Plummet

Children sitting on the cliff edge, examining

the ebbing tide,

tossed pebbles first, then flowers.

The flowers floated;

the children sank.

Wade

Wave-licked

with thigh-rolled jeans he had strode

out to where the sea catches its breath,

forgetting the electronical device in his pocket.

And in that wind-plucked foam, 

made a father-pose,

though no sandal'd tussock bug rolled the dunes

waving the prize of a perfect wooden pistol,

and the shore was repeatedly planed clean,

clear of all gust battered figures.

The Noise That You'll Hear...

The hollow crash of waves on sand

is behind me.

now the sun, through sand,

sears my feet callused.

from sand to stone,

from stone to grass,

and home.

My skin glows like a coal.

I can still hear the water

as sleep slowly follows.

Sequestration at Sea

My aimless heart dances atop a tide-free ocean

with no pull to bring him to shore.

I know that he does not mind being at sea

but my mind's not as sure anymore.

I can't decide if I'm more frightened at getting stranded

or that it's what I hold deep within my will.

You see, at heart I am still a buoy

who is destined to stay innocently still.

With luck, I will be led to safety by a lighthouse

and arrive at your body of land.

A life spent avoiding being on the rocks

might prevent me caressing the sand.

So I will concentrate on making my life a speck

barely seen by hostile telescopes.

I will sail as far away as I can

then drop the anchor and cut the ropes.

Spun

The spider hung grotesque

upon his palace made of string.

My palace shuts out all the light

his trembles in the wind.

The maxim goes that I am strong

and he is weak and thin.

Yet here he sits, an emperor. And I am yet to spin.

Masquerade

Insincerity is society's greatest hypocrisy

and I cannot stomach the illusion.

A plethora of prepared pleasantries

to choke on in calculated confusion.

So spare me the sycophantic simpering,

complimented with a soap opera smile.

Remove the mechanical masquerade that custom has made

and display your human hatred without guile.

Estuary and the Ebbing Light

Forget my thoughts floating down the river,

let the bank pick up stray reeds and algae

like an unrestrained dog owner with boundless and bundling

love. Let there be darkness,

allow the mouth to open up and pour brackish water

into a grey pool of jagged generations.

Clasp the sky's air, wiggle your dirty toes,

splash your knees, sing to the birds, tell my thoughts

to stop swimming upstream, where they might

find the source to be furiously underwhelming.

Night Shames

Composing conversations

in my head

with the ideal conclusions

to relieve dread.

But what I can construct

within a thought

is never completely construed

the way it ought.

And so I must recompose

with blushing shame

a peripheral panicked past

penned to my name.

Routine

Tiptoes traverse the muddy trail,

heeding not the heavy heels

which hinder their tender tread.

Rhythmic rapid repetition

through foliage fair and frail,

each steely sinew anneals

to a thorough structured thread.

Rhythmic rapid repetition

must eventually derail

from the salubrious appeals

of the constant path ahead...

Helicoid

Sunday's splintered sunlight

punctures panicked moments

that the mind construes as truth.

A subconscious retelling

of Monday's mundane memory

that manifested in my youth.

The authentic narrative

from a nebulous night

in a morphinic stream

is surrendered seconds

of a worn-out waking life

wound up in last year's dream.

The Mystique has been Lost

The mystique has been lost—

paper print-outs replace

the palpable ticket of card complete with a shiny seal,

now scanned lazily and discarded,

the mystique has been lost.

The mystique has been lost—

seen through a plethora

of phone screens capturing the same pixelated images,

to share to more indifferent, unseeing eyes,

the mystique has been lost.

The mystique has been lost—

a predetermined set

readily available to be previewed on the Internet,

playing only the most $ucce$$ful hits,

the mystique has been lost.

The mystique has been lost—

and through the sea

of vexatious tropes from a diluted, stagnating scene

that the Internet age has brought

the mystique has been lost.

The mystique has been lost—

and yet the music has not.

#Ink

Carve something graceful

into my chest meaningful;

so to kiss and clench.

Crossed Paths

There is a saccharine romance,

a scenario spoiled by chance

when passing by a stranger

known only by a smile and glance.

