FOR WHAT ARE WORDS WORTH

I wandered lonely
through a crowd

lost to myself now
that I'd lost you

gathering even your footsteps
peeling your shadow from my wall

remembering that lost last kiss
did it have to end like this

"...beside the lake, beneath the trees....
...when all at once I saw a...."

host of saffroned monks
their robes " ...fluttering and dancing

in the breeze..." and behind them
bunches and bunches  of daffodils

outside a florist
chanting Hare Krishna

in all their yellow voices
delighting in their day

and for a second I
forgot my pain

dancing across a zebra crossing
with an old old woman and

a little
yapping dog.

FOR YOUR DELECTATION AND DELIGHT...

Like trapeze artists
we fall towards each other

our love
so far above

the disbelieving faces
a sea of masks

All saying: “Oh! ”
with awe.

Your fingertips
reaching out

at the last possible second
grasping my wrists

and we fly through the air
with the... (like a fish
in water)... greatest of ease.

So real...surreal.

Alone
in the big top of our longing

high above all others

unaware of all the gasps
(the melodramatic drum roll)  

only our love
reaching for the next second

knowing that the other is always
there

only a heartbeat

...away.

"FOR  HIM ALSO I POURED OUT MANY TEARS."

I follow in the footsteps of
Mary Queen of Scots.

Time has fallen away.
It is another Fortheringay day.

its where & when
no longer matters.

A bird sings the morning
into being

Mary & I both
listening

to the self
same song.

Time no longer holds sway.
History has run away.

The moment holds
its own

amidst a sea
of seconds we

escape Time's clutches
share the song

the bird creates for us

the morning shivering
in the  heat haze

of now.

*

For him also I poured out many tears
First when he made himself possessor of this body.
Of which then he had not the heart.
After he gave me one other hard charge,
When he bled great quantities of blood,
Through which great sorrow brought further sadness to me
That almost carried away my life, and the fear
Of losing the only strength that armed me.

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS

Visiting Fotheringay whilst reading her poetry and singing Sandy Denny to myself.,...a bird joined in and time  seemed to collapse in upon itself and Mary and I shared the same moment.

FRAMING THY FEARFUL SYMMETRY

It's the little things remain
shadows on your skin

memory preserves it
makes it more precious

despite its
insignificance.

The ephemeral
made permanent.

You all
sunlight and shadow

marking you a tiger
a stripey 5 year old.

"Rrrrr!" you roar
burning bright.

I throw my little tiger
up in the air

catch her years
later.

The sunlight now
in teacher mode

displays an
equilateral triangle

made of
pure light.

Hear her voice of then
still telling me now

"Look...an equatorial triangle!"

And so for ever
it is.

The angle I see her from
changes

the years come and go
and the equatorial triangle

still burns brightly
you my little girl tiger

twisting the sinews
of my heart.

FRAMING THY FEARFUL SYMMETRY

It's the little things remain
shadows on your skin

memory preserves it
makes it more precious

despite its
insignificance.

The ephemeral
made permanent.

You all
sunlight and shadow

marking you a tiger
a stripey 5 year old.

"Rrrrr!" you roar
burning bright.

I throw my little tiger
up in the air

catch her years
later.

The sunlight now
in teacher mode

displays an
equilateral triangle

made of
pure light.

Hear her voice of then
still telling me now

"Look...an equatorial triangle!"

And so for ever
it is.

The angle I see her from
changes

the year come and go
and the equatorial triangle

still burns brightly
you my little girl tiger

twisting the sinews
of my heart.

FRAMING THY FEARFUL SYMMETRY

it's the little things
remain
shadows on your skin

memory preserves it
makes it more precious
despite its insignificance

the ephemeral
made permanent
you all sunlight and shadow

marking you a tiger
a stripey 5 year old. . ."Rrrrr!"
you roar burning bright

I throw my little tiger
up in the air
catch her years later

the sunlight now
in teacher mode
displays

an equilateral triangle
made of
pure light

hear her voice
of then
still telling me now

"Look...an equatorial triangle!"
and so for ever
it is

the angle
I see her from
changes

the years come and go
and the equatorial triangle
still burns brightly

you my little girl tiger
twisting the sinews
of my heart

"...FRESHER FIELDS THAN FLANDERS..."


Christ! Even the Son
of God can get it wrong!

Time his Second Coming
to end up in WW1.

To us he looked like one of the 'Un!
To the 'Un he was one of us.

Both sides let him
have it.

Him who had come
to die for us

and by God
He did.

Hung on the barbed wire
for days on end

we all thinking will it
never end.

Crying for His Father
getting on our ****** nerves.

Some say they saw him
at the Somme

some say at Crucifix Corner
"...forgive them for they know not..."

it went on and on
'...what they've done."

But I had by gum!
I pitied the poor ******.

Crawled out under
****** fire.

Put my last ciggie
between his lips

made of nothing but
tea leaves....liquorice...treacle.

