In frames as large as rooms that face all ways
And block the ends of streets with giant loaves,
Screen graves with custard, cover slums with praise
Of motor-oil and cuts of salmon, shine
Perpetually these sharply-pictured groves
Of how life should be. High above the gutter
A silver knife sinks into golden butter,
A glass of milk stands in a meadow, and
Well-balanced families, in fine
Midsummer weather, owe their smiles, their cars,
Even their youth, to that small cube each hand
Stretches towards. These, and the deep armchairs
Aligned to cups at bedtime, radiant bars
(Gas or electric), quarter-profile cats
By slippers on warm mats,
Reflect none of the rained-on streets and squares

They dominate outdoors. Rather, they rise
Serenely to proclaim pure crust, pure foam,
Pure coldness to our live imperfect eyes
That stare beyond this world, where nothing's made
As new or washed quite clean, seeking the home
All such inhabit. There, dark raftered pubs
Are filled with white-clothed ones from tennis-clubs,
And the boy puking his heart out in the Gents
Just missed them, as the pensioner paid
A halfpenny more for Granny Graveclothes' Tea
To taste old age, and dying smokers sense
Walking towards them through some dappled park
As if on water that unfocused she
No match lit up, nor drag ever brought near,
Who now stands newly clear,
Smiling, and recognising, and going dark.

When you are greeted,
With a shell of an
Old wrinkly man,
Do not forget the person i am,
Please try to understand,
That i am not the deep curves within my skin,
Please try to look within.
Do not forget though my speech may be
Inconsistent and slow,
And i may have difficulty with
The ability to chew and swallow.
Do not forget, that these complications,
Do not show,
The things i have achieved,
The family i conceived,
The fresh air that I've breathed,
In many different destinations,
And when you get cross with my hesitations,
Because my actions due to my complications,
May be a little all over the place,
Do not forget,
That embedded within my face,
Lies a whirlwind of memories and dreams,
And though at sometimes it seems,
That i am frail and bitter,
Please understand i am trying to come to terms
With the fact that Im no longer as fitter,
As i used to be.

And when you see me cry,
Do not try to deny me
Of my dignity,
Be calm, be patient,
And look after me gracefully,
Sympathise for the person,
I used to be.
And when you take my body,
Dress it with care,
There is still life there.

And if i stand and stare quietly,
Please wait, for me.
And when you brush my hair,
Please do not rush,
And if i speak in riddles,
Please do not hush,
What may not appear to make sense,
This change Im going through is
So very intense.

And if i soil myself
And your left to clean up the pieces,
Please try to do so,
In a way that irons out the creases,
Of shame and self blame,
And if i forget my name,
Please understand the pain,
That i will never be again,
The same,
Its just my body and my brain,
Don't quite work the way they used to,
And if it appears that Im asking you,
The same question repeatedly,
Please be patient,
I am doing the best for me.

When you look at my pictures,
My photos, my life,
You will see a successful man,
With three kids and a wife.
Young girl, I've battled inner strife,
For almost 90 years,
But nothing warrants tears more,
Than becoming a widow,
Not recognising your own shadow,
Realising your body is no longer your own,
Being moved into a care home,
Where the phone doesn't ring,
Where the birds no longer sing,
And you feel like giving in,
Every single day.
And people constantly say,
How you're turning old and frail,
That your body is aging and turning pale,
And every task you do,
You feel like you fail.

And if in time you begin to find,
A snippet of the old me,
Hold it carefully,
In the palms of your hands,
For the sands of time,
Are slipping too quickly,
Through mine.

So when you are greeted with a face,
With wrinkles so deep,
You could bury your own fears is them,
That sometimes weeps,
Remember, i was once
Like you,
And one day, you will be like me too.
Handle me with patience,
Tenderness, love and empathy,
Handle me gently.

And young lady,
I ask you,
Please be kind,
And remember all i have said,
As i unravel and unwind,
These cognitions within my head.

PER NOCTEM IN NIHILO VEHI
( TO VANISH BY NIGHT INTO NOTHING )

my death approached me
but: went on by without
recognising it was I...

i hid in the filthy alley
of a passing hour
Death now furiously searching for me

no...Here: here
no...There: there - either
this tiny piece of time

the once and once
only

but Mr. Death had missed the moment
had to return empty handed
I finding myself madly in love with

the next second. . .

**

Mr. Death elects to speak in Latin...thinks it gives him a certain je ne sais quoi...

It's always great to cheat Mr. Death and his henchman Mr. Heartattack. I swore to myself that I would love the next second with all my heart!

You came too soon, the four of you,
into this world.  Your mother,
recognising the feeling,
did what she had to do
to give birth to you,
cleaned you,
disposed of the afterbirth
in nature's economical way.
But you had no experience,
no knowledge of how to be kittens.
Almost still foetuses,
furless, unmoving, cold,
you did not stimulate
her maternal instinct.
She did not recognise you
as her babies. Lying against her belly,
you did not know how to suckle,
and she, not ready to feed you,
walked off.
You had no future.

A bucket of water, I thought, would speed
your departure from the life
you had barely started.
But you, recognising the element
you had so lately left,
were at home in it,
swam untroubled under the surface
like tiny, pink sea creatures.

Unwilling to watch longer,
I gave you a quicker end.
Your mother, unlike me,
resumed her life
as if nothing had changed.

