is still, unfortunately, 

to take another route through.

A love-struck Romeo too. 

Some writing is not about something

some writing is of itself;

some writing is something to lean on,

a floating melody of swans; a yelp of pain.

Help! 

When first we feel, we fall,

under the shadow of the shelter of t...

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Wild is the minute as storm seizes the sky

A new world of smell and sight and sound,

Wetness and wildness interlaced all around;

These portals of discovery abound.

Fully enter this world, this new newfoundland:

See the sheer vividness of colour, shade, shadow,

Hear the all round risibility of bird song, sound.

Flesh, blood, soul, air and all the half-created

Epiphanies...

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A rose garden at altitude under occupation

Contemplate a rose garden

On this roof-garden of the world,

especially in mid-winter,

under occupation.

I picture this rose garden,

this secret garden of the soul,

where all that is good and all that is fine

are written in the tender-script divine

of the Tibetan Book of the Dead - 

some things are better left unsaid.

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Like a swimmer driven by a whirlwind of distress, without a morsel of hope, lampooned by regret, in a  storm of my own making; beseiged by clouds;  I hide. Adamantly anchored to twenty fathoms below.

I'm riven by a whirlwind of my observable distress; starving and alone, I shout: "I do not hide!" - I cried out; "here is my anchor all the live-long day" and yet, and yet, I fade away.  Disappeare...

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I must practice saying two things in saying one

The wind churns the lake as the sky falls
Leads us into an interlocking frenzy

Of burnished grey metal, tears, dance

Ibn 'Ammar will seize my girl's glance

And, in Arabic poetry, forge a full romance

Out of her burnished skin and pliable gold adornments.

What a fine day this has turned out to be

For me, her eyes would melt ...

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Following the hooves of yak

We sing a sad song of longing.

Food we have, just enough, the Chinese soldiers take the rest.
My heart turns weak inside me, like the memory of our songs and prayer-flags,

The memory of your song lasts long, longer than occupation, I think.

We have no money and the Chinese close our monasteries and schools, everyday.

The sun sets and we carry on the figh...

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The Unwritten predominates, 

The times of wonder have gone,

We hold on - the wise women drugged

Into submission.

Forensic psychology reveals traces

Of long-forgotten haunted faces;

Which, like Munch's lurid, silent scream,

Degenerate into nightmaredream.

Or, so it seems.

Meanwhile, in population centres,

Desire, in all its lurid manifestations,

Falls into disuse,

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On a night like tonight

The words:

Girls, gin, thin

Originally dispersed

Now come together in a terse verse

Originating in London town, circa 1836.

I love a foggy pea-souper,

Down on the Kentish marshes,

Or a swirling mist around Whitrchapel

With the Ripper in tow

Charlie Dickens is scribbling away

In a dark corner

Of a candle lit room

He ...

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Bobbins of cotton

Were in great demand,

When cotton was king,

Here in Manchester.

Thousands of bonny lasses

Pouring out of t'Mill gates - 

Couldn't afford t'be late

Needed to thread the bobbins.

Bobbins of cotton

Rhyming slang

For rotten

Wonder if Johnny knew that?

'That's bobbins'

He'd have said.

And blinkin' bobbins to you, too,

Said Lady Blue.

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WHO THE HELL CAN SEE FOREVER?

Confíteor Deo omnipoténti
et vobis, fratres,
quia peccávi nimis
cogitatióne, verbo,
ópere et omissióne.

Wild is the way and clear is the sky

A world of smell and sight and sound

The portals of discovery all around.

So enter our world, our newfoundland:

The sheer vividness of colour will astound

You. The all-round visibility of sound,

F...

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You never cross the bridge,

On the verge of doubt

You withdraw

Retreat from the river

Jump into dreamland

Tuck yourself into shade

Answer questions in a perfunctory manner

And look,  I, too, was tired and broken

Dedicated to existing 

Long enough to kiss the sun

Again

I remember a man, a son of Zoroaster

So unlike the tired stranger I became.

I wish I k...

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The silk road into Moscow

The sundry stops, and stinks,

Her rising into fury

His sinking into think.