"Thanks mate.!" he gasped
with his last breath

turning into young Tommy
Smith at His Death.

A right good lad I knew
from Hudersfield.

Shell shocked
they said I was.

I wasn't.

All men are the Son
of God as it happens.

Even a dead 'Un is one.

The Son of God is forever
getting it wrong.

Christ! Will He ever
learn.

Timing His next Coming
to land up in WW11.

Other Wars
waiting in the wings

for Him
to come again.

Wish He would just
give up on us.

He's of no ****** use
whatsoever.

Death is a better
friend.

Survival as I know
is Hell.





"...FRESHER FIELDS THAN FLANDERS..." is the last line of a Preface that Wilfred Owen intended for his book.

Was first going to write a sci-fi thing with the Saviour coming down at just the wrong time. But as I wrote I remembered an old man I used to look after who would tell me about his WW11 experiences and of his grand dad's tales from WW1 so that it ended up as a mixture of the real and the unreal in the surreal situation of war and all it entails.

"...FRESHER FIELDS THAN FLANDERS..."

Christ! Even the Son
of God can get it wrong!

Time his Second Coming
to end up in WW1.

To us he looked like one of the 'Un!
To the 'Un he was one of us.

Both sides let him
have it.

Him who had come
to die for us

and by God
He did.

Hung on the barbed wire
for days on end

we all thinking will it
never end.

Crying for His Father
getting on our ****** nerves.

Some say they saw him
at the Somme

some say at Crucifix Corner
"...forgive them for they know not..."

it went on and on
'...what they've done."

But I had by gum!
I pitied the poor ******.

Crawled out under
****** fire.

Put my last ciggie
between his lips

made of nothing but
tea leaves....liquorice...treacle.

"Thanks mate.!" he gasped
with his last breath

turning into young Tommy
Smith at His Death.

A right good lad I knew
from Huddersfield.

Shell shocked
they said I was.

I wasn't.

All men are the Son
of God as it happens.

Even a dead 'Un is one.

The Son of God is forever
getting it wrong.

Christ! Will He ever
learn.

Timing His next Coming
to land up in WW11.

Other Wars
waiting in the wings

for Him
to come again.

Wish He would just
give up on us.

He's of no ****** use
whatsoever.

Death is a better
friend.

Survival as I know
is Hell.

"...FRESHER FIELDS THAN FLANDERS..."


Christ! Even the Son
of God can get it wrong!

Time his Second Coming
to end up in WW1.

To us he looked like one of the 'Un!
To the 'Un he was one of us.

Both sides let him
have it.

Him who had come
to die for us

and by God
He did.

Hung on the barbed wire
for days on end

we all thinking will it
never end.

Crying for His Father
getting on our ****** nerves.

Some say they saw him
at the Somme

some say at Crucifix Corner
"...forgive them for they know not..."

it went on and on
'...what they've done."

But I had by gum!
I pitied the poor ******.

Crawled out under
****** fire.

Put my last ciggie
between his lips

made of nothing but
tea leaves....liquorice...treacle.

"Thanks mate.!" he gasped
with his last breath

turning into young Tommy
Smith at His Death.

A right good lad I knew
from Hudersfield.

Shell shocked
they said I was.

I wasn't.

All men are the Son
of God as it happens.

Even a dead 'Un is one.

The Son of God is forever
getting it wrong.

Christ! Will He ever
learn.

Timing His next Coming
to land up in WW11.

Other Wars
waiting in the wings

for Him
to come again.

Wish He would just
give up on us.

He's of no ****** use
whatsoever.

Death is a better
friend.

Survival as I know
is Hell.

FROM EPOCH TO EON

the fossils live
in a cardboard box
under her bed

dust on the fossils
the soft patina of time
a wet fingertip makes them shine

ammonites and echinoids
are her friends
she hasn't any human friends

500 million years just
a
snip

she scrapes the humans
off the landscape
imagines glaciers out for a stroll

a fossil perched upon
a piano
absorbing the music

the grandfather clock
( each second long as an age )
at odds with the cuckoo clock

its half past
a millennium
or two

the little yellow road
threading itself through the countryside
the patchwork quilt of fields

at the end of the road
the moon waiting patiently
for her to catch up

FROM EPOCH TO EON

the fossils live
in a cardboard box
under her bed

dust on the fossils
the soft patina of time
a wet fingertip makes them shine

ammonites and echinoids
are her friends
she hasn't any human friends

500 million years just
a
snip

she scrapes the humans
off the landscape
imagines glaciers out for a stroll

a fossil perched upon
a piano
absorbing the music

the grandfather clock
( each second long as an age )
at odds with the cuckoo clock

its half past
a millennium
or two

the little yellow road
threading itself through the countryside
the patchwork quilt of fields

at the end of the road
the moon waiting patiently
for her to catch up

FROM EPOCH TO EON

the fossils live
in a cardboard box
under her bed

dust on the fossils
the soft patina of time
a wet fingertip makes them shine

ammonites and echinoids
are her friends
she hasn't any human friends

500 million years just
a
snip

she scrapes the humans
off the landscape
imagines glaciers out for a stroll

a fossil perched upon
a piano
absorbing the music

the grandfather clock
( each second long as an age )
at odds with the cuckoo clock

its half past
a millenium
or two

the little yellow road
threading itself through the countryside
the patchwork quilt of fields

at the end of the road
the moon waiting patiently
for her to catch up


*


I tried to contain time in all its many facets whether it be told by fossil or in human terms or by clock or by clocks that have lost time or clocks that have time on their hands or however we humans tried to gauge it...and so...it goes.....the tick of the tock.