Why’d you get locked up then lad?
Oh. I’m locked up?
I know you. You won’t escape lad
Escape from where?

(Jackie Wilson at her majesties pleasure 1884, West Denton, Newcastle)

The sweat rolled off Dominic’s nose.

Its ‘movement’

movement

movement

Uniting.

Meditation takes a person out
from themselves
so far out, without any need
for any additional charge, toll, or need, that when you come back,
even if it’s within
the same body,
you feel

and the glow comes back
on-coming traffic smiles, dead less grace
the worst, and 7am

chess
without a game.
a drool.
an intricacy within
mirage.
hope in the sorry soft gas explosions
and death was heavy enough to fly and give
But not in the normal way
one second, and even joy spills
and the cabbies have begun to scream and break down at each other
even though it’s not a full moon
too many people squashed on a tight balcony
drinking us all away
too many hands
not dancing
it all away


Slugs emigrate across concrete when the soil is wet.
When you wonder why they’ve left.
Its pouring
and you think you recognise a name scrawled in the wet trail.

Single, intimate, observations.

And reasons for the evening to be near.
It will be worth it! – I’LL SEE YOU! –
And now we are allowed to be glorious without price.
And now it’s sad as hell.
And the trees know that.
But the squirrels never do.
And now those words don’t matter.
And now we are allowed.
And now we go.

And the laminate floor
has the weight of a cross.
And the thing is,
you know

(It’s all softly bombed)
Not in a horrific
or knowable
way.

But in God’s good loving
loving
loving
******* for ya.

We’re finally rubbed out.

Crucifying.
And uncrucifying.

Eyes are useless here.

Blackness first.
THEN that soft
‘soft’

dripping.

easy blackness.

Meditating, sat middle
the pentagram of a small flat.
blue white board marker, on ‘easy wipe’ wood flooring.

And if I wake, I can wipe all the lines out.

SO, it went the same.
blue colour of cityscape coming-black light flashing always
across the distance from balcony
a beautiful stillness.
Waves first. Sea. The complete sea. Swimming.
ego. Ego swimming. Ego going down. Hello! And ha!
And no more jokes.
And isolation.
And no more months.
But there were gushes.
Gushes of experiences in, and outside, with individual breathes
and the proximity of love, coming closer
like a germinating hand
guiding you down
into the oceans private concert

Not too close to the expensive parts, or the bad parts,
or anywhere too pristine.
Christ, that’d be
a joke. It’d be funny
and then the surgeon would come and operate
on you;
lifting you out whilst you’re asleep

And it would go like this:

Cancer: Hey! What’s going on?!
Get off! I’ve paid my
rent and don’t wet the bed
anymore,

Surgeon: Don’t care.
Come here...
Oh for **** sake you’re making my day long.
I don’t get paid
for this.
Cancer: Oh yes you do handsome.
Surgeon: Oh yeah!

rest on the long side of your bed.
‘What’d you do at the weekend?’
Where’d you go?

...

banter broke down into spider web
substance
before fading completely, as thoughts begin
to disappear and fly down
into heavier states
from outside you saw a man still dressed
in formal office attire
tie hanging undone around a white shirt, shoes kicked off
beside strange markings on a polished floor. From in,
the understandings
are quite different
fly gently, like a loved one retiring from life
as the single light bulb watches from your ceiling
tensing one last second time in hesitation
then blowing you out with a blink.  

looked into the well where life is buried
and reached down
arms lengthened like dusty pieces of ham down a hole
touching the foetus as it crawls back up,
and up through the highway lines of his veins,
like a rabbit hunts wolves,
like the peach reacts to your bite.

We smoked and ate apple pie as the autumn tattooed
We snapped small pieces off
then ate the mites.

And then when the well filled we made our arms lassoes;
that churned the grain,
turning the quietness into storm,
and back to parts of spring.

You hesitate, touching the ape
like a clown who’s just tossed his life into the air, and juggles it,
like dead poems and hot boiling yeast.
you looked further into the well and found the figments of the ‘Narwhal’
the sea creature with a prominent horn
that shoots from its head-

Early sea farers
used to think the horned mammal was a type of
magical being
it birthed the idea of unicorns
you let the water well mix and join
as we drink coffee today, and the night is less silent
than that of star of apples and gloom
each tarantula that scatters in the red stars of sand is welcome;
and the honey man and honey woman flicker,
through numberless bank checks and bills as knocks arrive
knock after knock after knock
into long vibrational hum

All that remains
is the bursting punch
near the bottom
of oceanic well

As it tightens your grip into the follicle hibernating bears
that speak eloquent words whilst we eat;
the deep groan of munching hands
in the well helps our arms
pull up the glowing carcass as it turns back
into us within our hands, it speaks easily and slow, telling each
servant surrounding
the hole that they should:

‘Dance casually, dance inside my red eyes’.

Some take advantage of melody, as a trust that funds satellites of globe,
as if no one ever dreamed or broke the yoke of more pleasurable things;
one of your arms
is like the way that a crab crawls past over my nose and into our future home

another asks that you aren’t so violent in February
and that the month is a counting mouth that multiplies zero
beside the arms reaching for a pyramidic beauty
under the ***** shell; aborting its children like blood in the snow,
without humanistic style, more in tune with time
than the army of water lifting your throat up,
spits- that poke at us with antlers, undeterred, no legged, mating in the sand

After a while, otherness takes over, and will comes.
And emotion is long shattered,
easing out,
playing skin game and dissipating need, where all will and human comes back
it takes a while.

