With cushions to embolden practice
his teeth chattered like a monkey
a juddery fall did him remarkably well,
he was like a comet awry
a soft landing edified his standing,
merriment down the chimney
depuis Decembre .

Into free-fall, there's stymie and no rhythm
the grasshoppers fly around in circles, unaware,
the flow is as soak grass
burnt by the equivocal scorching sun,
wonder waits still for recognition
that will dissolve, unremembered
as soon as we get second wind

My Sister Annabel
wore a button hole Anemone,
reflecting a broken heart
Sometimes trellises harness
country abounds
where the Land owner promises
wealth and company
and instead finds himself a scullery maid
where the Mastiffs in another life
may have been the commonable.

Aching legs won't carry your lazy ideals
The light patterns on the veranda dissipate
your past Summer's glory
Aged arguments still tarry a cast
and slightly overdoing it at the Lido
promised more than capability
as your range shrinks day by day.

A knock back, a kick back
it all sounds the same
somewhere the tiredness settled in
like creaking wood,
there was no firm floor
just a ledge, peering,
no Sister in arms
to show her Mother's strength,
just a rudimentary Boy
drifting into survival mode,
a Mudlark dredging in the Thames
with no brass jug
just a porous defense

The High Street at first was marked
with Charity Shops forever in lieu
came the Pound Shops.
Old Brands stayed with us
but in turn the internet compounded the decline
perhaps cyber shopping is akin to playing pong,
the familiars, like a fire-storm evaporated,
music, bookshops, photography
whose to know the next stage?
but I bet the inner city will be hamlets
of chiefdoms,
Gertrude the concrete cow
adorned with Golden paint
and urban Cowboys
duelling in Midnight Charades

Unfathomable as ever
dark ships lampoon
the sin that boughed

I'm gazing toe fat first
at certain things I wish not to see  
like cathartic cathedrals en vue,
still I've forgotten all the rules,
twisting butter knives
runs counter, yet upwards
into spare rib cages,
will silence placate those tectonic plates
can the river merit summer this way,
as Hare Krishna bather's prays echo
blind-side towards the shady grove
already lost to the knowing season

Dyslexia your Mother's 
 imperfect gene pool
gifted a hard life
unless you're a politician or actor,
dextriety is not always talked about
in polite society.

The Prince of Heaven rotates the truth.
Stacked in whispers
hush words scrambles the floor,
arcane winds blame the new;
preservation lusts moribund  moonlight
as magic circles catch the Sun.

to lift a canopy of shrubs
its best to trim
otherwise Twiggy
with her own violatile techniques
will become rampnant
and may need airier handling.

Flat roofs and ivied.

I tried for the rope of ignorance
to jettison seemly hope
but the four winds conspired
to drain  any thought,
whose intention complexes
the placebos already prescribed.
My ex howlers on the phone
she's asking me to give it a rest.
Already I sense she's swallowed,
the part that cannot make amends.
The siphon of good sense
wears thin like a DJ's copy,
should I  kneel down
whilst  finding lost sense?

Torrents of wind, strewn upon man and beast
an irradiant moment terses through the veins
howls bewilderment speculates, 
attempting to overthrow the instant,
home is a short shrift distance
her only resonance is a leitmotif
that hail the late seasons repentance.

She rode the wave of exclamation,
a borrowed  stirrup  buckled the wind -
of promises  broken,
turning pledges to  gorse
yellow stranding into  infinity.
She  pardoned with  forgiveness,
self serving without a kiss
and  finished  the  morsels
the  crumbs
of  her  hard fought victory.

She unaware, acceded to the invitation
his deeds would haunt her,
a restaurant and laughter
an  after kiss followed by her gnawing  expectation.
internalised, fear of commitment.
She in turn absolved  lingering impressions,
where bare stone walls only cherish
the wherewithal to survive future loneliness undetected.