she said her name
was: "Zeta Ampersand!"
"Wot?" I wotted?

her Da had named her after
some mathematical function
Ampersand she just liked the sound

she even signed her self
ζ (& ) "...the artist formerly known as
my self!"

"59 & 509...both primes!" she smiled
"30, 031...isn't!"
"!?!" I said

I watched a snake
of sweet sweat slither
between her cleavage

"...the Buckmisterfullerene molecule is
like a soccer ball...blah de blah.."
"Uh huh..yeah...I'm...eh...listening..."

to my heart beat
wildly out of control
she an Everest...I the foothills

said she liked
Daft Punk & kissing
"Now there's a coincidence..." I whispered

Daft Punk I didn't know but
I had a 1st Class Honours
in kissing &...stuff

we made love with
AROUND THE WORLD on replay
"Call me Z..." she sighed

*** with her was like
voicing alveolar sibilant fricatives
"Gee Zee...geeee!" was all I could say

I was an quantic entity
experiencing wave/particle duality
for the first time forever

FROST AT MIDNIGHT

Frost
etches a sketch

of its self
upon a window pane

drawing itself over
& over again

whilst outside
the moon

hangs suspended
above diverging roads

pondering which path
to take

as if it had promises
to keep

I just want to sleep
but I have miles to go before

reciting aloud to the stars
Walter De la Mare's

THE LISTENERS

to myself
to keep myself

awake.

The woods fill up
with snow

making everything
a ghost

of what it was.

The woods fill up
with snow...snow

memories of
long agos.

FROST AT MIDNIGHT

frost
etches a sketch
of its self

upon a window pane
drawing itself over
& over again

whilst outside
the moon
hangs suspended

above diverging roads
pondering which path
to take

as if it had promises
to keep
I just want to sleep

but I have miles to go before
reciting  aloud to the stars
Walter De la Mare's

THE LISTENERS
to myself
to keep myself awake.

the woods fill up
with snow
making everything

a ghost
of what
it was

the woods fill up
with snow...snow
memories of long agos.

FROZEN LAUGHTER

We dashed outside
as the sky was falling.

“Crunch...crunch...crunch! ”
chanted the snow

as our footprints
chatted to it

in a bold red
booted voice

and slowly a bird
wrote itself across the sky

with such careful calligraphy

& our laughter
froze

right in front of our noses.

FROZEN LAUGHTER

We dashed outside
as the sky was falling.

“Crunch...crunch...crunch! ”
chanted the snow

as our footprints
chatted to it

in a bold red
booted voice

and slowly a bird
wrote itself across the sky

with such careful calligraphy

& our laughter
froze

right in front of our noses.

FROZEN LAUGHTER

we dashed outside
as the sky was
falling

“Crunch...crunch...crunch! ”
chanted the snow
as our footprints chatted to it

in a bold red
booted voice
and slowly a bird

wrote itself across the sky
with such careful
calligraphy

& our laughter
froze
right in front of our noses

FROZEN LAUGHTER

We dashed outside
as the sky was falling.

“Crunch...crunch...crunch! ”
chanted the snow

as our footprints
chatted to it

in a bold red
booted voice

and slowly a bird
wrote itself across the sky

with such careful calligraphy

& our laughter
froze

right in front of our noses.

FROZEN LAUGHTER

we dashed outside
as the sky was
falling

“Crunch...crunch...crunch! ”
chanted the snow
as our footprints chatted to it

in a bold red
booted voice
and slowly a bird

wrote itself across the sky
with such careful
calligraphy

& our laughter
froze
right in front of our noses

FROZEN LAUGHTER

We dashed outside
as the sky was falling.

“Crunch...crunch...crunch! ”
chanted the snow

as our footprints
chatted to it

in a bold yellow
booted voice

and slowly a bird
wrote itself across the sky

with such careful calligraphy

& our laughter
froze

right in front of our noses.

FRYING THE TEA

Her bedsit.

"Only enough room to lay my hat
and a few friends!
she Dorothy Parker's me.

We sit
only atoms apart.

"I'll fry you up
some tea!"
she says all eagerly.

"Oh...?" I oh
politely.

She puts the milk
in the frying pan...first.

Then the water and only then
a single teabag.