And our gender has nothing to do with just lust
We are the almost completely blind, as the cliché remembers
Gender is
the lack of gender and the freedom of paradigm
whilst hands are upon love,
And more night(s) turn within us.
dream like bright black stars.

Weekends. Week. Work. Corporations dancing like butterflies on fire. Gone.
Gone
Gone
Gorgeous

nothingness
apart from its face and voice
speaking

“Heyy, how’s it going?”
Projection
No
“Yes... Lover,
Yes yes yes!”
“No.”
skull now linked to the lips of a home
“Correct, correct, correct...” The intangible
darkness, over and over

a rushing
and uncontrollable
heaviness of fire.

foxes in back alleys salute
the black sky with a mongrel scream
and all the animals of the world are linked for a split minutiae,
recognising and respecting the breach;

“You’re hurting... mmmmuh-” Dominic tried to say
in the onslaught.

Converging planes that came from the lips of the spirit crowning his mind.

“You’re not Juuu, Juh Juah Juh.”

He tried to say for the next few hours, as the sun spread down
on the city
and felt a deep
empathy for another one
of its children
attempting to free
itself.

“No.”

how right you are...” The spirit said
as Dominic’s head slumped from exertion.

“You see...” The spirit said seeping into his bones
and killing him;
paramedics zip
the bag
over his face.

“You see...” The voice says again
knocking the lights off
and flinging you
by your throat

Each one letting you
go

landscape sick in multiple elements of confused colour,
parts of buildings, art: growing up in the horizon, new structures
made by thoughts, old flowers inside limbs,
smoking.

“What...” The spirit
said.

sigh at the strange place,
without looking around.
blossoms of mind and traffic
circulated
characters
on a schizophrenic island

two flies ****** invisibly
and grow from the unseen smallness of their passion
and become an instant world
in the Red Mountains.

“What’s up?” Dominic say gloomily,
laugh a little.

“You’re meant to be screaming...
And yes...
Yet another ******* month
without hitting
target.” The nightmare says,

No incorporeal speech
no anger
anymore.

She might have been about twenty five,
dressed in a shade of grey
change
that covered her genitalia
and ******* from ankle up to neck

get used to it all.
raise your chin to the sky and try to blink away from the constant lick
of the beast growing
from yourself, or lover, or day

And grow the chimera
throughout numberless
stages
like a beautiful clay
that cant decide

Finally the meer-hawk looked like a Dickensian peasant
with an intricate smile, dressed all in jail rags
stinking of sweat, *****, and time.
And then we change
again

And her black hair scooped down
into the blackening sand
where the grains accepted her slim weight
through out itself

She was tired and fed up of the back-world today
She left her contract looking around upstairs
and accepted the hit
on her targets

A transference of types in the quaking room.
A quick drop of laughter flys
into the lil bear or a lot; and a snap and a lot of hunger
for us all...

The master of the basement was mostly machine.

The front of his face that we run towards
is a centred and hovering engine
at the far end of the shadow
room
and the stench
from its thought.

a farce and enough
to turn you away
from a really good
steak.

no walls

no matter

a car mouth approaches naked.

dead cats know this, as they lay purring still, licking their paws still,
misery knows,forgetting, and the coldness of the street gave birth

to numberless seedy neon lights
flickering away from the wall less walls
once more

and you know, we
all
have a prayer
that comes
out
here was
mine:

might as well let you know
whilst we’re at it
that this one comes
out, in some accent~~
but is how it’s meant to go

“...as if to prae
inside the rain
as if to move
the moon with small hands
ah cross the yard
and lucky sky

I live in that playce me lass
with ya quiet weiyht
upon me own
of ya li’l voice
that taeks it away

Ya-renuf ta bring
al me Gods back
an pin ‘em te tha walls

Enough ta mayke
al’ me angels breathe
heavy
for even an ounce
of ya grace

Ave begged at tha hands
of jesus Christ
for that tayste
of yeh
me sweet bonny lass
an ya the only lass
‘ahve evva met
that mayde us feel
like ah cuhd heal
without bein less

An I’m lookin at ya now
with al me luv
an ah divent need
ney where to ruhn
as am ah freed dog

and in ya charms

An ‘av ney-where left to luk
but I’ll kip alreet the neet pet
cos ya by me side

an in me arms.”

But now it is rather late my friend, and
we all know how long old accents last,
mine, I cherish, I will say it when cursing
and gone
when lit among friends and when
impressing
new jobs, that I shall leave, such is
my
way
and
i may
see you
again.

There is only this,
A smile, a kiss a moment in bliss
And it's gone.
Life wasn't supposed to last very long
And it doesn't surprise.

I have seen too many suns that have set in the East
And at least as many rise in the West.
Either Or,neither is better than the one gone before.
The day begins and will end as we bow and we bend in the wind,
Like corn in the fields or chaff in the meadow we blow,
To the breeze we must flow and in this we will know
It is time now to go.

There is only a one and ever, a kiss is forever
A moment of bliss is a lifeline.
In the fall and the rise of the dusk and the day
When night carries away your prayers on a wing
Sing to the skies.
Open your eyes
It would not surprise me that what you will see
Is the spirit set free.

