False premise

Time passenger

Not bitter.  Not Gone

Not Resting In Peace

Not wasted. Not forgotten

Not lost in space

The atoms I carry

Their candour. Their ignorance

Tick Box. Tick Box

Seconds out

The regimen of folding a tie. Compliance

All but forgotten now. I know

Sun dance on jewelled water

Beauty broken by complaisance

The drip away of time

Until the flood

And then the view. Obsolete

A spoil. A wasteland. A derision

I am coming to claim

My false inheritance. My legacy

Please locksmith

Cut me that key

Prepare the plaque. A eulogy

Before I am gone

Deep Space

poem-deep-space

on into endless blue

 into the cold configuration of misery

he explores the scope of space

not daring to imagine there are sides

or anything, that may signify limits

for there are none

when the black dog licks his wounds

and basks in the enduring certainty of despair

The dreamer blinks

all dreams dashed before

he reaches the farther shore

stuck between rocks

in a paradox

that hardest of places

from whence he stares

and goes blind again, in hope

There is a fool on the coast

who whistles and coos

endangering the silence

and distracting the fractions of light

that emit so faintly from far, far away

but lay like silver threads

tendrils that pulse with forgotten time

and offer the kindness of an enduring hope

Waste Away

waste-away

The bin men parade down our street

all purpose and speed.

Rolling before them a thunder of work.

Of bins and trays and discarded things

their noise punctuating this slow morning.

And every week the clock-work of waste,

of renewal through removal

by these early day storm troopers

advances and moves to another front.

Still fast and hot. Dull-eyed but

eager to finish an infinite job

and park their oozing lorries

out of sight

lest the war be lost.

And when they’ve gone the gimlet eyed residents

let in the clean and calm,

scuttling out to retrieve their empties

and return to an order

only they can comprehend

as they claim peace

in the recently returned

status quo.

The first

The first.jpg

How apt to start the month,

with a Monday

Now we’ll expect symmetry to unfold

Like logic. As it should

And all the curly wurly thoughts

False starts and chaos of the past

Be tamed. Brought into line

Oh, how kind, to start like this

To give us all a break

This democracy of chance

Whence one, the first, could be the last

Figures rolling, resolving to be

Significant in patterns that repeat

The life cycle. But neatly

And if all the lights go out

Then what, my number fetishists

Are we cast into a darkness

Of tumbling die

Where confusion will drown clarity

And logic leak from the cracks

Of pursed lips that crave conformity

New days. New dawns

They are not cheap

Entrusted as they are

With all we most want to keep

Perhaps we should be

Blind to numbers that conform

To patterns that unfold in sleep

BANG

BANG

BANG

BANG

 

Sobering to think

Each second

Each instant

Is loaded

 

We only need

To harvest

Potential

To ignite a spark

 

‘Only’ is preposterous

We angle at

A magic trick

The sleek back of a bullet

 

And somehow

In that ‘seized moment’

We are aligned

Past and future present

 

A marvellous particle

Immaculate on the back

Of fusion

And so we come and go