"I've never had fried tea
...'til now!"

My mind grinning from
here to here.

"Come here!" she smirks
hotting things up.

Kissing me to allow
the tea

time to stew.

The atoms between us
achieving Brownian Motion.

Forgotten in the frying pan
the tea wonders why

( on its incredibly stewed journey
from cool to cold )

why it was ever made
in the first place.

Humans can be hard
to understand.

FUNNY THAT!

He was knocked out
by the Wagner.

It had fallen from
the first floor.

He had never liked
Wagner.

His body fell
in the shape

of a broken
*******.

Funny.
That.

Blood ebbed
into the snow

below his head
like a badly drawn

map of
Ceylon.

She had been throwing
her boyfriend's belongings

...out...out...out!

Clothes.
Wagner.
An etc. of her anger,

The Wagner was
barely scratched.

But the phonograph
was completely kaput.

There was more blood
than damage done.

The enraged young lady
went on to meet and marry

a postman who
adored Cesar Frank.

No one knows or cares
what happen to the chap who

owned
the discarded possessions.

The poor passer by in time
recovered and went on to

write poetry though
he had never written poetry before.

Funny.
That.

He never tired
of telling of

his great escape
when drunk.

Indeed he had been
very drunk that day.

Didn't know
what happened to him.

It never ceased
to annoy him when

he wasn't believed!
"Yeah yeah...sure sure!"

After that he never
liked music.

*

The phonograph missed by an inch otherwise he would have been dead but the Wagner record skimmed him just at the hairline so producing an inordinate amount of blood before settling on a bank of snow without even a scratch.


I had asked her how she had met her husband and she started telling me this tale and I thought she had married the guy she nearly clobbered but not a bit of it! She had got rid of
" 'orrible boyfriend" and all his things through the window and the passerby was just collateral damage. She disliked Wagner and "'orrible boyfriend" and the neighbour on the top floor came down to see if she was ok and that was that. Out with the old and ring on the finger for the new. She had heard him play Frank's Symphony in D minor in that long snowy month. So you could say she chucked Wagner for Frank.

The passerby boy was just unlucky is all and in time came to write a poem about it. Whenever he got drunk he would recall it all. They all knew it happened as there were actually eyewitnesses to the event but they would pretend to not believe him which drove him mad and to another drink.

Funny. That!

FUNNY THAT!

he was
knocked out
by the Wagner

it had fallen from
the first floor but he had
never liked Wagner

his body fell
in the shape
of a broken *******

funny that
blood ebbed
into the snow

below his head
like a badly drawn
map of Ceylon

she had been throwing
her boyfriend's belongings
...out...out...out!

clothes
Wagner
an etc. of her anger

the Wagner
was barely
scratched

but
the phonograph
was completely kaput

there was more blood
than
damage done

the enraged young lady
went on to meet and marry
a postman who adored Cesar Frank

no one knows or cares
what happen to the chap who
owned the discarded possessions

the poor passer-by-in-time
recovered and went on to
write poetry though

he had never written poetry before
funny
that

He never tired
of telling of
his great escape when drunk

indeed
he had been
very drunk that day

didn't know
what
happened to him

it never ceased
to annoy him when
he wasn't believed


"Yeah yeah...sure sure!"
after that
he never liked music

*

The phonograph missed up by an inch otherwise he would have been dead but the Wagner record skimmed him just at the hairline so producing an inordinate amount of blood before settling on a bank of snow without even a scratch.

I had asked her how she had met her husband and she started telling me this tale and I thought she had married the guy she nearly clobbered but not a bit of it!  She had got rid of " 'orrible boyfriend"  and all his things through the window and the passerby was just collateral damage. She disliked Wagner and " 'orrible boyfriend" and the neighbour on the top floor came down to see if she was ok and that was that. Out with the old and ring on the finger for the new. She had heard him play Frank's Symphony in D minor in that long snowy month. So you could say she chucked Wagner for Frank.

The passerby boy was just unlucky is all and in time came to write a poem about it. Whenever he got drunk he would recall it all. They all knew it  happened as there were actually eyewitnesses to the event but they would pretend to not believe him which drove him mad and to another drink.

Funny. That!

FUNNY THAT!

He was knocked out
by the Wagner.

It had fallen from
the first floor.

He had never liked
Wagner.

His body fell
in the shape

of a broken
*******.

Funny.
That.

Blood ebbed
into the snow

below his head
like a badly drawn

map of
Ceylon.

She had been throwing
her boyfriend's belongings

...out...out...out!

Clothes.
Wagner.
An etc. of her anger,

The Wagner was
barely scratched.

But the phonograph
was completely kaput.

There was more blood
than damage done.

The enraged young lady
went on to meet and marry

a postman who
adored Cesar Frank.

No one knows or cares
what happen to the chap who

owned
the discarded possessions.

The poor passer by in time
recovered and went on to

write poetry though
he had never written poetry before.

Funny.
That.