The North of the Borough
is often more than a geographical zone
its a state of mind.
Always the under  
yet never standing down.
Howler down your Motorola Razr
and kiss confidence into this brick !
I want your barbour jacket
gifted stares and then blanks,
keenly seeing off your Ray -Ban,
downing your peacock pride
that overplayed our top deck

There's a cacophony of attributable  timetables
on silver rail roads,
there's a surfeit of wisdom
peering through  a thoughtless tunnel

He wanted to take charge of life again
and use slide film with his Canon EF SLR this barren year,
and give long stares to all those Tripod Digitalits
outside Victoria Station
creating their own version of affordable youth,
thinking pixel dust would swam them along.
He felt the strain of believing in the recent past,
please intentionally use your typewriter and record player
you need to create 1982 again!
The Christmas meal would on the 21st
like a flea in a dog's ear
too near the exile of Christmas
He feared the break would make him stir crazy,
2013 would emerge
surely more of the same.
A risible Tory Government
perhaps alternative comedy was far from dead.
"Splitting Image" would be their neutron Bomb,
Such thoughts made him want to love the common people again

Aspirant almost Leica
deftly fashioned  
fully throated
astro revved.

From the croaks of our throats
upturned winter wonderland
whistles incessant Good King Wenceslas,
whose crown is the most deserving here?
but knowest all roads led to ruination,
a frail rain has already
castigated any twinkle dust
and the only braves
are the iridescent petrol  streams glimmering  down
the  forsaken motorway  for January's finale.


.

She purchased a Trilby hat in lieu of a Stetson
Her shoulders seemed to stoop
whenever she lit her famous Sobranie.
The rolling countryside always felt like despair
more bramble than Strawberry Fair
She found herself in New Brighton, bracing the sea air
a sought job in a Mobile Fish and Chip Van
was assuredly the Lisa Presley way.
But her heart hankered for Hull, the dare was brazen
to  partake in a  Photography class
to record civil disobedience.
Perhaps a suitable hat
would be a beret
for that inveighed look
our dear Sandra McClain.

oblong tracks
chasm the peered envelope,
liquid marigold
awakens feuders
preserved in similes.

Awareness drifts by like stories carried by sandals;
Travelers too few to carry conviction
tarry in sand,
like a neon after thought.
Relics of crystallised fables parade;
on non roaming pathways
an eerie silence that dealt time
is only fortuitous in whispered light

The Coalition floated to the top
surely they are not as talented.
Political stealth shuns the warmth
but even with a slice of toast
its our Winter indoor's
I can hardly believe the cheapest energy tariff
won't congeal us soiled people
promises made by this peculiar hue.

Now on this wintry July,
Azoth doffed his Mercury rimmed hat,
despite copious icicles and barnacles abound
he sought those down and outs
read various sizes of shell embossed Bibles,
and realised they were partaking their past sins,
the World a navigable circumference
much ado like a carousel.

the cryptic egg is the custodian
the egg is greater than the seed
the seed is the dynastic interpretation

I often think of stray unloved cats 
facing  God knows what
or heartless  people with something against pigeons.
I'm fearful for the floaters in my right eye
and  how  in time talking about  Seventies  rock music
will seem affected,
with sensitivity I try  not  to gander
but  convince  others of  my  right,
the  fluidity of eventually  becoming  what one is.

Another day passes,
amounting to wishes forever gone,
moderation commending  self control
Down tools for the Sandman, in sympathy,
if he could at least meet his Golden Stranger
and orchestrate Kites for Dreamers,
he'd steer us all, assuredly.
But every year is in the same league
uncertain before it's began.
The highs and lows just worn
to create  pools of impassiveness.

asunder any new thought
and garish now my name
wax lyrical over all we ever spoke,
flourish with those  wind dancers
vying the whispering ledge
expediting with the pine and turtle dove,
your lodestar was decidedly second class
he could never ascend,
to find himself another Spire.

There's nothing to commend
merely rickety  pathways
spoken up by illusionary politicians
selling their porcupine colours,
although we the People are  tolerant,
there's  still  time to arraign
this impractical impasse
sworn with nylon rope
and hubbub boots.

