Of course
it has to end
one day,
it always does..

but not like this...

so, now is not
the time to lose,
that bright and burning
will, that serves you well
beyond the quarantine
of rich imaginations.

And, should those
feral torments run,
then face them down
assured, for you are
stronger with this love
that coves, your everything
and more....

Of course
it has to end
one day,
it always does

but not like this..

then,
to the sound of bells
we'll tell of days we braved,

together...

" It's why
these things
will always be
bigger than us"

        ......

In truth it's been
a long time coming

Something only seen
beneath the scrutiny
of microscopes
has found us out,

undermined
our house of cards
and sped us to
our place
of fear

Now
fighting
over pasta
milk and money
we appear no more
than primitive....

So far,
the voices rally
from the vortice
of an underpass.
Endorsed by cavilled
penury, more yesterday
than newspaper.

but nothing here, can
change the course
of rivers.

Bent-double
in their algorithm
fixed within their fiction,
though, a sheathing of
their tar-skimmed blade
played life in minds
of old unplenty..

Winter-kin
they were,
come carapaced,
lenticular

Sat where
the startled couple char
that narcoleptic zinfandel,

untrammelled, in their
moon-trashed subterranea.

But when the Sun
is done with us

and dust has
earned its Earth,

I will meet you
in the morning tree

when we come back
as birds......

It is difficult to define
With no black dog to lead
this pressure dropped familiar.
No symbol/ fetish/ effigy
to incorporate a misery that drains
the joy from all that I hold dear.
.
How does one trace the contours
of an abstract exhalation?

Somewhere near
a pendulum is stilled.

That which I loved one minute past,
that filled this hole of borrowed time
is laid apart her spent electric
body washed in turpentine
Her outline drawn.

Estranged.

                        .........

I follow where the way grows small
Where disembodied voices pull in
strange degrees of separation
I flow toward their thin remains
shape, ill-defined, subliminal
An acquiescent aftermath of
calculus unknown.

I am pressed italic, hither sent
to comb the sear of cloying strand
for relics of the days worn down
by nothing in particular.
There is no anthem or lament
no ornamental sentiment to wrest
the quickened lacks that sand
the shores of Anhedonia.

It's
the little
things,
my Liberty..

that day we caught
the train, you pressed
your lips against my
startled ear, insisted
you were soaking....

...laughed
at my confusion when
I said it wasn't raining,

your impish
observation ceded,
light, for me, dawns slowly..

...waited
for the tunnel thrash
to sit astride
and show me....

Shake
the beach-combed locks
and how this Spanish Plume
becomes, a vaunted
posturing of poppies..

The way is high
and undiluted.
Office blocks have melted
to a salty insignificance,
their oscillating convolutions
baked, on oven -cambers....

Catch,
her sorbet-samba glamping
apricot in sandalwood,
a paper-chasing chatelaine,
gone, daisy, down, the dockside pan.
Our Painted Lady tumble-dries
the bramble-crab, peroxide.

Her ox-eye, Andalusian tours
to rhapsodies of ice-cream vans.