He never tired
of telling of

his great escape
when drunk.

Indeed he had been
very drunk that day.

Didn't know
what happened to him.

It never ceased
to annoy him when

he wasn't believed!
"Yeah yeah...sure sure!"

After that he never
liked music.

GATHERING MOONLIGHT

obscured by clouds
a hidden Orion
listens to your crying

in a well kept garden
a constellation
of flowers

tenderly tended
by your hand
listens to the rain

teaching them
how to grow
row after row

the flowers
cannot begin
to know

of how your
human grief
tries to lose itself

in each of their faces
seeing again
your dead daughter

smile
upon your tears
your hands

mechanically
gathering moonlight
that isn't there

*

After my young sister was killed when a drunk driver crashed into a parked bus my mother entered into an underworld of grief where we would find here at four o'clock in the morning gardening and crying to herself and plucking at the light.

GATHERING MOONLIGHT

obscured by clouds
a hidden Orion
listens to your crying

in a well kept garden
a constellation
of flowers

tenderly tended
by your hand
listens to the rain

teaching them
how to grow
row after row

the flowers
cannot begin
to know

of how your
human grief
tries to lose itself

in each of their faces
seeing again
your dead daughter

smile
upon your tears
your hands

mechanically
gathering moonlight
that isn't there


*


After my young sister was killed when a drunk driver crashed into a parked bus my mother entered into an underworld of grief where we would find here at four o'clock in the morning gardening and crying to herself and plucking at the light.

GATHERING WATER

Never having
encountered one

before
except in stories

my daughter
begging to be

taken to
the well

the source
of all

her fascination
a magical tale in itself

letting the bucket
fall into the nothingness

that soft splash
as if

from a different
universe

& she
a charmed girl

the well
eating her pebbles eagerly

greedily

as if it were
hungry

for her wonder

the delayed...plop
enthralling her

and again…and...again
even when our store of water

miraculously grows
and we have more water

that we can shake a stick at

she orders
(or commands rather)      

“Come…father
let us go & gather

water! ”

And I
(ha ha “Father! ” is it now)      

get up
& go

gather water
with my little daughter

enchanted by the fairytale
of her laughter.

GATHERING WATER

Never having
encountered one

before
except in stories

my daughter
begging to be

taken to
the well

the source
of all

her fascination
a magical tale in itself

letting the bucket
fall into the nothingness

that soft splash
as if

from a different
universe

& she
a charmed girl

the well
eating her pebbles eagerly

greedily

as if it were
hungry

for her wonder

the delayed...plop
enthralling her

and again…and...again
even when our store of water

miraculously grows
and we have more water

that we can shake a stick at

she orders
(or commands rather)      

“Come…father
let us go & gather

water! ”

And I
(ha ha “Father! ” is it now)      

get up
& go

gather water
with my little daughter

enchanted by the fairytale
of her laughter.

*

On holiday from the real world and living in the wild where our only source of water was a well…it became a ritual to collect firewood and go to the well for water. We would do both of these together and Tilly blended the gathering of sticks with the other task and so we also “gathered” water!

In her fairy stories where Kings were called “Father” by young princesses she also elected to call me “Father! ” which used to reduce her mother to convulsions of laughter.

Tilly as well as being a real live girl was also for me a fairy tale happening in real time.

I saw everything anew through the beauty of her mind.

GAWD **** DAY

"Ok...!" said the day
"Here's your morning
ya want rain or sun with it?"

I looked at the day
as if it was crazy or
something

"Com' on com' on
make up your mind"
the day said irritably

"Sun!" I snapped "Sun!"
"Alright alright keep yer hair on!"
I straightened my toupée

the day smirked
gave me an extra helping
of rain with rain on the side

"Oh funny guy!"
I swore
the day said "Wot...wot?"

then if it didn't
****** well
turn the sun on again

"This your idea
of a joke is it?"
" 'tis...'tis indeed!"

"I'm not laughing!"
"So..." said the day
"So you're not!"

I swore
"Language please!
Take it or leave it!"

I left, leaving
some time behind
to pay for the morning

"Missing you already!"
sing-sang the sun insincerely
"Yeah, right!" I spat

"Oh temper..temper!"
the day finally
cracked a smile

I walked out into
God's own sunshine
my face soaking it up

and that was when
the day turned
the rain back on again

"Gawd **** that
gawd **** day
gawd **** it!"

GAWD **** DAY

"Ok...!" said the day
"Here's your morning
ya want rain or sun with it?"

I looked at the day
as if it was crazy or
something

"Com' on com' on
make up your mind"
the day said irritably

"Sun!" I snapped "Sun!"
"Alright alright keep yer hair on!"
I straightened my toupée

the day smirked
gave me an extra helping
of rain with rain on the side

"Oh funny guy!"
I swore
the day said "Wot...wot?"

then if it didn't
****** well
turn the sun on again

"This your idea
of a joke is it?"
" 'tis...'tis indeed!"