And when darkness falls
Deaf to the calls of the day
Would we have it any other way?
Would we say one life is never enough to do all that living and loving and stuff?
Or would we know this,
That life is a smile and a kiss
The bliss is in the moments
We so often miss.

loved seeing your face
knowing you fell asleep when you normally don’t
hearing your laugh
Recognising voice
Before I knew you were there
My failed attempts at sneaking up on you
With every thought,
I find how much I miss your humor

Our daily conversations;
About everything.
Opening up to you came so naturally
The acceptance you showed
Respect you exserted
The confidence you gave me
The positive outlook on life
All things I learned
Just by knowing you
How easy the “L” word was to say
Not many people do I say “I love you”

Although I can’t help but hate myself “
I let myself get attached.
Without you
I’m vulnerable.
As I make impulsive decisions.
I walk with my head up
And act like everything is perfect.
Im aware I only hurt myself;
Wanting to be alone
But longing to be alone with you.
To tell you why I’m upset

Wanting to believe you
When you said you loved me
But with that expectation
I find myself broken and alone.
Although now;
I know what I want
Is what I can’t have

Continuing without you?
Not only broken and alone

But the feeling of desire
Once again;
For someone I can’t have

No way to feel as optimistic
As I once did around you
Can’t bring myself to talk to anyone.
Knowing they’ll misunderstand
Staying occupied seems best;
Avoiding the thought of you
Being so passionately spontaneous
Not passing up an opportunity
Keeping myself busy
Nervous at the mention of your name.
Hoping to find you
And that you’ll come home okay

I miss you.
I love you.
I just want you home
Until then I’m counting the days
Attempting to be happy and appreciative
But with you gone;
My happiness is as well
It’s quite unfortunate how it all played out,
The haircut,The uniform
I’ve always supported your decision
But it’s affecting me
More than I thought it would
I’m more proud of you than I’ve ever been of anything
I know you’ll stay safe
And you’ll come home happy
I look forward to that

Just promise me something..
“Keep your shoes tied.”

mum's well intended tough upbringing ended in a two sided razor sharp sword
i am independent, intelligent, and successful
that same achievements cause me no shortage of frenemies
and a severe debilitating starvation for true friendship and love
men wont touch me with a 10 foot poll
both sexes make me out to be weird beyond the point of recognising there reflexion in me
imprisoned in a life i wanted, successful
with a incurable case of loneliness, i'm drowning out with food and bad poetry
this is my roaring twenties, hooray
cant wait for the next 80 years
going senile will be a blessing
no longer haunted by pain and unreached potential

I had a friend,I heard he died
on his mistaken morals he was crucified.
He lived for but a moment
in the lines of her face
found peace there
a quiet definition of self.
Then came her tears
filled the crevices
washed him clean until his mouth filled
and he began to drown.
She had forgotten his inability to swim
watched helpless as he floated by
inarticulate and unable to save him.
She loved him in his freedom
mourns him in the knowledge
that now he barely exists.

Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed "setting" by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase.

For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a
morsel of supreme Venison - whose every fibre seems to murmur "Excelsior!" - yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also -

I NEVER loved a dear Gazelle -
NOR ANYTHING THAT COST ME MUCH:
HIGH PRICES PROFIT THOSE WHO SELL,
BUT WHY SHOULD I BE FOND OF SUCH?

To glad me with his soft black eye
MY SON COMES TROTTING HOME FROM SCHOOL;
HE'S HAD A FIGHT BUT CAN'T TELL WHY -
HE ALWAYS WAS A LITTLE FOOL!

But, when he came to know me well,
HE KICKED ME OUT, HER TESTY SIRE:
AND WHEN I STAINED MY HAIR, THAT BELLE
MIGHT NOTE THE CHANGE, AND THUS ADMIRE

And love me, it was sure to dye
A MUDDY GREEN OR STARING BLUE:
WHILST ONE MIGHT TRACE, WITH HALF AN EYE,
THE STILL TRIUMPHANT CARROT THROUGH.

He suddenly felt a sadness that only a letter might lighten. Thoughts of her he carried variously in and from the spaces and places this hot day had taken him. The morning had been warmer than in previous days, and even at 6.0am there was a heaviness present carrying a threat of thunder and rain.

He knew she was not at her best in the leaden heat of this hemisphere, whilst enjoying the dry, brittle heat of Africa and beyond. He remembered a hot train journey and a busy day moving boxes into a studio space. They were fond memories because in such heat she took on a delicacy about her. He would perceive her features and movement to be finely drawn, and that perception revealed her profound beauty. Such recollections were foundations in his love for her.

Today he had decided to avoid that daily confrontation with the project that lay invisibly on his desk, locked up in his computer, though unsorted sheets of graph paper, populated with planning, were evident on his drawing board. This project was a ‘book’ of studies for an ensemble in Chicago whose performances were marked by such energy and virtuosity; the music was growing steadily, but he felt suspicious that it had been contrived. He hoped his precise positioning of pitch and rhythm would have brought forth a surface colouring and texture. It had not. He would often imagine symbols and words he could not yet define lying on a transparent sheet over the rather bland matter-of-fact notation of his scores. He had known only occasional moments of such graphic invention, and when they appear ‘right’, they enlivened and enhanced his work.

He had put aside today as a listening day, an opportunity to listen carefully to a group of new compositions presented in a series of broadcast concerts and available to re-audition over the Internet. Didn’t Van Gogh write to his brother about the need to rest during a period of intense creativity and spend a day copying another’s work? This was an equivalent to his ‘active listening’, listening with a pencil and paper, taking a shorthand of the music’s action and journey.

