Virtual life isolation is considered VIP seating as all who may enter are pre-screened in a self-preservation dance of solipsism as strained honesty pours from my fingers onto the digital RGB floor only to harden intermingled with the lives of dissonant strangers who reciprocate eagerly in revealing their weaknesses in a prosaic waltz across a frozen dreamscape where our misunderstood inner souls are reflected back to us as they float in monolithic mass on top of the depths of final judgment. Rather than providing final victory to the daily control alternate delete lather rinse repeat boot of my innermost fantasies and trauma which are as random as my physical interactions it seems recently and most superficially I was moved to speak of a self-assured young woman cleverly drawing confidence off the bottom of the deck while casually discarding competence who is triumphantly opening a high-end eatery of sorts but with time I find she is only the manager and after all prefers not to talk business because my questions have exhausted her ego-infested opening line as she stuffed her face with samples of diabolical confections soon to be marketed under the guise of pretentious cuisine for the beautiful people as we exhaust ourselves each day enduring the ambitious one-dimensional high-riser who wishes for depth never seen or heard in personal conversation but now the standard error of his own estimate deviates from the arrogantly leveled but just plain wrong command uttered in disdain to those who have actually lived with the people represented by mooted numbers begging to be deleted and yet I remain challenged by a life-long puzzle as I try not to make eye-contact but somehow still absorb the possible useful loaves and fishes of the God-fearing seeker of salvation that has been promised and now must be advertised as available in a never-ending give away as long as I humble myself in the prescribed manner neither to the left or right but squarely as King James promised he understood but on the other channel the drones of war which made prophetic the words of the old general who lamented the possible obsolescence of heroism and cowardice reminding of a futuristic movie as it now seems I am cheering for the death star or possibly the machines that travel time back in order to **** the very person who would bring soul forward to remind the company that people and not profits are what God allows through the eye of the needle. In spite of all this my smiling children know I love them deeply and there is no place that pain can be so welcome as in my heart to suffer willingly and openly until they are able to look at me and understand my ways and my decisions which may never be fully communicated because if God does shockingly exist then the revelation of truth will be delivered when they finally open the box that contains their thinking minds and the mysteries that may require further illumination. In a rush for meaning the virtual tour of all that touches my life is completed without fanfare and yet I cannot know who or what I am other than a mad ball of pain and confusion masquerading as a competent oar in the river of legal tender which I continue to worship as the answer to all manner of doubt.

I departed Tripoli early on the Thursday
the chauffeur meeting me at Heathrow
Deciding a long weekend was owed
I started to arrange a little romance
pondered on the detail and the where

We sped on into the Cotswold's
thoughts of gardened desert oasis said here

A surprise, hidden across fields in sheltering copse
the entrancing beauty of floating water lilies
of the temple for two on it's spreading pond
within the splendid wonder of a secret garden
locked in by romantic beech leafed escarpments
of Waterly Bottom with a nearby New Inn

But beaten by discerning honeymooners
the hamper and a beach would have to suffice

Winding the slow road took us South
stopping to picnic within Corfe Castle
later beached curves splashed in the sea
rock pools were explored under high cliffs
dinner for two enjoyed at the Grand Hotel
the beautiful view off to France or Swanage

Finally a large curious and dated room
and soft delights sweetened by Sahara oasis

I woke ice cold next to her wrapped warmth
The unexpected unfamiliar presence sat
staring coldly from within it's armchair
lit and wrapped in aged coloured silks
the cob webbed spectre wore a skull cap
it's eyed dry head followed my sitting up
watched as I bit into the flesh of my arm
salty blood informing me of a new reality
poking her side so droplets stained sheets
languorously she commented "Again?"  
my mandarin robed Chinese departed
silently melting in untouchable darkness

Leaving teeth-a-chatter and a new spirituality
with a small hot hand moving touching

I reported on Sahara underground rivers
green gardened oasis and the part I had played
Congratulated, a secondment was mooted
to ensure payment of some outstanding loans
arrangements had already been put in hand
for me to take over some three businesses
based in Indonesia but firstly in Sumatra
later taking owner's responsibilities in Jakarta
They promised a principal Asian role to follow

I knew then their discussions already had result
in the visit of one parties honoured ancestor

Two years on in Indonesia and repayment made
Having helped make happen an increase in production
of archipelagos basic foods paddy and highland corn
through my work with the co-operative movement
My position as Senior Lloyd's Shipping Inspector
and the Lloyd's Shipping Agency given back
The diesel electric maintenance crew working
properly and for it's owners till my departure
I planned the move to Singapore and new challenge
then travel in Asia teamed with my romanced lady

Chopstick adept meetings and the gift of spirituality
had seen me never interfere with Chinese business

The Shed

Waiting for afternoon
when I visit, tea in one hand
crossword in the other.