"I'm not laughing!"
"So..." said the day
"So you're not!"

I swore
"Language please!
Take it or leave it!"

I left, leaving
some time behind
to pay for the morning

"Missing you already!"
sing-sang the sun insincerely
"Yeah, right!" I spat

"Oh temper..temper!"
the day finally
cracked a smile

I walked out into
God's own sunshine
my face soaking it up

and that was when
the day turned
the rain back on again

"Gawd **** that
gawd **** day
gawd **** it!"

GERRY SWEENEY'S MAMMY

Mrs. Sweeney
was Gerry Sweeney's mammy.

And even though I had my own
I had her on loan.

It was like having a spare
mammy.

And even when she was mad
with us

she just couldn't be mad
with us.

"Go on..." she'd grin "....go on!"

"Ya'd wear the heart out of a stone!"

And if ya fell and
ya were cryin'

your heart and knee
badly grazed

or badly bitten by a bee
she....

would hug you up
with all of her self

"Ahhh come here to me ya
poor little dote!"

Wrap you up in
so much love

it would last
for years.

For years.

Gerry Sweeney was my best
friend ever

way back in the way-back-then:
still is....nothing's changed

except us young fellas
have become auld fellas

who still think
they're young fellas.

And every time I see him
I could almost cry.

I can still see his mammy
smiling out of his eyes.

GET DIRECTIONS

With a click I
begin the journey

USE CAUTION!
(I'm advised)

WALKING DIRECTIONS MAY
NOT ALWAYS REFLECT

( sunlight glances off
a passing car)

REAL-WORLD CONDITIONS
(sunlight becomes rain)

Passing by now
Ripley's Believe it or Not.

And indeed it is so
a man walks a weasel

on a lead
passerbys give him a wide berth

amused and bemused
all at the same time.

A punk sings opera
as if he had stepped

out of another
dimension.

As work progresses
a photo of a building

covers the building
as if it were wearing

the 2-D dress of
it's 3-D self.

Waiting for a green light
a dog pees on my left shoe.

Ctrl+ drag mouse
and we go full 3-D

now the satellite
view as you

come into focus
through raindrop glasses

"Sweet Thames flow softly...."
MacColl's voice leaking from a car window

hum now as I cross
the street to greet her

"Kissed her once again at Wapping,
Flow sweet river flow...

After that there was no stopping
Sweet Thames  flow softly..."

GETTING 22

A  glance
told me all

I needed to
know.

The room had been
Chandlerised.

A bishop was kicking a hole
in a stained glass window

whilst eating a pearl onion
on a banana split

but not the angel cake 'cos
it had a tarantula on it.

Everywhere there were
kangaroos in dinner jackets.

Somehow Raymond's words
had escaped the constructs

of the language
&

similes and metaphors
had become real

realer than real.

I kept walking
in ordinary prose

each footstep
a boring report.

trying not to break
into a metaphor

or smile in simile
or anything similar.

I made it to
the last page

and dived into the dark hole
that opened at my feet

into
THE END.

I had managed to make it
through these mean pages

( it's hard being a linguistic
private **** in one's mind )

when one is falling
asleep and

the Chandler
( the studied text )

falls out of
the too tired hand

but oh no
I had somehow entered

the realms of one
Dashiell Hammett.

Me...I  
felt like somebody

"...had taken the lid off life

let me see
the works."

"The problem with putting..."
( I thought to myself )
"...two and two together..."

"...is that sometimes you
get four

& sometimes you get
twenty two."

GETTING 22

A  glance
told me all

I needed to
know.

The room had been
Chandlerised.

A bishop was kicking a hole
in a stained glass window

whilst eating a pearl onion
on a banana split

but not the angel cake 'cos
it had a tarantula on it.

Everywhere there were
kangaroos in dinner jackets.

Somehow Raymond's words
had escaped the constructs

of the language
&

similes and metaphors
had become real

realer than real.

I kept walking
in ordinary prose

each footstep
a boring report.

trying not to break
into a metaphor

or smile in simile
or anything similar.

I made it to
the last page

and dived into the dark hole
that opened at my feet

into
THE END.

I had managed to make it
through these mean pages

( it's hard being a linguistic
private **** in one's mind )

when one is falling
asleep and

the Chandler
( the studied text )

fall out of
the too tired hand

but oh no
I had somehow entered

the realms of one
Dashiell Hammett.

Me...I  
felt like somebody

"...had taken the lid off life

let me see
the works."

"The problem with putting..."
( I thought to myself )
"...two and two together..."

"...is that sometimes you
get four

& sometimes you get
twenty two."

GETTING 22

A  glance
told me all

I needed to
know.

The room had been
Chandlerised.

A bishop was kicking a hole
in a stained glass window

whilst eating a pearl onion
on a banana split

but not the angel cake 'cos
it had a tarantula on it.

Everywhere there were
kangaroos in dinner jackets.

