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Beached boat on Brigthon beach

 

dissonance

that disrupted space between my ears

that informs an ever hungry brain

the interpreter of senses

and those impulses

the drivers of my being

Oh captain guide me

but I have said these things

had these thoughts

for ever, forever my pernicious

insecurities

Oh captain let me inhabit

your shoes

let me dissolve into your clothes

your ribbons and your certainty

and plot a course that might stretch

with ports of call

from A to Zee that has a burning arc

and goes eventually to deep pacific blue

unerringly

So. Invite me to sit at your groaning table

with all the other grateful ghosts

And in the morning

Bell weather

 

I sit playing at words and looking

for their ruined meanings as

above me rain detaches itself from the moods

that are clouds that linger in doom

and laugh as they get lighter and pull away

to a heaven that smiles on the other side of the world

while upside down other people find congress

in immaculate thoughts,  just like mine

though it all, of course, is unknowable

and that susurration  of damp pellets on glass,

that rain, is somehow soothing as it washes away

the stain of grief – the echo

that seems to last, to follow and linger

like a partner in a sensual dance

guiding me with soft fingers into vice

 

Tomorrow will try to intrude

and entertain my future with presentiments but

I am caught here in the cloying sense of a loss that is impending

the gravity of doubt that knows me, owns me

so well that I have adopted it and beg to drown

in this timely shower of raindrops surrendering on glass

the drum beat and patter of those renegade soldiers

dividing me from fate as they slip away in disarray

beseeching the spent remorseless air to mourn

other fallen dreams set fast in the earth with encryptions

on stone tablets that are stoic with their enduring love

the epitaphs that outlive sorrow day after day

and all the letters bleed from their wounds, their histories

the kindness of flowers left at the scene

and in the morning

bad, bad words

bad, bad words. pic

 

I can’t contain my words

they are feral

and when I go out

they let me down

bad cats and dogs and birds

bad, bad words

you know, I once saw a man taking a parrot out for a walk

it perched on his shoulder attentively

looking at him with its sharp beak poised

and I wondered if it ever bit him

for the impertinence of taking  it out unfettered

attached to his shoulder so somehow – owned

the wild bird in its native forest – exotic

would protest,  preferring not to be tame

bad, bad words

they grow into characters, they assume persona’s

I glimpse them as they frolic

I know them as they choke

a gale of consonants and vowels

incipient sounds like weather on the make

puddles of confusion – a mosaic of mistakes

I should have stopped to take a picture of that man

with that parrot on his shoulder so full of withheld

bad, bad words

and now my mouth is full of ammunition for another day

rainfall on a monday morning

 

rainfall on a manday morning.pic-001

 

one son has gone to view a property in Peterborough

the other son went to work in Surbiton

and here I am wondering about Win Wong

a Chinaman I met on holiday in the Maldives

What is going on in my  head?

how goes it as I sit with my coffee in a quiet house

my wife about to go to work

and I am left with the simple task of walking the dog-

I’ll probably go to Sunbury

the earth it seems is spinning on it’s own head-strong celestial axis

and me- I’m powerless as I recall the Tuna Win Wong caught

on a strip of line with one fatal hook

that my wife and I ate that night

on an atoll in the Indian ocean

one night that seems so far away that I

may be still in the land of dreams but

‘one last thing’, she says as she goes

‘please put out the bin, it smells’

When does joy begin?

when does joy begin. pic

 

in the holding back and not

trying to find nostalgia,

no false memories will serve,

for truth has splinters stuck fast

in the veneer that coats all our recollections

and fragments in the lode threaten to discharge

unreliable soldiers in some other version you once knew

so history in the human mind is geography

the topography in a spatial sense of where we have been

so easily confused in the transmission

of the personal, the private, the hidden and unexplained

and all of those constituents that form

our wonky DNA

A bright morning, fresh start, ensconced in glass

my vision, my blood and the fading of history to a tepid mush

raise questions of

where joy has been

and did it ever come

because I can’t remake a wish

nor go to visit vanishment

but would it be far- fetched to hope, to be in place

if ever joy were to commence.

heartfelt. again

heartfelt. again

 

your message was lost

and found. in a puddle

the words you wrote now weep

 

that casual transition

from the heart

became a declaration in the dirt

 

do you know

it means more to me now

forlorn but found

 

because it is blessed

by providence and truth

it survives the wound

 

curling as it dries

on the mantelpiece

a resurrection of our bonds

 

the tear drops frozen in amber light

as the day closes around

everything I cannot lose