The first piece on his listening list was a four-minute composition for chorus and orchestra. He had been intrigued that the composer had set words by Richard Jeffries, a 19C author who had written children’s adventures about a parochial natural world and had become admired by today’s new nature writers. It was said Jeffries had instigated Henry Williamson’s closely observed prose. He had set about finding the words – hardly discernable in the rich sonic accumulation of voices and instruments in the broadcast performance. Eventually, thanks to a brief comment by the composer in his introduction and a line that leapt with clarity from the music (the butterfly floats in the light-laden air), found a passage in a book called A Study of My Heart.

Recognising my own inner consciousness, the psyche, so clearly, I cannot understand time. It is eternity now. I am in the midst of it. It is about me in the sunshine; I am in it, as the butterfly floats in the light-laden air. Nothing has to come; it is now. Now is eternity; now is the immortal life. Here this moment, by this tumulus, on earth, now; I exist in it. The years, the centuries, the cycles are absolutely nothing; it is only a moment since this tumulus was raised; in a thousand years it will still be only a moment. To the soul there is no past and no future; all is and will be ever, in now. For artificial purposes time is mutually agreed on, but is really no such thing. The shadow goes on upon the dial, the index moves round upon the clock, and what is the difference? None whatever. If the clock had never been set going, what would have been the difference? There may be time for the clock, the clock may make time for itself; there is none for me. . . . There is no separation-no past; eternity, the Now, is continuous. When all the stars have revolved they only produce Now again. The continuity of Now is for ever. So that it appears to me purely natural, and not super natural, that the soul whose temporary frame was interred in this mound should be existing as I sit on the sward. How infinitely deeper is thought than the million miles of the firmament!

The text chosen by the composer did not appear to follow the author’s words only weave a way in and around the paragraph, pulling out key words and phrases, creating a poem from the images. He could imagine doing this himself, making a poem of the text.

This business of time, and how it was to this author,  ‘all about me in the sunshine’, was the same for him. As he read it, he would think of the warm early morning light on the stone façade of the building across the road. He could turn away from his desk and see a quality of glowness that all but stopped his own thoughts of time. This quality of and in things that nature could bestow, even to the inanimate, held a wonder all its own.

And so he had listened several times to this bright, newly fashioned work, enjoying the sustained and acoustic beating of more than eighty voices (he thought) singing in close clusters. And with and against those clusters, were flurries and cascades of high woodwind, as though such figures were birds flocking into the sun on a summer’s sky. This music seemed to be about immanence, existing in the everything of itself, but unlike Jeffries’ reverie music was governed by time, and when finished, with an inconclusiveness that surprised him, would rarely, he felt, ever be performed again.

There was a dream here. It passed over in the night; a blur that burnt a fever into the earth. It died in the gap between. Fingers unlaced. Hand to the side. The sun runs soft tendrils through thick curtains. Or something like that.

Have you seen the new Star Wars movie? No. You’d like it. It’s the same thing all over again, but with a black guy and a chick as the main characters instead. I guess that’s what you call progress.

There was a dream here. A thick, unfurling mass of potentialities. Sartre once wrote existence precedes essence. Schopenhauer believed the essence of a chair was as much willed into being as the essence of a man. There was choice once, but it died when we chose. The breath you took before your last smoke. The air is stirred by a passing train. A woman steps off a bridge, into the mourning blue of an autumn lake. There is an empty car on fire. There is a man inside. His brother sleeps through his exam, doped up on too much codeine. There is the stench of lack. There is death passing a mirror, seeing herself in haste, but too rushed to make sense of it.

He runs fingers down the scars of her arm. A trickling, stream awakening from a long winter thaw. Vessels blue. Oceans of laughter tucked deep in the folds of her skin, so faint you can barely see them any more.

The sheets are black. The city folds itself. The sky collapses into the gutter; Jupiter bleeds into the apartment block on east side. A man leaves his home, but never reaches his destination.  There is a movie Face Off, where the identity of Nicholas Cage is challenged through the transplantation of his face. If reincarnation were possible, would we even be capable of recognising our reincarnated selves, stumbling through the visage of a billion other, unknown vessels? The skip collectors come at 4am. Metal grinds against metal until all that is left is dust.

Hands shaking a pit of coal. Shake shake. Shake shake. Your mother is dead. Shake shake. Shake shake. Jesus working at a shoe store. Shake shake. Shake shake. An atheist. Hah hah, hah.

The channels fill. Ink drops on water. Fireworks blackening the contours. There is a sun in Peru. Waste water pumps through the vessels of the city. The mayor drinks punch. The catacombs crumble like desert bones. The roads split above. Traffic stalls. Shadows stretch. Meet at the centre. A core. Slender fingers. The infinite. A hollowed heart. A heritage.

Drink your punch, says the mayor, try the grape and cheese.

There is a comic. Five or six woodland friends play grab the tail. After one round, they look over to find friend raccoon sleeping. They laugh and shout next round. Friend scorpion looks at his tail with tears in his eyes. It is funny, because death is boundless, amoral, and imminent.