Somehow Raymond's words
had escaped the constructs

of the language
&

similes and metaphors
had become real

realer than real.

I kept walking
in ordinary prose

each footstep
a boring report.

trying not to break
into a metaphor

or smile in simile
or anything similar.

I made it to
the last page

and dived into the dark hole
that opened at my feet

into
THE END.

I had managed to make it
through these mean pages

( it's hard being a linguistic
private **** in one's mind )

when one is falling
asleep and

the Chandler
( the studied text )

falls out of
the too tired hand

but oh no
I had somehow entered

the realms of one
Dashiell Hammett.

Me...I  
felt like somebody

"...had taken the lid off life

let me see
the works."

"The problem with putting..."
( I thought to myself )
"...two and two together..."

"...is that sometimes you
get four

& sometimes you get
twenty two."

GETTING 22

A  glance
told me all

I needed to
know.

The room had been
Chandlerised.

A bishop was kicking a hole
in a stained glass window

whilst eating a pearl onion
on a banana split

but not the angel cake 'cos
it had a tarantula on it.

Everywhere there were
kangaroos in dinner jackets.

Somehow Raymond's words
had escaped the constructs

of the language
&

similes and metaphors
had become real

realer than real.

I kept walking
in ordinary prose

each footstep
a boring report.

trying not to break
into a metaphor

or smile in simile
or anything similar.

I made it to
the last page

and dived into the dark hole
that opened at my feet

into
THE END.

I had managed to make it
through these mean pages

( it's hard being a linguistic
private **** in one's mind )

when one is falling
asleep and

the Chandler
( the studied text )

falls out of
the too tired hand

but oh no
I had somehow entered

the realms of one
Dashiell Hammett.

Me...I  
felt like somebody

"...had taken the lid off life

let me see
the works."

"The problem with putting..."
( I thought to myself )
"...two and two together..."

"...is that sometimes you
get four

& sometimes you get
twenty two."

*

Sometimes study and sleep don't mix and I tell myself: "If you don't leave, I'll get somebody who will." These were just some of the quotes from Mr. C and Mr. H that were floating about in the old noggin as sleep and study fought to a stalemate for the mind of this poor student.

“The problem with putting two and two together is that sometimes you get four, and sometimes you get twenty-two.”
― Dashiell Hammett, The Thin Man

“He felt like somebody had taken the lid off life and let him see the works.”
― Dashiell Hammett, The Maltese Falcon

"It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window."--Farewell, My Lovely (Chapter 13)

“He looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food cake.”
--Farewell, My Lovely (Chapter 1)

“There was nothing to it. The Super Chief was on time, as it almost always is, and the subject was as easy to spot as a kangaroo in a dinner jacket.”
― Raymond Chandler, Playback

“I belonged in Idle Valley like a pearl onion on a banana split.”
― Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye

GETTING AWAY FROM IT ALL

Death in a deckchair
wearing life-coloured glasses
on an around-the-world cruise

Life on a Li-Lo
wearing death-coloured glasses
not drowning but waving

Death sipping a daiquiri
Life slurping a milkshake
both playing deck quoits

the H.M.S. Universe
sails into a sunset
ahead...an iceberg called God...or Nothing

GETTING AWAY FROM IT ALL

Death in a deckchair
wearing life-coloured glasses
on an around-the-world cruise

Life on a Li-Lo
wearing death-coloured glasses
not drowning but waving

Death sipping a daiquiri
Life slurping a milkshake
both playing deck quoits

the H.M.S. Universe
sails into a sunset
ahead...an iceberg called God...or Nothing

GETTING AWAY FROM IT ALL

Death in a deckchair
wearing life-coloured glasses
on an around-the-world cruise

Life on a Li-Lo
wearing death-coloured glasses
not drowning but waving

Death sipping a daiquiri
Life slurping a milkshake
both playing deck quoits

the H.M.S. Universe
sails into a sunset
ahead...an iceberg called God...or Nothing

GETTING AWAY WITH IT

I give my self the
slip &

slipping into sleep
open the door of a dream

escape the dark
the monsters
jampacked under the bed

the dog's bark
fields away

the moon lighting up
my little room.

The monsters...furious!

"****!' they growl "****!"

Although they growled
something a lot cruder...ruder.

"He got away again!"

GETTING AWAY WITH IT

I give my self the
slip &

slipping into sleep
open the door of a dream

escape the dark
the monsters
jampacked under the bed

the dog's bark
fields away

the moon lighting up
my little room.

The monsters...furious!

"****!' they growl "****!"

Although they growled
something a lot cruder...ruder.

"He got away again!"

