Wisp in Wonder

The wisp of smoke

dances towards the sky,

reaching from your dying cigarette

that litters your light fingertips

buring into the overcast troposphere,

resigned to the thickening fate

that the once dainty effluvium has.

I wonder if it is envious

of the smoke that is reserved

to be graced by the touch

of your full, fleshy lips

exhaled softly into the overcast troposphere,

dancing elegantly into the dense sky

savouring its farewell kiss.

I realise that whether by lips or fingertips

the smoke's time in your presence

is ephemeral and all smoke

must eventually join the clouds;

if I was that blissfully endowed smoke

my last action would be to hover

a halo around the crown of your hallowed head.

A High Street in December

The middle-aged mother meanders merrily,

marveling at carefully arranged window displays,

taking the stretch of pavement with her

life-long bags full of wrapping paper, socks, wine

and the latest toys advertised on Saturday morning television;

there's even a little something for herself

clutched in her right hand, the handles of that particular bag

now ingraining red lines into her frost kissed skin.

Meanwhile morose men moodily make an attempt

to move past the moderate pace of the myopic mother,

making a play to dart in the road where

there's a window of opportunity to squeeze past,

however the 4x4 vehicle puts a stop to that, the driver

making an awful attempt at parallel parking into a space

which, in honesty, is large enough to fit a whole squadron of sleighs;

the man sighs, glancing at his watch, resigned to the fact his train has gone.

The children in the back of the oversized car squabble

over the song choice on their shared music device,

making no attempt to put it away as their father had asked

although in honesty the father would much rather put on a song himself

which reminds him of when Christmas used to mean something to him;

something that might tear away the tedium of sitting

on a cheap plastic faux-leather sofa in the changing rooms

of a budget fashion chain as he gives as small nod of acknowledgement

to the men who share his plight, tapping their feet as wives desperately search

for the garments that might let them reclaim their youth.

Meanwhile, the beggar attempts to benefit from

the well documented "Christmas Spirit", shaking his twenty pence pieces

in his coffee cup, hoping that the charitable might fund

his next meal as they plan their extended family's feast,

but he doesn't count on their short, impatient temperaments

wanting to endure this annual task as efficiently as possible,

so they pointedly avert his pleading gaze,

looking down at their phones or up to the billboards;

anywhere but into his eyes.

All of the citizens floating along in their own snowflaked bubbles.

Brian Wilson and the Stranger

God Only Knows battles idle chatter,

steamy windows and steamy china cups

as damp raincoats clutter flaking windowsills,

and though he knows that he should focus

on the plot that is being dictated to him

by the seemingly omniscient narrator

he can't help but get drawn into the words

that resonate with his morose soul,

looking blankly at the hot tar

that swirls around in his clammy hands,

avoiding, above all else, those searchlight eyes.

He thinks about the end;

how the year has provided proof that the future

seems almost completely bleak

-though life would still go on believe me-

there is too much malice, egocentrism and hyperbole,

not enough verisimilitude, hope and identity.

Without that glimmer of purpose

that had illuminated his chambers for so long; well...

-what good would livin' do me?-

he'd almost prefer the prospect of uncertainty

than the certain desolation that awaits us all.

He stands up, cutting the chapter short.

Cold to the world, he makes for the door,

resolute in his plunge.

And a stranger holds the door open,

motioning to allow him through.

His icy heart thaws out

and the contempt that had encased his heart melts away

[proof for global warming, Mr. Trump, he thinks bitterly]

as his darkness is replaced by

an intense admiration for the potential of mankind.

-God only knows what I'd be without you-

X Axis

Each year pulls me further to the left,

and I wonder if my standpoint

is an x-axis

and that I am therefore

growing more and more negative

or that it is in fact spherical

and I will come full circle.

Pieces of Autumn

A leaf glides on the water,

and ripples disperse around it;

Crossing over one another as the tree's

lachrymose with the lake, dirty halos

crowning these dead pieces of Autumn.

Passing under the bellies of mallards and Canadian geese,

unmoved and uncaring of the water's caress,

they stretched out like wings to whisper against

the nests of reeds and wrappers stood on the banks.

I wonder where my ripples would reach

tonight, if I was to die and leave.

The world would turn no slower

and the sun would shine no darker.

I'll pass under the bellies of ducks

an unheard voice, a disregarded ripple

Enfolded

Enfolding my breath

into subtle shapes, I cherish

watching them float away silently

as if coerced by a gentle magnetism

into unknown and unseen—the inexplicable—

And this existence we suffer is unpredictable

how could we act with pragmatism

while cascading down violently

into the earth we perish

enfolded in death.