A group at a party. Someone brings up the right-wing branch of their government. Everyone begins laughing, red in the face, spit flying from their mouths, arms noodling into the sky. Yeah, yeah. Hella. It is an imitation game. A laugh track on repeat. Maybe someone scratched it on purpose, or the sound guy fell asleep on the button. Now everyone is stuck, laughing. They begin to doubt themselves, but look up, reassured by the glowing sign above their heads that displays the text laughter, in bold black Helvetica. The sign is faded from heavy use, a sickly cream that looked bad before it left the factory. They were made in batches of a thousand and shipped across the country. One begins to choke, spilling her drink, bunching the cloth on the table beside her. They keep laughing. She is purple now. Another group spots them and joins in. The party next door. The whole neighbourhood. It is broadcast across the city. A wave of hysteria sweeps the nation. An online celebrity creates mugs. A famous rapper uploads himself eating pancakes. The sound guy wakes up and turns off the display, but everyone keeps laughing.

God died today. Crumpled jacket at the foot of an apartment block. Creased ticket. Crooked can rolling down suburbia. American dream wakes up. Finds herself an amnesiac in a foreign land. Catches bus downtown. Wanders vacant sun. Blood trickles from wrinkles. So many now. Creased, crumpled, crooked. Drinks from gutter. Chokes. Stumbles into abandoned church. Blood dries into grotesque mask. Hard to feel through it. Like second skin. Tired. Rests head against wall. Waits for pulse. Finds nothing.

A joke to break the gloom. Two crows are perched opposite one another, partitioned by a one-way mirror. Both break into laughter.

No, wait. Maybe tears.

You see,
when I escaped your love
I had rocks tied to my ankles in knots,
and I walked into the lake
barely recognising myself,
just caught up in a memory and replaying
the pain in my head, so numbing that
I detached from anyone else’s love.

I thought love, real love, was about sacrifice.
You fed me lies about true love -
never ending ‘happily ever afters,’
and in my naïve mistaken heart,
I trusted to believe real love meant death -
that true sacrifice was self-sacrifice.

So, dressed in the wedding dress
(I was to wear on Monday)
my hair plated the way you liked it,
your grandma’s emeralds around my neck,
earrings dropping as a pendant, and the ring
on my left hand, I walked.

I walked.
I held tightly onto the bouquet of lilies
(were they not always meant for funerals)
and I stepped into the lake.
Cold water rising up my thighs,
cold water which actually felt more ‘known’
than the unknown land of your love.

I wasn’t even scared.

I’d washed down fear with
a bottle of pain.
I washed down fear with
pills of despair.
I just kept walking.
And the only sound I remember,
is my humming of Beethoven’s Für Elise.
In my mind, I could see you dancing
en pointe- your feet as eloquently poised
as the pianists fingers,
never in a race to finish -
just movements of grace.

And that’s who I am today -
I am the dancer
(Odette and Odile).
My humanity is now outdated -
I too, throw myself into the lake,
and, as I take my final breath
we – you and I, my lover –
are seen flying past the moon.

© Sia Jane

Revenge for her parents death the drive
that became her passion.
The story began when she was a child
witnessing their killing!
Every detail taken in by her big eyes
to get the killer the prize.

Seventeen years painfully trickled by her
becoming an assassin.
As the hatred coursed through her veins
revenge drove her on.
Though wanting to seek the love she craved
retribution on her soul engraved!

She had found a man making it complicated
her fine tuning distorted.
This new friend had found her mobile phone
saving her photo image.
Trying to find out about this mystery female
allowing others to find her trail.

Gangs had lost foot soldiers to her expertise
who acted like a shadow.
For the first time had to be far more aware
her parents murderer alerted.
The last pages of her diary soon completed
could this evil be defeated?

Knowing he would catch up with her soon
she prepared to strike first.
Entering his mansion in a covert manner
dispatching silently his crew.
Until he was there without support alone
recognising his arrogant tone.

From a hidden point confronted head on
glaring with a cold stare.
Going to fire the gun held in sweaty hand
diving found a hidden weapon.
A bullet went right through her shoulder
he was quick though much older.

Her shot caught him in a main thigh artery
shattering the femur to.
There before her the man she hated so much
was now at her mercy.
She had prayed for years to see him die
openly then did she cry!

One more deep breath she shot him in the head
cruelly on his face a smile as he lay dead!

Knowing she would be a target vanished from sight
revenge in the end did not feel right!

The Foureyed Poet.

Today I am a tourist
In romance, her swaying hair
Across my lap
She showed me this long night
And I bit into it

Laughing loudly and aroused
Not for sensation, but for feeling
She showed me the stages of joy

We folded our lives
As we folded laundry together
Ate our meals in complete comfort
The interior of thirsty years
Of suffering, made worth it

In a few months of purest joy
Loving her was like a Jewish legacy
Of an expression of American hope

I could hope I belonged
But romance usually had a way of
Burning my letters at a bonfire
For a muse I couldn’t have
So much color, so much sadness

So many postcards from
The women I believed I loved
Thus I remember your face everywhere

Like a poet infatuated
With the idea of love
Who has some difficulty
Recognising her at “face level”

It's when you're teetering on the edge of insomnia,
When every pound of your being is exhausted
To the point where you're seeing colours,
Without recognising objects, people,
Kind souls, kindred spirits,
That you soar to the most wonderful place
Of creativity and life-fulfilling happiness,
Or at least if not happiness, then
Contentment or satisfaction.

