Crows feet

Crows feet

 

a bird lays a line against

the blue or grey circumference of doubt

for the sky, it’s sheets draw inexorably

toward the night

and that absence of light

that pulls a curtain on the day

Deep space will offer it’s dome

to those of us who oblige the moon

obeying rituals and cycles

we have come to know

amid those rumours of your day

that heaven steers toward the pillow

The waking dreams will flap

 like washing on a line

hoping to succumb

 to tenderness

in the still and calm of sleep

In that orbit of the resting eye

the universe is brave, unbounded

by superstition

until the day intrudes again

to support some foolish notion of flight.

How sad

How sad. pic

How sad

the ego clings to the fringes

of what is left

remembering in the pallid glow of reality

that the past was a better place

invested with the best of memories

still electric, still with the power to pull

old bones with their cloak of decaying cells

onto the back of an old motor bike

and ride, demented, without a helmet

into the wall of some past glories

How sad

that the epitaph may be spoiled

if the truth came out

that vanity was the ultimate fuel

and not a single prayer for peace

that split skin and blood

were attended to in the urgent blue

of flashing lights

and trained hands transferred the body

to a bed in a place that was

not home

How sad.

Damn

damn

I see my grey hair in pictures with the family

and realise that I am already passing

into history

How long will it be until the smile fades to ash

and colours in the inks lose their vitality

Can that frame hold fast and keep the memory

or will indifference and fashion

make it hasten into a lost obscurity

Will it all by-pass photo-shop

with it’s technical brilliance,

the mastered pixel rendered and held

for heaven to view in the cloud

Perhaps I am destined to inhabit

the space that the picture frame

purports to keep in an enigmatic perpetuity.

Another Caught Thought

Canvey Island 1929

Canvey Island 1929

Another Caught Thought

I am constrained by silence

And the echoes of my past

That bounce and shimmer

Without form. Timid. Irresolute

Bounded round by a clutch

Of anxieties

I stammer. Falter

Giddy in my resonance of ideas

Always looking for a quiet place

The place where I am absorbed

Wholly lost

From whence I can fly

Last night’s dream

Last Night's Dream

Last Night’s Dream

Last night’s dream

 

Tight

Then running

Into water

A fast flowing weir

Danger

Fully clothed

A man passes me in evening wear

And enters swirling waves

I see him from the bank

Lit, as if on stage

And he swims

Until I know

The water will get him

And I watch

As he goes under

So confused

And then he is propelled

Torpedo-like into vacant air

Again and again

His corpse

A plaything

Of some hidden deep

Threads

R.I.P

Threads

So, you are famous now

Though it was casual

Mentioned in an alley-way

‘He was found dead in bed’

 

The brutal truth

Is anecdotal

The particulars left to myth

We have our fading vision

 

For your fall was foreseen

By many of us

Who did try to help

When you were out of step

 

But now the game is up

We will honour you

In a thousand small ways

A thread of silence marks this spot

Damage in transit

Damage in transit

 

I live on the border of reason

Often struggling not to disappear

From the frontiers of hope that sometimes

Seem so far away

 

There are days when the emotional weather

Is close to overwhelming

And sand bags around the senses

Are in danger of a breach

 

Then life becomes so tiring

Because, by any measure

Especially those that I impose

Everything falls short

 

And I am left in the claw of dismal

A tightening fist that excludes

Light and hope

That lingers in the gaolers stare

 

For moments like these

Are death

As I reluctantly wear the symbols of life

Why do I bear this grudge

 

Why am I so famished

So torn

Bereft

A living. Dying thing.