Restless hidden away
opaque shafts blade
the windowsill.
An appetite too shorn
of confidence
welters prism
of carriages too far gone.

in the rubble of our hearts
we are surfeit,
barren edifices decry
past treasures; now forlorn-
forgotten.
those unwitting  trojan horses
long usurpers  of discord,
survey their kingdom whilst
a few survivors dream of spiritual renew
in this darkened unpredictable place.

The hat did not make the boy
they even wanted to select their prefered neighbours.
The dusty unused courtyard
long buried prayer books loitered.
If there was a God he was already made
in their own image,
insular  and grunt.
To surrender to their leaden aviary
the cage wouldn't need bars,
archaism would ablute the soul
the world outsiders
a plank walkway the only means.

If I possessed Batch 256309
I would be more altruistic,
listening to Brian Friel
growing stronger
on my Technics SL-D303,
faking my wall
with femme Claudine Longet,
loading expired Elite Chrome
into my stead Canon EF 1973.
.

What has happened to our Croydon?
Where is Allders and the Warehouse Theatre?
even our Market is disappearing!
do you think you can tell,
when you stopped being our town?
Don't  put us in line
with Norbury.

The  Love  children gather in  saffron meadows  
needling their aura  for
a  portal  beyond  innocence.
Prophecies  anew
points towards  the  stone  canyons  
where  form undefined, almost contorted
settles  on the former  Moon children,
whose antecedences  coexistence  with their seven moons,
orbited  the limitless  vacuum.
A perchance  to dream
to dare.

Too many gestulate but Im already down.
One day hard hitting without thought
but now I willingly break bread
with my eyes pointing down.
To imposter anybody else is a sin.
No sympathy weeping branches
a twisting wind as lore is
more likely to see the light.

Why are the Re investors
not stampeding to praise our  spoils.
deficit donations shame Animal Sanctuaries,
but who questions  others  economic sustainability anyway .
The land of plenty even asks for Red Cross
Do we have what it takes to stare out  this fixed point ?

at the artists room gazing
she imagines she is a model.
I feel for her insecurity
with mousy curls
and mascara inexpertly applied
Her green scarf at times almost
tugs at her throat
as if it had a will of its own
almost pressing what's your problem,
but exactly what is this notional problem?
torn between a wish to blend in
and cover oneself in the shade
envisaging prying eyes and bruising hands
the intended model drew a blank
she could be her own steeley person

Unable to sleep at night,
the factory's shattering light
transcends time
thoughts of an equivocal  escape plan
emerge, lunar station over and out!
but the awakening cat can only confirm reality.
I am left no wiser
why sleep had not been possible
then I realise,
December the month of fogs,
errant, stop and start
sweet and sour:
a lonelier time
than its invented self
could ever envisage.

a vicarious piety
plays like a swallow's feather,
emerges cats eyes glare
specifically when its us and them,
an overheard soliloquy
by means of the gaoler's
feigned forgiveness -
plays the darkened corridors
the cobwebbed dust venerates
the curtailment  of hope

The stave, white and sharp
its jaggered edge prompts
sanctuary,
a curious light is thrown
it deceives the stillness.

Gratis I'll be the  judge  and  jury.
Faye Dunaway does  it  for  me.
Her  modus  operandi is elemental,
an acting force to be reckoned with.
Meanwhile travelling  light  with  my freshly sealed  
Olympus  OM1 MD.
At  the  drop  of  a  hat, loading slow  film
captures  the prevailing waves  of ozone
Mercury in the high  seas and I  heartily
concur  with the portent of
"Call Me a  Liar"
by the Edgar Broughton Band too.
Somethings are  bound  to  offend Aphrodite these days.

The Lead School is almost draping over the Highway,
they laughed at the boy who fell behind
printed words and pointed letters,
it felt like suffocation,
young almost cubs, but they knew how to hurt
then an instinctive kick in retort
gave exaggeration flourish -
brought the flesh and shin back
and they bemused equivocalness.

A Mare births in an open field
pristine the new foal
born as free,
that quality  never apply to you.
Emotional attachment seems self serving
Offering a new perspective there's no nourishment
unless its a one way tendril
a deadly nightshade blown awry ,  
the scope of your unfolding feels determined  - latitudal!