Caught

I walked heady into the sweet,

damp night, however caught I was in its

leverage.

The dog across the street whined for me, impetuous, drummed

my porous skin into air,

like a mother praying for their child, making 

me alive again,

embryonic.

Sunspots blossomed over the fullness of night, and 

I curled, ashamed, inside 

their morning light.

Baby Teeth

I pray not to be kept

only for sentiment
like milk teeth in a vitamin jar;

distastefully disregarded - but not discarded

high up on a dust sheeted shelf.

I'd have no room for growth

already extracted
and discoloured with age;

an empty keepsake - a cluttered headache

that no nostalgic pill could remedy.

And I pray don't liken my love
to the taste of Calpol,

    sickly saccharine and sweet;

nor that friendly smile - gone for a while

replaced by a bitter tasting scowl.

Instead you should hold on

to what's relevant now

and the teeth that serve you best;

to chew and grind - but never merely to remind

as some torn and toothless trophy.

New Block

Laundry detergent invades the air, 

stifling the petrichor concoction

that collides with the swept leaves

discarded to the cobwebbed corner

where the puddles declare soles out of bounds.

Freshly baked biscuits stake their claim,

packaged neatly with plastic and ribbon 

but they too crumble to the scent

of disintegrating damp wood

burning black and iridescent red.

Smoke rises into the crepuscular sky

and is ushered away by the wind,

the fire crackles on as biscuits are opened

and freshly made beds are disturbed

as childish feet disturb leaf piles under amber glow.

Plunge

The breeze would gladly meet

her hesitant feet

as they cross and reach to the end.

Like great grinning teeth

the waves and rocks greet,

waiting to embrace their new friend.

Her earbuds dangle at her chest

faintly exhaling their best

eulogy for their oldest of friends.

She would feel blessed

to ride on that crest,

but that's not how this song ends.

She would see no hope

in that dangling rope

that offered to pull her to land.

Nor would she cope

with the strain of the grope

or the embarrassment of stretching her hand.

She'd wait for clouds to part,

her favourite song to start,

and then steady her now trembling hands.

Then she would brace her heart

and finally alone, she'd depart

thinking "This is living" as she lands.

Skydive

Life is a skydive, descending from heaven.

We see flashes of beauty, experience moments of excitement.

Some may feel safe to know they are in the hands of others

whilst some brave going it alone,

but all of it is a distraction

from the downwards spiral that starts

precisely when we realise we are falling

and ends only at our death.

Planes Mistaken For Stars

Planes mistaken for stars

and I thought I saw your car

take a sharp right

in the calm of the night.

I counted and gave them all stories

imagining their burning glories

but my dream was cut short

effectively taken off life support.

I thought that I'd have to wrench

myself from this bench

as the residents gazed

at a man alone and crazed.

So I slowly trudged my way

to a cage of bricks and dismay

to see your car there, parked

and the clouds had left the skies unmarked.

Tokyo Moth

The homeless man heard a knock at the door

and his obsidian drive

told him that he was alive.

Distracted like a moth in Tokyo,

he sought any form of light

in the bitter cold of night.

His wings fluttered from staircase to window

and found alleviation

in hazed radiation.

His weary rise and fall began to slow

on his back with hired support;

the only thing he'd ever bought.

Now, this moth only had one place to go

and fell into the lure

of artificial light impure.

The homeless man heard a knock at the door

and his obsidian drive

told him that he was alive.

A request

I'd request

just a single blade of grass

tossed into our furnace

to burn

like the wings of a butterfly

ensnared in a spider's web

but remain trapped in a field which,

though lush and green

stretching as far as

my arms reaching out to you,

snuffs out any spark

before I even strike flit to steel.

Copper Pennies

Christen my blood in your name as

I try to lick it clean. It tastes

mildly of copper pennies tossed

into the river and it will

sediment into the rocks, and

one day you will find copper-brown

stones at the base of the creek when

you leave me here to go swimming.

Chasing the feeling of it all,

I have to leave, return to that

creek on a summer night.

Pause where the water illuminates

the light of something lost within you.

Maybe we'll find it after all.

Renovation (Lucifer's Ascent)

Demons emerge from the ground

wrought from ruthless steel and concrete.

A decaying world under their shadows drowned,

their conquest nearly complete.

Grotesque forms grasp for the skies,

Heaven's territory is threatened.

The old from consumption dies;

its ancient breath deadened.