But, like insomnia, that teetering
Is the fundamental factor -
Because that same day,
In that same continuation of euphoria,
You can be waiting for a train,
And whilst you teeter at the edge
Of the cold station platform walkway,
You can plummet to the depths of depression,
Return to those comforting, suffocating clutches,
And that cry for help is stifled
By the thundering railway carriages,
And all that is left is a ****** stain -
Stained in your mind,
The knowledge that you'll never escape those clutches,
That grasp for the underneaths of railway carriages
Or the cordless bungee of tall buildings,
The comfort of the warm ground below,
And, naturally, a poem,
Flittering away in the gust of the train
Storming through the station
Like your ever-dwindling happiness...

When you are greeted,
With a shell of an
Old wrinkly man,
Do not forget the person i am,
Please try to understand,
That i am not the deep curves within my skin,
The fullness in my laughter
That has started to wear thin
Please try to look within.

Handle me with patience,
Tenderness, love and empathy,
Handle me gently.

When you brush my hair,
Please do not rush,
And if i speak in riddles,
Please do not hush,
What may not appear to make sense,
This change I'm going through is
So very intense.
When you take my body,
Dress it with care,
There is still life
Resonating there.
If I soil myself
And your left to clean up the pieces,
Please try to do so,
In a way that irons out the creases,
Of shame and self blame.
And if i forget my name,
Please understand the pain,
Of the knowledge
That i will never be again,
The same.
The knowledge that my body and my brain,
Don't quite work the way they used to.

When you see me cry,
Do not try to deny me
Of my dignity,
Be calm, be patient,
Have empathy,
Grieve with me, at the loss of each memory, the person,
I used to be.

Do not forget though my speech may be
Inconsistent and slow,
And i may have difficulty with
The ability to chew and swallow.
That these difficulties,
Do not show,
The things i have achieved,
The family i conceived,
The fresh air that I've breathed,
In many different destinations,
And when you get cross with my hesitations,
Because my actions due to my complications,
May be a little all over the place,
Do not forget,
That embedded within the space
The walls of my mind,
Lies a whirlwind of memories and dreams, left behind.

When you look at my pictures,
My photos, my life,
You will see a successful man,
With three kids and a wife.
Young girl, I've battled inner strife,
For almost 90 years,
But nothing warrants tears more,
Than becoming a widow,
Not recognising your own shadow and reflection
Living in a mind
That screams rejection,
Realising your body is no longer your own,
Being moved into a care home,
Where the phone doesn't ring,
Where the birds no longer sing,
And you feel like giving in,
Every single day.
And people constantly say,
How you're turning old and frail,
That your body is aging and turning pale,
And every task you do,
You feel like you fail.
And young lady,
I ask you,
Please be kind,
And remember all i have said,
As i unravel and unwind,
These cognitions within my head.

And if in time you begin to find,
A snippet of the old me,
Hold it carefully,
In the palms of your hands,
For the sands of time,
Are slipping too quickly,
Through mine.

So when you are greeted with a face,
With wrinkles so deep,
You could bury your own fears in them,
Please treasure me for all that I was
And all that I am
I am human, I am a man.

The morning awakes with stuttering respect
Night time peace is past.
The new day to me is opportunity
Familiar movements from my love
Sadly recognising that rest is done
At least for the moment
Refusing to wholly awake is one I know.
She feels that more sleep would be...well
Even on days off the climbing out is a considered move
More considered, than move
I love her for her familiar ways
My moderated interaction has taken time to evolve
I understand, we can't all be the same
I love her for what she is and has taught me
Patience and tolerance
Oh how much I've learned about myself

Love is an acceptance of difference
A morphing of two ideals
A belief that neither is right but then...
Neither is wrong
Maturing love is a joy that has moved from blindness
To being at peace with your lover
But most of all it is the recognition
That you are with someone
Who cares, understands and forgives you
Overlooks odd ways and strange sayings
The underlying passion of true love
Never recedes or diminishes, but grows
Easier in the knowledge of  an element of comfort
In wonderment and true happiness
Our jagged edges of self are no longer apparent
And the depth of our rounded love clasps us together
In time and space

Do you ever escape your grief?
Do you every find release from sorrow?
I can’t say today, perhaps tomorrow,
but today I’m growing round my loss
- not diminishing its presence, but recognising
that my present is not my finish
and that I add to this grief
my joy, reminiscence, and celebration
of those who are no longer at my surface,
but remain my foundation.

Do you ever escape?
I think not – I hope not.
For they are not a shackle,
but where I found my feet.

A car that never changes character.
A master in going against the times.
Its high raving engine proves it's nothing close to an armature.
The legendary kidney grill never declines.
Ounce I heard that the iconic M5 is now  available in x-drive, my face resembled a wet cloth but as I finished reading the article...thank god there's a setting for the tyre shredding two-wheel drive.
BMW is a car that gives you a reason to stare, BMW lovers recognise the different models by looking at the linings...something rare.
BMW's so called rivals are always claiming they have"high tech suspension", but that's only on paper then the track testing starts. That makes you wonder how much do two faced women spend on makeup.
While other motor brands have "ambition", BMW has reputation. Its rivals are stiff in corners but the Bavarian beast simply drifts... Into position, clearly spelling out two words "no competition".
BMW doesn't exactly showcase the skills of a driver, it actually displays the behavior of the car...call that ecstasy in motion, the real capture of emotion...nothing has ever been so close to perfection.
The roaring power produces a sound that is distinct, out classing a band that is full equipped. A luxury sedan that is rated five star but deep inside it is a sports car at heart. The kidney grill ensures us that even in a hundred years from a hundred metres we will have no trouble recognising a BMW.
Something we may never measures is shear driving pleasure. The only drive that BMW knows is dynamic and although the average folk might not be interested in the track runs which are always epic, he or she knows that BMW is the perfect remedy for traffic.  
Ambition is BMW versus reality.