This edge of trees and wildings

The glazing of the sun.

This rising stench of wolverine

The moon falls to the Sun.

This mix of flesh and friendship

The rising up of love

This game of death and sacrifice

The cooing of the dove.

This beginning is the end

My frie...

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The Moors' last laugh

My daughters mean the world to me

To keep them safe is my whole intent

But in a time of war can fathers truly

Protect daughters? I used to be happy,

So cheerful, so easy in my cares.

But now I hate the moonlight

I am scared to be taken unawares.

We are occupied now by  Christian armies.

But we keep Muhamed close to our hearts

Whilst professin...

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“Sometimes it is the people no one can imagine anything of who do the things no one can imagine" Alan Turing

Mathematician, logician, philosopher, computer scientist, theoretical biologist, crypanalyst

This father of AI, most of whose work was covered by The Official Secrets Act,

Was denied recognition until 2009 becaise he admitted making love to a man

And was then chemically cas...

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Bewildered, at the things he left unsaid,

Serendipity, chances offered, all cut dead:

Wise enough to play the fool.

I guess.

A vicious wind slices through me,

Here on this January night:

Put out the light and then put out the light

Memory cuts through the cold remains of the day

Parcels it up, so the day wont drift away.

Signs hidden by an iron fog bec...

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Photo by Danny Schleicher on Unsplash

We’ve reached a tipping point — 

As the Arctic melts and Amazonia burns — 

Acid rain strips the trees — 

Plastic fantastic — two billion tons of indestructible shit –

A deathly cocktail of chemicals

Billowing out of chemical factories across the globe,

Billowing out tons of pestilential fug:

Diesel passing poison straight ...

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If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;

With their backs against the wall

The brave stand tall.

One Maori-Kiwi Englishman

Held up an Aussie onslaught

On a sunny Saturday in Yorkshire.

Boycottesque, he only scored 2 in 50 balls,

The brave stand tall.

England needed 359 runs to save the Ashes

Stokes gave us hope, steadil...

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Steel sharpened to a razor point, used as a blade,

On a day when I was a boy, you a man,

Shards of glass stain still this young boy's blood -

Try grabbing the sharpness of glass as you fall,

Bloody hands sliding down a wall.

At this moment held in perpetuity 

A thirty-second item on the local evening news

Framed in the mind of the viewers by stereotypes of blame:

Deser...

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There's an empty Bench today

She's gone away

Ghosts are everywhere

The pulse of her heart stopped

Wraiths chatter, mix, meld

In the invisible air

The odd number is one

Moment she  lingers in the chair

Talking to a lady who is no longer there

Odd that even two is only ever 1 + 1

These odd and odd associations

Will carry on until the wood

Rots and there are no tre...

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These empty spaces

Inside of me

Composed of God-knows-what:

Certainly lacking in originality

Empty waiting rooms

In empty railways stations

The smoky-smell of coal and steam

Caught up upon an evening’s desultoriness

A girl’s slight distress as she leaves the empty nest

Mingles with the spine-tingling haunting of the imagination

That is a prelude to walking death

Ec...

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The pungent smell of carnations sends me back

To summer days spent wending my time away

As dandelions mimic the gawdy sun

And the pebbles in my pockets are reserved for skimming water.

A heavy incense melds with the patchouli oil

Sweating for his mortal soul

Mixing an amorous mescaline tincture

Pale and milky, resistant like a heavy oak door

The frozen moment of a kiss

...

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4th August 1914

Germany invades Belgium

Great Britain declares war on Germany

Millions die. The roses of Picardy

Bloom red like blood,

The sun shines on.  The yellow wheat

Drifts and flows in the summer breezes still.

This quiet landscape will soon explode,

Shot through with the bloody gore of war.

We swore: hands bloody, burnt, raw.

Sweet Christ, what was it all...

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"Spain, under Arab rule, became the most civilized country in the world."

 Max Dimont,The Amazing Adventures of the Jewish People, Behrman House, 1995, p. 81

Arabic spoken in Andalusia,

after 400 years of the inquisition.

Muslim houses, in Bosnian villages,

with crosses on display

despite the threat of apostasy.