Soulless galleries of glass now stand

where once stood old forma proud.

Gone are days of beauty grande

replaced by a more maligned modern brand.

I Miss

I miss

the subtle rise and fall

of your back as you

inhale                      —                      exhale;

your lungs gently cradling

the oxygen that lulls

you to sleep.

I miss

being able to tuck your tangles

of hair behind your ears

my 'tips                      —                      touching;

gliding gently down your spine

then returning

to your skull.

I miss

the strand of stringed saliva

that slowly dances

from lips                      —                      to cheek;

as your open mouth

and your tight eyes

paint you in peace.

I miss

the confusion on your face

as your exhalation wakes

your dream                      —                      huh;

as you groggily ask

what has happened and

I giggle.

I miss

your sleepy protests as

the banshee alarm

blares                      —                      alerts;

it demands for us to greet

a new day and you demand

five more minutes.

I miss

the subconscious roll

towards my icy side of the bed

arms stretched                      —                      grasping;

pulling me closer as your

half-alert lips curl

into a contented smile.

Noctambulating

The thrill when

wandering the streets

in the dark

and passing another,

a walking shadow,

in total silence—

both thinking the same thought.

Lost in the solitude

of a lawless and loveless

drowse.

Merry Mess

A damp explosion
     blots to the bottom.
             Peeling erosion;
                     rancid and rotten.
            Daudling it drips;
     crusty and creased.
The page it dies—

                                                        the words

released

Dog at the Theatre (A Variance of Light)

Has there been a change in light

or have I just noticed your flaws?

The rays that break through the blinds

expose the state of your paws.

The clouds have opened like curtains

with the first act set to start.

The tale to put your tail between your leg

and I hope it's only the curtains set to part.

There's a wound you keep on licking

and put on display with pride.

I too have an ailment

but one that I'd rather hide.

Yet all you know is to whine and cry

not telling me what is wrong.

I try to second guess the story

from the tone of your song.

So I ask you to lie in your bed,

my voice stern yet with tact.

I calmly caress the crevice of your skull

and prepare you for the final act.

Compiled Details

As knowledge piles up in the brain

like a catalogue of sand

I wonder how it can conjure up

the meaningfulness of it all.

So many books, so many articles,

videos of album reviews lauded as classics

and the crawling through the criterion list.

Shapes noticed in marble tiles while

waiting in hospitals

and magazines in dentist offices.

Where does it all congregate and dance

and reconcile itself.

Surely not beneath the skull alone;

deeper in space it meets and gains

supra-significance.

There the matrices of experience and memory

and data sit at the table and indulge

in the same bitter stimulant

and laugh about it all

and here is significance gained?

The question itself is laughed away

as an interstellar breeze grazes the skin

of our star-spangled astral bodies

in the café of Jung's darkest abstraction.

Tree Cover Lover's Delight

Have you ever listened to nature?
Not sat in silence, daydreaming.
Not walking through, admiring.
Not distracted by handheld technology.
I mean really listened attentively.
It strikes me how harmonic it is,
the rise and fall; the unison and the grace.
Carefully planned out and ordered yet wildly unpredictable.
People worry about getting lost.
About straying too far from the path and finding themselves
somewhere where they are unfamiliar.
They are already lost; so far gone along
the path of bright lights
that the yhave forgotten where they want to go.

Nature and I have a meeting room
where we can converse uninterrupted.
She is compassionate to my industrial
self-distruction
and smogginess of mechaincal mind
and so I am careful to do my part
to ensure she doesnt befall the same fate.

I met her this week but I turned up late.

Bird Trap

I caught you in my trap,

little bird,

and now I let you go.

I long to see you spread your wings,

my love,

in magnificent full flow.

Haunted Skull

Echoes of hollow hate, I

haunt my soul. My

ennui is a blank slate upon which

I shade in the grey happenings of my

mind.

My mind, whose mundane oscillations

interest no one

least of all me-

the leaves are falling.

Falling, down into the pits

of my mind. Where

I conjure up a ghost of living;

hollow and morose.

Words in the Breeze

Decisions made

in the tree covered shade

where lovers ease

to words

that just the breeze

had heard.

An hour's slept;

the sun has leapt

through the cracks

to peer

where the ray still lacks

but near...

Buried in Creases

The stony hands of death

will surely grip me before

the creases in my forehead

grip my receding hairline,

but when you pass

and I have already been buried

rest assured my tombstone will weep for you

and wrinkles from smiling

and wrinkles from laughing

and wrinkles from thinking

and wrinkles from worrying

and in every crease there is you.