Rows of last year’s seeds parade on the shelf
by the window, cobwebs high and tight.
Mulchy  tobacco odours mingle in mooted sunbeams.
Garden tools hung neatly on nails, the workbench clear
save for the jars of nuts and screws and old mug rings.

Exiled carpet, stiff with fatigue,
plant pots are the only pattern left,
the wooden stool  moulded with old-age-grooves
and joints that grumble,
stands next to bottled rhubarb and elderberry
dusty and vibrant,  drinking in summers past.

Dealing with OCD
is like losing your mind,
You can be in a room
full of people, yet all alone,
Noone can ever know
when the horrible thoughts
will come and what they will be
you just feel a buzz, a hum, a drone
in your head and you try to block it out
but like Sony Xperia apps
running in the background,
they are there, infernal
consuming the bandwidth of your soul
there is a fine line between delusion and sanity
a clutching at straws, a search for help
pleas and pleas fall not on deaf ears
but endure it you must
until it runs its course
tunnelling on, pushing you to the edge
straddling the fine line buoying
bobbing, dancing, fleeting-
drowning you in its wake as you gasp and gasp
OCD is horrible and misunderstood
why it hit me, I know not-
when it came part of me, I never agreed
I just woke up arrested, paralysed
by the most unutterable thoughts...
I suspect it happened when I met
the thin woman with the one eye-
I have known no peace since then
Paranormal paranoia rules my brain
and I am mooted, glued in the vile filth
of guilt, shame, anger, helplessness-
like a generator running on fuel,
incessant the tyres do not stop burning
alone, sometimes, I ask myself
why? why me Lord?
the cup is too heavy for me to bear
and ghouls have made my mind
an open playing field and I cant break free
at times I wake up and its gone
I smile and dress up-
try to think normally, eat and sleep
but itchy insomnia rages on my skin
beads of sweat and shaking, my mouth is dry
I am afraid, frightened and I cower
OCD is crunching my life, slowly
and sadly noone knows...they just dont know
why I say 'off' things sometimes
they suppose its the preoccupation
of a busy mind, and busy I am
wallowing, silently, stewing in the prison
it seems there is no escaping this

Poor Jack, his eyes were cruel
They would pop when saw a duel
They would talk with words cruel
To themselves and to Jack

The left was grey, and the right green
Without them he couldn’t have seen
All the useless times been
All the politics of liquid crack

When they saw the fat, suited
The left would smile, the right hooted
As the fat with lies mooted
While Jack just sat and drank

When his thoughts with grapes mixed
They would sow their seeds, fixed
Upon the fat their words affixed
While intoxication did Jack grab

The fat would quote from books old
From his notes that he’d unfold
Every time he spoke, he sold
Another idea that Jack drank

But the eyes were smarter still
They saw the words of lying Bill
Their only wish, with a knife to ****
To stab the fat in the heart

No last revolution did they see
Coming out of the vocal spree
Just a decadent political decree
That they didn’t want Jack to buy

So they plotted a scarlet ******
When Jack would be all asunder
As whiskey make him smile and stutter
They would play their wretched trick

With a thought they would send
Make the staggering drunk pretend
As in reverence Jack extend
His hand to greet fat Bill

So it came that Jack did stand
Drunk and swaying as a man
Smiling as a stupid fan
Beside the wooden podium

Jack didn’t know what he did
But he felt that he was hit
And while falling his tongue bit
With blood spurting from his mouth

They chained him and took him out
Made him stand in front of Sprout
Who smiled as he his gun pulled out
And shot Jack in the head

The grey eye closed before the green
Because nothing alas! Come between
The eye’s sparkling murderous glean
Not even whiskey did the trick

And so Jack on the street buried
As the revolution in rage scurried
As later children in books studied
Theories on assassination attempts.

Lost leaves ago, before
the bark- clad savage
ruled with iron lung,
when  laurels of
a one- room den, grew
sleek with wet- lid plunder
my sauntering in tousles of
a quick and crease-less happiness
percieved the gifted wish of secret birds.

birds that combed the milking beech
in lemon centred madrigals
to cove their Egypt orison
from dragon banks of slippered fern
Who threw their mooted sermons on
a shivering uncertainty that bubbled
through my vernal rut of optimistic blood


Such useless pleasure, I was told
That I was not a Father's son
yet bore his term an absolute.
As all my nimble colours ran, I
wore his pungent bitterness
Became the thing that he preferred

Before the dungeon keys had turned
basket weaving weeks of youth

I took the gifted wish
of secret birds.