..........And slay them wherever you come upon them: Surah-Al...

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Upon this beach of ground sand and shells

Come! See the image of the rolling sea.

This new found land ground by the tides,

These wide expanses framed by cliffs of sky

On the windward side the mere placidity of day.

Trilobites embedded, beneath my feet

Quartz and Muscovite glitter in the granite

The wind and the waves have the time

To form sea views, sculpt'd rocks, cav...

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Serendipity came my way, on a blowy Lancaster day

Blown in all the way from Cal-i-forni-i-a, an idea of a girl

That I kept in my head, long after she was dead 

Except in great extremity when I'd gamble all that I had

On her not being sad. But, maybe, I was wrong and Jenny

Had sung a bitter-bitter-song. A song of her declining days

Drifting into a frustration-opoid-filled Palo Alt...

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Morning maniac music

Shakes me awake

The regular guys

Those who once brought hope

Now bring hate.

Over the mountain,

the clouds scud away

blood on the floor

it's all fading away.

........

Blood on the soul,

and blood over water

All those refugees 

we oughter.....

stick 'em in the camps

and camp'em on the shelf

of our conscience

.......

Wa...

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Falling in love

Beats falling in line

What is our derivative today

A bluesy-chime?

.......

In this curve of time

We need a degree of differentiation

To establish our rate of change

With respect to time.

......

There are a number of ways

To fix this derivative:

In the end they all amount to the same

Number: 

..........

In the fourth dimension

The grad...

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Her train of thought enters a tunnel,

she's off the rails, at risk;

tracking back

she sees that

the perfect day

for her to go away

will never arrive.

......

So she must loop back

into herself,

link past, present and future

into a spherical loop:

a theory made of everything,

to guide her and to link her

into the self-contained mathematical model 

of isol...

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Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Splattered on a canvas

Or, scrawled on a wall.

Art

Is just

A husk of form

Without the artless agony

Of daily life:

The strangled scream

And the carving knife.

Guernica Pablo Picasso 1937

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We are all in a minority-of-one, of sorts,

Embedded in the randomness of thought,

The quirks we cultivate, or choose to ignore,

Is our first glance going to ceiling or floor?

Raising the intonation at the end of a statement

Problematizes even the most complacent thought;

Or, maybe, we look our interlocutor straight in the eye

Let him slowly work out the exact nature of ou...

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Photo by Sam Moqadam on Unsplash

A terrible thing happened to my friend and his family today.

He took his life on an ordinary Monday. Hung himself by the neck

From a tree. Left this life and just went away.

Leaving his loved ones to pick up the pieces.

His mum couldn’t stop shaking at his funeral

Paid for by us, his friends

Her rickety car matched her blonde hair.

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The ideas of the beautiful Cathars of Languedoc spread across western Europe

Cathar comes from the Greek: καθαροί, katharoi, “the pure [ones]”

They built on the dualistic theology of Manichaenism

Which they blended with the eastern Christianity of Byzantium

They were ascetic: believing the matetial world was the evil realm of Satan

Whilst the world of the spirit w...

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At the end of time I will rise

Like today, go about my business

Talk to children, smile sometimes.

The sky - the real sky - shall shelter

And storm the earth still. Black soil shall

Breed many Satans still.

Azure clouds from which no rain falls

Shall mass on far horizons.

Large drops of rain shall fall, freezing into ice,

Falling into full sunshine.

An...

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The winter-sharp brains of children 
Took a turn for the worse,
Suffered an inferiority complex

Caused by all the old men: quick to criticise, slow to help.. 

Dispersed, triumphant solely in their dreams.
Children running across raging seas danced on the waves. 

Such a storm-blessed salty awakening.
They had nothing to regret. 
They were children who coped with HIV, nursed t...

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One must  recognize chaos in oneself

To be able to give birth to a dancing star.

Now, only the vestiges remain:

Go on, consumers, conduct a forensic examination,
And when complete, then you scatter the remains:
Finally, you will see the fragility of the body,
In the furtherance of the truth:
Note the devil’s-in-the-detail;
We are condemned at the root.

