On the horizon we
stand
gripping the rails,
honour fading like
sand
folding the sails.
Some might say we
cling
to the land
hearing the wails,
few of us will
understand,
fearing before
end,
all and each
in one command.
Feeling the nails,
earth’s reprimand -
Gaia, tipping scales -
against the firebrands
moving veils
beyond our hands,
and she demands,
we must not
fail.

Stabbed in the head and left for dead
the local paper said - that’s what I read -
a man without a bed, on and on he bled
and I am led to fear these roads we tread.

He was kicked in the gut - punch-drunk cut
no reason nothing but - just lowlife in a rut
like name-called sluts with doors tight shut -
we must ignore such brutish unkind strut.

But carved in the street and left for meat?
Where cold rats meet with no retreat,
this man you’d never greet, now stains on cold concrete,
and fear remains, beneath my feet.

He, was, sliced through his head
cleft and dead, Redtop newsprint screwed and fled -
DID YOU HEAR? what I just read?
This man without a bed, on and on, he bled
and I am led to dread these roads we tread.

Only on the edges of the edge
do you truly feel alive.
so said the brutish soul
grubbing through the mud and oil
spitting blood and drowning
low in anger flood.
sneering at the lonely stride
the boneless trudge
the spineless push
towards the vacant ledge
steps like aimless grudges bent
before a shameless judge
the honey thieves are out of breath,
and chicken sad with thoughts of death.
one push on and they’re all gone,
one turn back and everyone
survives.

You snuck
water into wine
yet I tasted finest
merlot lipstain red
sipped like wasted sundays
spent in bed diluted thoughts
all with never minds
and mixed-up oughts
gone to hazy what the hells
drinking in some lazy things you said
I agreed
you took
the treble from the chimes
made me waste the wise
words and songs unsung
tuned down to lose the race
with touches plumed
from fluted noughts
old nature lost to dust
and yes it’s wrong to stifle bells
and hearing this your wragged scrape
I watched
you charm
the sleepers into life
unchaste and then declined
red dresses unto nervous creed
unzipped with patient haste
with sneaky lightning down
from threaded skies
teasing ground and then
goodbye.
For calm of dread
and dread of more than lies
for arms to lead me now
and leading me to finalise
I must conclude, you are the King
of compromise.

Bring on the trumpets
that’s what I heard
so she said to us stood
in the corridor like edges
each like a continent.
without joining,
we paused
we saw her smile
that’s what we saw.
saw the smile moving
spreading like a silk parachute
stretched below moonlight.
without moving
we applaud.
I thank no-one
who thinks I am no-one
but maybe she means more to me
more than just this memory,
flying a kite just got harder -
and who wants fists of twine?
Without thinking
I’ll move on.

Words
are warriors
let them ride
over mountain’s teeth
let them climb
let them leap
like ghosts over the dunes
over sands and traditions
raised against ignorants
peeling skin of sycophants
mouth breathing falsehoods
with dead machines
only numbers describe
but never heal.
Words are warriors
let them run
between fallen honours
let them charge
let them roar
loud amidst the halfwits
with their door sniggering
doomed meat stares
never seeing stars.
Let them loose
among the dumb and damned
let them out
let them free -
speak to the idiots
line dancing in blood.
Shred ropes of shock and awe
before ask and lust for more.
Dead must be hypocrasy
and words must fight.
Now stop the war.

Doubt

rains down

like hunger creed

false smiling me.

White noise

tired eyes -

mumble handed

wails

all minded in ignorance.

Dread and burning sand.

Last breed’s last cry,

second best last try.

Don’t let it last.

Make it,

Stop.

All human life is here,
And the water doesn’t mind.
Young wavemakers in laughter,
Mothers below the wash,
Fathers sucking stomachs in.
And the water doesn’t mind.
It doesn’t mind the chemicals
The toddler piss, the heated hiss
It doesn’t heed the constant churn
Of carefree souls that never learn.
All human life is passing through
Equal skin in belly of pool.
Dabbling playful shallow,
Daring deepest end,
Darkest unknown floor.
And still the water
Does not mind.

What they had is gone,
And all I feel is blankness.
Numbed like some medicated fool
Avoiding their wretched reality.
It’s not indifference or avoidance though -
I suspect it to be more a kind of odd guilt,
Like a fog that pities the landscape
But nonetheless must smother the light below.
Something IS there, but must not be seen,
Something is aware, but nust not be known.
All they had is gone and I’m numb again.
With hollowness, with vague intent
Writing to you under
Postcard-dry skies.
What else can
I do?