Months of sweating
vetting every word written
Shivering over all
that remained hidden

Rocking back and forth
Recognising the demons scream
Asking to be fed more
Inside of empty dreams

Then the words, they spill
from cracked and broken lips
bleeding onto tissue paper
inking stains of fatal trips

Then comes the rush
a verbiage of torrential pain
Crouching on a backlit screen
pockmarked with finger stains

The first spike of adrenaline
fizzes inside a broken mind
The churning end to a journey
that has completely left you blind

Collapsing in upon itself
is the high that's found a low
and when the reader is gone
You wonder where you'll go?

Perhaps you'll find a new pusher
Someone else to feed your pain
Someone that will dig that needle
deep
even deeper into the vein

He could write only perhaps a page at a time so scarred was he of losing the brilliance that he had somehow found again. After a few minutes of writing he was haunted by introspection reading back on what he had just written he couldn't escape the notion his words had been penned by some greater man and if he were to continue, to add to it, he would only be lessening a beautiful portrait. The effect was that each page he wrote looked like a biography with each chapter recorded by a different writer giving his work the disjointed feeling of having many contributors all compiling their experiences to tell this one story. He had never bothered to understand Durkheim's theory of alienation, but he imagined it was something close to this – not recognising himself in every story he wrote, only knowing that it was somehow someone different each time and that they were all trapped somewhere deep inside him.

Night, gripped by future thoughts I lie,
Mind nocturnal, never blinking eyes,
Day's events and those to come don't rest only rush
Heart hastens shadowing  pace, moves respite out of touch

Perspective the enlightener sprouts a shoot,
A momentary distraction which begins to take root

Breath is vacuumed slowly from nose to chest,
Streaming laden air out, a peaceful wind lays upon breast,
Mind slows recognising nights familiar touch,
Sleep content, knowing, I'm but a mindful piece of dust

There flows between us on the terrace
an underwater light that distorts
the profile of the hills and even your face.
Every gesture of yours, cut from you,
looms on an elusive background; enters without wake,
and vanishes, in the midst of what drowns
every furrow, and closes over your passage:
you here, with me, in this air that descends
to seal
the torpor of boulders.
And I flow
into the power that weighs around me,
into the spell of no longer recognising
anything of myself beyond myself; if I only
raise my arm, I perform the action
otherwise, a crystal is shattered there,
its memory pallid forgotten, and already
the gesture no longer belongs to me;
if I speak, I hear this voice astonished,
descend to its remotest scale,
or die in the unsupportive air.

In such moments that resist to the last
dissolution of day
bewilderment endures: then a gust
rouses the valleys in frenetic
motion, draws from the leaves a ringing
sound that disperses
through fleeting smoke, and first light
outlines the dockyards.

…words
fall weightless between us. I look at you
in the soft reverberation. I do not know
if I know you; I know I was never as divided
from you as now in this late
return. A few moments have consumed
us whole: except two faces, two
strained masks, etched
in a smile.

**Eugenio Montale

To the joy
We dance, we jest and joust
The complex interplay of two
Souls recognising selfness
Seeing the edges fit

To the sorrow
This memory fades, surely, swiftly
A conversation half remembered
The realisation that ..
I can't recall your voice

To the sweetness
A softly remembered moment
The curve of a finger
Tracing line across memory

To the senses
That I can't feel those arms
Lightly, a tear traces a path
I feel it slide down my cheek
Then unseen weight grips

To the Anger
Against moments expectation unmet
When the collision occurs
And unwanted words come forth
The rage unchecked

To the self
The clash of the ego and id
tripartite vying for casual dominion
Eros and Thanatos war
Action dictated by thought

To the internal
The experience of
A lucid world of love
of longing, of joy
And it's counterpart; sadness

As I remember that I will
Never see you again
We will never speak
You will not know
How much you are missed

To friendship
To the joy of finding each other
To the gift of you, selflessly given
To the kindness
To both sides of a being


To the present
To Finding ways to exist Sans those who've faded
Always to persevere
The interlocking of past and now
Always seeing and remembering the essence of their being
Just breathe

To the heart
No words exist for this journey
From innocence to sorrow
And back
But when led with..


Nothing is insurmountable

Even though the distance
Of light years between them
Will never subside
And will always remain
Interminable
But this has never stopped
The soft waves of cerulean
Seas and oceans
As well as their moonlit lover
From recognising and feeling
The gracious presence
Of each other
And joyfully confessing
their sparkling eternal love
To each other
Even in the absence of
Any means to ever
come close
Or touch each other

I couldn't have made it
without you
from recognising a kindred spirit
to discovering a soulmate
beyond passion, beyond even love
you are part of me

Woke up at six,
a smart tortoiseshell  butterfly
was sitting on my audio.
I thought a more apposite
place would have been my dahlia.
Scattered wool pellets
over the carpet.
My brain was going nowhere slow.
The great Mister Zalbretys
had planted some weird
happenstance,
not recognising the  inside
from the delirious  out.