#TickingBoxes

Count the syllables

like the days during winter;

nod your head then die.

Referring to the Ending (The Day We Left)

Breathless breakfast; Brexit breaks it.

We'd almost roll off the tongue

if not for the ex in the middle,

just as I rolled in tangled sheets

sweating over just how much the nation

hates immigration.

The pendulum swings

right to left

and back, drawing your curves

in vicious inertia and either way

we're in the red.

A pan-European project to address—

to counter-progress—

technocratic anemia: ecological

catastrophes and economic imbalances

spotlighted by iPhone notifications

of myopic irritations,

beside your

Italian leather

Scandinavian bed

made by migrants to mimic

a heavenly cloud where

only you may lay your head.

Night Light

Shocking synapse barrage

weans a wary glance out the soul's windows

apple of the beholder's eye;

heart palpitations, away it goes.

Scalding black drink

innervate the weary soma

stimulate neither skull nor organs

Blind to dreams and desire, mental glaucoma.

Sweet synesthesia needle,

holy skin, mind wholly in trance

gnaw on God's flesh

and falter in his dance.

Rising lumen reflexes

further subdue subterranean sorrow.

Sensory blaze, pneuma to ash

vagrant drift to vapid tomorrow.

A Weapon Often Overlooked

R
 E
  M
   O                                                                              
    V                                                                                              SOCIETY.
     ESTABLISHMENT        :                                                 E
                                     O        DEMOCRACY'S                        S
                                    D        E                         L                       I
                                   A        E                         I                        R
                                 YOUTH                        P                        O
                                  .                                     P                        R
                                                                       I                         R
                                                                     N                        E
                                                                   GOVERNMENT
                                                                                                        

Universal System Attack

Fights are fought

until rights are bought

and then voices are lost

at free choice's cost;

so all facts are distorted

by who has reported

and who they've supported.

The Estranged Daughter

Less of a bridge over troubled water

but rotten crumbling boards and fraying ropes 

Mother Earth is estranged from her daughter

and the Father had abandoned all hopes.

So the child is left in the hands of thieves

blind to ill intentions of company kept,

for those with duty of care takes and leaves

the Father saw this and from afar wept

But he did not step in to intervene 

instead letting his child make her mistakes;

such was his effort to remain unseen

that he even missed visitation dates.

Daddy please return, and mend the bridge

I want to believe that you do still care

Daddy; a girl's on her knees making a wish

I need to believe that you could be there.

Sunset and Secrets

A splintered sunset in salmon skies

stuck in my paws which are rubbing my eyes.

Obfuscating bark parts to reveal

the dark of the woods til the next dawn will rise.

For now, owls perch on branches of teal,

sharing the secrets that night will conceal.

The morning fire kindles the smouldering shade

whilst phantom embers attempt to appeal.

And so in the day, more secrets are made

by that one star who refuses to fade,

yet the day also swears that he will not tell

as the trees protect light with their palisade.

And so time went in a coherent spell,

until the secrets spilt and the first tree fell.

Worms

Words will wagger,

I'll wager,

like weary worms in earth.

I've heard your counter-

arguments

but cannot see their worth.

They are embroiled

in dirt

and hide within their hole.

Yet if we unearthed

enough worms

I'm sure it would take its toll.

Ticking Away

This starts

as something

something so slight

                                                                     until caught by                                                            time

and is caught by the night

until it departs

without warning

and it is

over.

A Change of Light

Has there been a change in light

or have I just noticed your flaws?

The rays that break through the blinds

expose the state of your paws.

Yet under the guidance of the lamp

you needn't have a bath;

squeaky clean with a saccharine smile

and I can't help but laugh.

Caution

The boards, once tightly bound and bolted

are broken and creak under my weight;

I don't avoid their rotting route

but leave my fall in the hands of fate.

The soles of my shoes are faded

and present a hazardous chance to slip;

I don't choose appropriate footwear

but I do a dance to avoid the dip.

Seven Years

More dishes pile—

more to-do lists undone.

Shout away shade

and scrape out the muck.

Never forget to smile

and try to have fun 

before the mirrors, their shards

and with it all the years of bad luck.

Loss

Synthetic and coarse,

a wild untamed horse.

An indigo glow

with nowhere to go;

slow narrow lanes—

Meetings and migraines.

Pay at the pump

Clinton or trump—

the new fire or ice;

a roll of the dice

and the score is low...

An Indigo glow

—a wild untamed course—

the world shows no remorse