Part 1

 

A  mirage of Mecca rises North Westerly across the water, mirroring Manhattan.

 

Feeling the icy, ghostly touch of past glory I turn abrupt

 

 

The head spins. Whirling. Dizzily into another reality

 

 Is there no direction I can take?  No Yellowbrick Road

 

Cut off by ebb and flow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Elements of water, fire, earth and air

 

aid me in this unfolding despair.

 

 

 

A childs red balloon floats - stickless,  into my path, accompanying the next few stumbles.

 

Mocking my fears and providing solstice.

 

Over to my left I swear, on that unsupported, disconnected wall

 

Banksy's child with a ballooon appears. minus - one red balloon.

 

Such image wishfully drawn, invoked by a desperate troubled pawn.

 

Oh how Birkenhead needs their own street cred, 

 

spray on, nailed on force majeur.

 

Does this grey decay mirror my inner being?

 

The labyrinth I walk through reflecting my derelict soul.

 

Or am I becoming a modern Minotaur resplendant in a concrete gaol?

 

 

 

Stranger  in the central bus station  passing by, a parrot on his shoulder.

 

 

Aside the seventy two complete with  harmonica playing pensioner four seats from the rear  

 

 

 

Shut me in.

 

Let not the fey folk find me.

 

I want to sleep in skunk induced ecstasy

 

on crystal clean ironed pristine, Egyptian cotton

 

The afterglow of her sleek smooth skin massaging my ego 

 

 ionising every negative part.

 

Take the magnet away.

 

Upset the balance.

 

Call upon different values. Ambition, success,riches.

 

Empty lanes marked with no entry or exit.

 

Dreams littered with human detritus.

 

 

 

 

She became trapped and just gave up.

 

Most do.

 

No art you see.

 

Music struggles on. Peninsular isolation.

 

When will four men from Wirral rock the world?

 

Who would walk on broken glass to see what masterpiece may be unfurled..

 

at Williamson's Artistic Emporium, top of Slatey Road.

 

 

 

Schools spew forth escaping scolars. One hundred per the Etonian.

 

"are you him" I ask silently.

 

Could you make the world look closer at the Uk's second most impoverished borough?

 

Sulking,smoking, rolling joints.

 

They trundle to their X box lunch.

 

whilst from their inner souls, a skull-like essence turns 

 

beyond my gaze, towards a dawn that they will never see and cries..

 

"Yes its me, lost in a maze CH forty one to forty three.

◄ Goddess...homage to Dylan Thomas

The Beguiling of Merlin ►

Comments

<Deleted User> (6315)

Wed 5th Oct 2011 17:32


You have some good lines here..sometimes I have difficulty in following your turn of thought lol that is my problem though..liked the use of your pics too!

:)

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