Here's a roof for ...

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Photo by Diana Parkhouse on Unsplash

I prefer that you are not angry with me,

I am not a slacker or a malingerer

With you I can be honest, I have a problem with my DNA.

The genetic malformation makes my life a heavy globe

to carry. Do not walk under my feet. Give me space.

You can be very funny - with your cutting wit

Funny enough to dissolve most men — like...

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The other side of the bay we find

tramps' halls of resistance flashing by

where memory cascades into

availanches on request, tramp to tramp,

intelligence tests, read last week's  news,

reading between the lines of this misty day; 

most modern  mobile minds are really quite unaware of significance

just click into life at 7am - with WiFi with work 

providing ample assistance ...

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Photo by Wayne Chan on Unsplash

(for Cathy)

If all the days of all the years were made of wine and gold
They’d be present in the light of intelligence in this one dog’s eyes.
This friendship across species — a Buddhist mantra –
Rocks me like a good old boy, befriends me like the rain.
He’ll be with me when the gates fly open — his love will never end.
Seek out the depths, the s...

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)

moments of the past

fall flat

memories do not last:

kicking leaves

in stormy-autumn 

tumbling heaps, red, gold and brown

deep-set colours all around

echoing the silent dread

of  the day of the dead.

A memory-lost, a memory-found,

storm-tossed words,

all around,

thought 

but never said:

regrets of a life misled.

Dust-motes float

around my head,

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Passing these whiter shades of pale, these pretty traces of lace,

We reveal the opal-luminosity of these few remaining late Romans,

Their indigo-dreams red with the gore of resistance on this bloody

May Day, negating their absorption into the timeless air of antiquity,

Through the thousand year creation of Constantinople’s drift and swell,

Rising into Elysium’s perfumed garden ...

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November brought to mind in August: 

The lack of light, that all day twilight!

How can anybody live through such visual misery?

Without declining into snake, or toad?

Even the trees will have no leaves.

And the cold will rise to infect our eyes!

We are, unfortunately, not Italian, nor Etruscan,

Just woolly-backed mammoth barbarian sorcerers

Of a certain druidical d...

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Melancholy's lack of zest

Was written all over his palimpsest:

To die at twenty-five to some

Will hardly seem to have been alive.

But Johnny Keats lived and loved

for poetry, music, kisses, tears

Eschewing self-pity-suicide

He tried his best to stay alive

With medicine and Fanny's tears 

..........

No crossing of the river Lethe, as yet,

Undefeated by TB, at least ...

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My friend is dead.

I met him here

He was wise,

But he was not clear

About anything - afar or near.

For which I was grateful.

I try to hold him clear in mind -

on the random wildwind strain

where we hear old notes playing -

I maintain the glory of his voice, his name,

But I have a sick dread of a fading

Time, unmaintained by love or rhyme.

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I went to see a dead man's wedding today.

I can sing again, some may say,

Even if the bridegroom cuts out his heart

And swears they'd never part

I'll plant a heart in the national park

But the NIMBYs would exclaim,

In addition flowers cannot bloom,

For the NIMBYs are in their 60s with no debts,

They think they'll live for ever

But between the layers of birdsong death i...

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You may want to be a rose,

You are beautiful enough,

and your perfume makes me faint

Heady it is  in that one garden,

Where the best woman in the world

Works like a peasant, smiling, striving,

The trimming of the hedges,

If I was a sculptor there would be statues

To remember you as a young woman

But I am a dreamer and I only remember every inch of you

Just as the w...

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We wake to the rumbling thunder of blood,
Pumping hearts, twisted hearts, this shadow and I
Squeeze into these thick silences of trees.
Soon the dark lights of Christmastide afflict us
Twilight memories drift, flux and flicker
In this breeze of Time,
Penumbra-beginning hologram-end, my friend,
Such pungent affirmations, slip into the past:
Generations of suffering: eyes lifted to...

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A reet rough diamond

This Broughton boy

Salford born

And Salford fled.

Y're an Essex  'Erbert now me lad,

No dirty old town fer you, our kid,

London suburbia'll have to do

Fer likes o'you.

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