And so the sweetness is subdued

to its lonely circumstance,

in a crossing of dreamy eyes

which can both beguile and entrance.

Both parties go separate ways

whilst their minds skip, hand in hand

both pondering what could have been

if confidence had more command...

The Changing of Guard

Waves peel away the pebbled sheets

on the maritime mattress,

folding gently towards the foot

of the ocean bed.

The dawn sun rises

at the dusk of the lunar reign.

The bed is freshly made

to be slept in again.

Dishwater

Ink ingrained into the palm of my hand,

a furtive reminder;

now here—

subtle enough to be washed away.

Sunshine Under Lock

The morning mist

makes way for afternoon bliss

that the month must miss.

But the early bloom

and her serotinious moon

cannot come too soon.

The Breadth that Breathes Between Strangers

There is a breadth that breathes

between strangers,

it is what predicates them.

Born in the bloom of hostility

in a dewy-eyed spring,

it bears no rational prejudice.

Yet we send our souls to slaughter

of stuffy summer petulance;

even a breadth can be confining.

Floating Above Water

You approached like a red balloon
against the cerulean sky,
carving your certain way through the clouds
to catch my  sun-spotted eye.

I tried to avoid your burning gaze
hearing of the damage that could be done
but nervous glances downwards met
the placid reflection of the sun.

My tense disposition knew one way
to maintain an amiable shade,
so I smiled into the ripples
of all the paths that I have made.

Then I stretched up on to my toes
reaching your form with a pin,
and hearing the pop I closed my eyes
to immerse myself within.

Above the Motorway

I see vehicles parked on bridges over motorways.

I wonder if it's an unmarked police car

measuring the velocity of careless crimes

or a lost soul contemplating their final act.

I'm sickened at which my instincts would prefer.

Surrounded

The dissonant swarms

are surrounding again

inside my head.

Inside my head,

swarming my thoughts,

they surround me again.

Where can I escape

when they are in me?

I can't escape

this part of me.

Each snapping jaw drones

and my neck snaps to look.

I'm lost again

back in my self dug rut.

Undulated Dew

Silence—

as deep as an ocean,

seems to end our spring song too soon

until soft warmth

drips

off your roscid lips

and sends ripples across the room.

Wild Dance

Whistling winds whip away at withered leaves

coercing them to sway and dance

into an invisible ballet,

like a stringless ventriloquist.

Airy and wispy, the strength amazes me

and I feel myself pulled

by nothing

towards nowhere

but on and on

nonetheless

and I wonder what allows

such a boisterous wraith

to wreak havoc on the elderly residents.

Angry turbulence and resentful gusts

I fight against on all vectors

trotting on myopic as a mule

saddled in dignity.

I ignore the dancing leaves

and pierce through the medium

like an arrow through flesh

and I continue through the contiguous solution,

heeding none of its warnings

of an immensity unseen

and far too visible,

and march on triumphant

only to be left dancing in the current

along side the foliage

I once ignored,

and hated.

Sawdust on the Wire

Here it is, that feeling.

Starting at the centre of my sternum,

where I keep store my solemn secrets.

The same scene floods back.

Starting at the centre of my sternum

and, working their way up to my brain,

the same scene floods back;

sawdust on the wire.

Working their way up to my brain,

the new pills soon take effect.

Sawdust on the wire

dissolves in the synapse.

The new pills soon take effect.

Here it is. That feeling

dissolves in the synapse,

where I keep store my solemn secrets.

Spillage

Nobody realises how much they piss

until they aim into a pint glass

and now all that I'm left staring at

is another sentimental spillage

that my body's cell can't sustain.

The Final Stretch

A variegated verdure of tendril-like veins

vesuviate their stillatitious sudor.

Sweat sweeps down sinew strengthened trunks

with each strident stride; with each replanting of the roots,

engraving an ephemeral power

against the pot-holed pavement.

Natures' tempest, with its own truculent power, contends each giant step—

torrid torrents transfluent to the fluent pounding.

Yet each droplet,

each beat,

each step

fades...

until the spirited spurt of a storm with home in its sight

reaches the final

S        T        R         E         T         C        H.