GETTING IT TOGETHER

just as my eyes open
I catch a glimpse of the world
throwing itself together

nearly caught the world
putting itself together
bit slapdash this morning

world in a hurry
just manages to put itself together
as my eyelashes part

I stay up
to catch the world in the act
but alas sleep seduces me

I can see the world
laughing at me
"I'm too fast for you!" it smirks

finally I've found
that I am just one of the things
the world puts together

GETTING IT TOGETHER

just as my eyes open
I catch a glimpse of the world
throwing itself together

nearly caught the world
putting itself together
bit slapdash this morning

world in a hurry
just manages to put itself together
as my eyelashes part

I stay up
to catch the world in the act
but alas sleep seduces me

I can see the world
laughing at me
"I'm too fast for you!" it smirks

finally I've found
that I am just one of the things
the world puts together

GETTING IT TOGETHER

just as my eyes open
I catch a glimpse of the world
throwing itself together

nearly caught the world
putting itself together
bit slapdash this morning

world in a hurry
just manages to put itself together
as my eyelashes part

I stay up
to catch the world in the act
but alas sleep seduces me

I can see the world
laughing at me
"I'm too fast for you!" it smirks

finally I've found
that I am just one of the things
the world puts together

GETTING THE MESSAGE

..     .-.. --- ...- .     -.-- --- ..-

... breaking up..

ITALIA

LIVERPOOL OSLO VALENCIA EDISON

YOKAHAMA  OSLO UPSALA

Everything was up
in the air!

IDA. . .

LINCOLN OCEAN VICTOR EDWARD
YOUNG OSCAR UNION

"Say again Juliett Delta....over!"
"Delta Delta calling Juliett Delta!"

INDIA

LIMA OSCAR VICTOR ECHO

YANKEE OSCAR UNIFORM

"I LOVE YOU!"
she said in plain English

"Roger that...hearing you loud and clear!"

GETTING TO KNOW YOU


carrying carefully
in my belly
your future smile

*

How my mother described the pre-Me before I actually came into existence as the me-Me that I now am...she said she had longings...to see my smile.

I trawl backwards and forwards in time...anyway the poet's mind is never chronological....this is the long long ago told in the forever present...I am a young boy getting to know...be aware of...my mother as she was before talking on the life task of being my mother...I am aware of her as the person she was...all the different selves....I could talk freely to her about everything and anything...I was always interested in the who she was and the why she was....I saw her as person in her own right...she was telling me what it was like being pregnant with me and how she longed for me....this was her lovely description of carrying me....and it lives forever in my mind in the present tense wishing for the future to happen. She was a lady in waiting and here via words I get to wait along with her...for me! So this memory hangs timeless in my mind...devoid of time....having no need of time and its tenses....not obeying any law but the law of love that does not abide by time's rules.

GETTING TO KNOW YOU

carrying carefully
in my belly
your future smile

*

How my mother described the pre-Me before I actually came into existence as the me-Me that I now am...she said she had longings...to see my smile.  Then we sang GETTING TO KNOW YOU to each other from ANNA AND THE KING OF SIAM.

I trawl backwards and forwards in time...anyway the poet's mind is never chronological....this is the long long ago told in the forever present...I am a young boy getting to know...be aware of...my mother as she was before talking on the life task of being my mother...I am aware of her as the person she was...all the different selves....I could talk freely to her about everything and anything...I was always interested in the who she was and the why she was....I saw her as person in her own right...she was telling me what it was like being pregnant with me and how she longed for me....this was her lovely description of carrying me....and it lives forever in my mind in the present tense wishing for the future to happen. She was a lady in waiting and here via words I get to wait along with her...for me! So this memory hangs timeless in my mind...devoid of time....having no need of time and its tenses....not obeying any law but the law of love that does not abide by time's rules.

GHOSTS IN THE WARDROBE

there's ghosts in the wardrobe
a flotilla of dresses
that stare at my crying

frock after frock
skirt after skirt
they mock me with your absence

your presence
now
only in this absence

this dress
remembers that
picnic

this skirt
the kiss...that kiss
falling at your feet

the so many yous
hung on hangers
float behind plastic

here your perfume
still clings
trying to outface Death

Death smirks
stares back
it doesn't blink

all the different people you could be
blue and yellow and
I slam the door on them

between finger and thumb
I pinch out the candlelight
the dark crowds around me

*

I was sleeping in my mother's room before her funeral and there were all the dresses I knew and the different personalities they allowed her to be. The clothes seemed to be lost without her and the shoes seemed to suggest that she was hiding behind them and would suddenly pop out and tell me that her death was just a joke. I gazed at them all night without sleep and saw her everywhere and in everything.

GHOSTS IN THE WARDROBE

There's ghosts in the wardrobe
a flotilla of dresses
that stare at my crying

frock after frock
skirt after skirt
they mock me with your absence

your presence
now
only in this absence

this dress
remembers that
picnic

this skirt
the kiss...that kiss
falling at your feet

the so many yous
hung on hangers
float behind plastic

here your perfume
still clings
trying to outface Death

Death smirks
stares back
it doesn't blink

all the different people you could be
blue and yellow and
I slam the door on them

between finger and thumb
I pinch out the candlelight
the dark crowds around me