Her innocence has depth

She is misinformation,
beyond her station
on the wrong train.

He is leaning to solitude
confused by the multitude
upset by the attitude
that someone's to blame.

          -------

In the transit of thinking
he takes her hand.
In the composite calm
she takes his confusion.

To commandeer
the common ground,
allusions to a moment found,
that stayed the course,
with hands still curled,

static in this spinning world

They paint their new horizon.

My Kingdom
is a builder,s yard.

A Bethlehem
of measurement
of plasterboard and timbering.
An interwoven sepulchre
of garrulous vernacular.

Expletive-laden badinage,
our handle of the hardstand
is the character of companies
I keep.

And unto these
my time is priced,
my soul is planed,
my name is signed...

but
in the dark
of winter evenings,
watching ancient planets rise,

I contemplate the other lives
another me, might live...

Dear Viennese Art School Tutors of the early 1900,s

If a highly strung young chap turns up
with a strange flick haircut, a dodgy
looking tache and laden with canvass,

Please dont tell him his paintings are
****, and that, perhaps he ought to try
and express himself via another medium.

Could save us all a spot of bother
in the long run.

Cheers

Signed:

well....er,.."Everyone"...actually.

Won us big
the ol  stank yard,

saw Maggie
over twice the shy..

Good girl
she was
and ever
will mean

nothing
to the lads
mind...

Glee to blade
all smart
an *******

gave, em glass
an brought em
gin, just

couldn't
stand
the rags
she danced
in....

left her
bounce
around the Elm

done well
my rigid
preacher
roots....

shone
my ol  boots
and
kept 'em
marching

frightened
fools
that we be
reaping

bringing out
the shift
and moving
on....

Disposable face-masks
make excellent hammocks
for Bohemian hamsters,

perfect for them to unwind,
while practicing their music
on those little hamster flutes

So, take it easy..
shin back and smoke out
those sunny afternoons
with the haunting
scuffle of hamster-jazz..

The exercise
was " Charity"

an essay on ,"That
which we hope
to receive".

I,
half-asleep
had misunderstood,

submitted a paper
on "Blow-jobs"...

Bet you that
the jet-stream brings,
the split ends of
old hurricanes,
pensions off
their stroppy baggage,
coughing up their
weeks of rain.

Feels wrong
without the cold

without Siskins,
without Redpolls...

...no outside chance
of white-winged gulls
appearing down
the bay...