Eat for the hungry,
for they cannot feed themselves,
then swim for the dust-bowl kids,
who crane to catch the water drops.

Be stylish for the ragged dressed
in sun-bleached *ethnic* clothes,
and laugh out loud for desolate hearts
who know not love nor family.

Run free for the stumbling ones
when they cannot leave the dirt,
you can wake and smell the roses
for sake of sewered folk and down.

Speak joy for these muted souls,
Rest serene for all their wearied toils.
Then sip tea and watch it all, on your TV
(for those with no electricity).

Between the coffee and the chocolate
that’s where we will be -
checking out, before the check-out,
eyeing basket tell-tailed groceries.
Our non touch dance without romance,
and furtive glance of no demand.
A flirtation, so subtly voiced
between the heaving aisles.

He is grinning,
Like a coldwax peach
Curled and constant,
On guard like a twisted
Forever-slept dog
Or a sleepover sigh
Echoing daydream
Stilted night.
They’ll be
No melting of this
Strange wax though,
No turn that breaks
The seal of time
Stood high upon
His rough hewn
Armature.
He grins,
Because of will of us
Who traipse to watch,
Along the path
That never wavers,
That never arcs
Like aspic oxbow
Frozen flow.
A thousand, thousand
Footsteps seek and feel
With tread and weary romp
Of seeded needs.
All buried deep
He holds his poise
Then contemplates
Why it is that he alone,
Should be the one
Who smiles.

This one’s for the quiet ones,
The ones who sit and wait -
The people leaning at the back
Depended on to take the slack.
This one’s for the mild souls,
The some who stir no wave -
The some preferring calm
To seas not yet as plotted brave.
To reticent hearts, to those
That softly speak - go prideful
In hushed guile and gentle leap,
Over paths on which you seek.

The water cries
Through bloated hands
Outstretched to catch
The slamming doors
That one by one
Undo their hold.
They, the nailed souls
Pummelled and bent
Now held below
Like corroded pins
In ocean’s spill
Bleached and sunk
And stilled in fall.
Waiting for the hammer
and its weary call.

We sleep and live in boxes,
drive to work in cubes on wheels
then we settle in our cubicles
and stare at cornered squares.

THIS space is not contained.

They see the devil riding
Dead ivy that clings
An inkblot weathered,
In climb over cold stone.

Insidious in ascent - like
Musty damp on the rise above
The otherworld, where urban wands
Spew roots to dusty tenement clinch.

Look upon the spoilt concrete vanity
Flourishing in this city of hasty rise
Watch impatient fall, and wonder.
What do you see?

Only the heated pins of questioning
Can melt this wax figured spin
That denies the state we’re in.

Muting the padded batteries of flattery
To begin the ritual Voudoun dance
Of trance to Legba’s altered flags.

Raise them high on the air of denial!

Do you see the Shadow Man?

He hopes for change.

O’ angry insects.
I hear the crunching of wood
as your battle destroys my house.
You have descended on me through dark skies,
shared with enemies blood-feuded,
intent on the ways of the hive.
Why do you battle so?
Your blueprint is of no difference,
scratched out by a wretched swarm,
no variegation in design.
Struggling adversaries of the wing,
fury is not our syllabus,
and your ignorance in myriad,
is not mine.

Battering against the glass,
like newsprint blown,
across a barricade.
Bruised and endless vexed,
wings denied their want.
As landscape for the eye,
this struggle for seen and known,
is noble like a sand cliff,
yet futile as fragile shore.
One thousand heartbeats lost,
pulsing a plaintive lighthouse call,
to whitewater beyond.

Why do we toil,
twixt the furrow and brow,
working human soil,
with a broken plough.

Why do we graft,
life and employ,
such guileless craft,
with little to enjoy.

Should not we fashion,
our own self worth,
based on passion,
rather than convenient berth?

Should not we strive,
for new ways and free,
thoughts to a life,
not travailing debris?

Yet still we build,
these needful foundations,
just adequately skilled,
and a numb generation.

We are all,
but grains of sand falling,
through a child’s hand.

Draining through,
a sieve of fingers,
hauled by forces,
not within us.

Humbled,
at our hurtle down,
and trembling,
as we strike the ground.

We are reclaimed,
as land for sea,
and tide to take,
our destiny.