May
your roads
run straight
& your wheels
stay true
may you never
run late
with much
to do
may you step up
to the plate
from the back of the
queue
may you shoulder
all the weight
that bothers you.
You are nearer
than you know
to the fate
you always
knew.

Mice and men and lunatics
trying hard to do their thing
best intents within their skin
like clocks that click and clack
and loudly voiced they trickle back
like once upon a time ago
they must attend the helm,
so proudly rushed they go
their choices never realised
selling time to you and I -
enclosed and overwound,
but coiled and set to spin
towards, the sky.

What use am I?
against the flood,
against the very rise
of blood
what use am I?
against the sludge,
against these tides
that judge
what use am I?
This question,
shall be use
enough.

Yes
you could deny
these slipping nights
but at your peril.
Counting stars does not
bring the sky any closer
and there is no meaning
in the inevitable,
You cannot slow this down.
Let it all go. Accept the flow.
Yes, you may be thinking about
the edge of the universe.
the end of knowing
but even here,
something
happens
next.

These are not waters to try to swim in,
these are waters to learn to swim in
These waters bring an undertow,
and push and flow we learn to know.

Again, begin.

“Edit out the Swans!”
low-moans the bass clarinet
too loud to move
the slider.

And down she went.

Edited.

“Too white,
I want more mood-
we have products to promote
without distraction,
edit out those Swans”

You knew didn’t you?
You made a bargain
back then.

And on she went,
like a fox chasing the coop
like bones crunching bone

“Pull down that moon
it spoils the view -
crop it and crop it,
cut it and paste it,
we must sell soon,
re-edit those Swans”

Edited.

Her overbearing pounce,
trampling motives -
scattered lost in flight,
the antonyms of you.
Hear this now;

“Let tweezers fall
forget your teaser’s call
do not regret this all.”

And tiny eyes mean tiny minds,
and tiny minds mean tiny lives,
and you don’t have to edit,
anymore.

Heads up
it’s a bad moon day
I woke up late
teeth like slate
must be all
the stress I ate
think I’ll choose
another fate
a bell was wrong
the clock was wrung
to zombie state
each crawling heart
and every beat
a guess
too late
and now I want
another gate,
heads up
six-thirty’s eight
and truths can’t wait
like chess piece bait
I want to leave
this course debate
my skin is stung
the locks stay strong
on habit’s hold
too late -
head’s up!
I’m fighting
but without hate
this bad moon day -
I’ll change
my way.

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.

There’s a big thing I have to do
Can’t say too much but it’s time,
time to be a grown-up for awhile
if I hold my breath for long enough
everything might just be O.K
Tomorrow could be different
the toys of life could be in their trays
and I might learn about responsibility -
practice process before ways.
It’s very introspective of me isn’t it?
Thinking, thinking this might interest you
expecting you to understand this too
but I wanted you to know
there’s a big thing I have to do.

This is for you.
I know you can do it
stop worring about the loose stuff
whirling around the baggage
hold of your head
forget, forget
for - get!
yes, they’re all so … comfortable
yes, pretty their skin shines
but yes,
you can stop watching.
It’s all pretend -
just show me someone
who isn’t scared
deep down!
Take a photograph
frame the circumstance you see
print it in your mind and hold this
in your heart.
This is for you.

All these
things to do
these things to count
these things to throw away
to say, to shout, to laugh,
to argue all about
can’t we just write
these dumb things down?
all the breaths
we’re letting go
without regard
for things
we need to do
we can stop this
in its tracks
stop this waste
the time that spins
the moments
sparing dullness
all these worries
all these sighs
we should just agree -
write this stuff down
park tired things
but keep them safe.
We need
a list.

This one’s in the key of blue.
Fellas, are you with me too?
These words are going out for you
and this one’s in the key of blue

No long-necked bottles left to stand
no diamonds resting in the sand
know me, no you - you’ll understand
I’ve got the mic and a kick-ass band.

And this one’s in the key of blue.
The other keys? I know too few
and this is for the moody crew
that’s why it’s in the key of blue.

No happy end to what I’ve planned
no smiling fools at my command
just me and threads in which to stand
and mic in hand and kick-ass band.

So this one’s in the key of blue
yeah this one’s in the key of blue
these words are going out for you
hear me wailing, lonesome, true.

I am afraid
my wings are useless
can’t you see them flapping?
I am aimless.
For all your honeydew
I am toothless too,
maybe … maybe because
I carried on so shamelessly.
But nobody told me
I would become
quite so ruthless -
with tongue to stamen greed
gnawing, so furiously.
Dark pollen clings tight
to a truthless heart,
like blackfaced moths
clinging onto midnight.
And I am earthbound now -
for all your curiousity.
Just watch me,
shuffling,
on.

This is a slippery slope
no roots or shoots to grope
no emergency rope and on
the face of it there is so little hope
that’s what I see
through this narrow periscope
now, I’ll shut my stupid trap
and cope.

this stuff we’ve been breathing in
same old, same old back and forth
tired molecules dragging feet
enough! - we’ve been here before
don’t suck and take this all for granted
I think we’ve forgotton the difference
between a scent and a stink
this huff our chests now heave -
moans of mild irritation or worse
so stale is our brightness of intent
and gone the whistle of being alive
even vibrations we don’t feel
look - it’s as clear as day outside
there’s a million miles of wind
and the sky has invited us
why not run the hill and turn
blow murmerstone and undertow
we should be rolling like rounded chalk
down hillforts and lazy tracks
where whispers never still
letting cracking groans and pleas
be rough vapors blasted free
and to nature’s tether, heaving in
gently calling sighs to laughing breeze
together sharing what we all share
no room for dried up truths
we now must leave -
we need more air.

You don’t
want to feel
like a flea
on the tail
of a dog.
You don’t,
but that’s
how it
is.

You know not
what to feel -
fight or flee,
watch or fall -
through graspless fog
of you know not.
This is just
how it
is.

You mustn’t fear
now tumbling you -
now scared, of all
the shocks.
You mustn’t feel
this way you feel.
This is the way -
it is.

Don’t stitch the sail
if stitching torn-past shreds.
Thus spoke blunting patched cloth,
all to worrymen and woe.
No stitch the sail!
Wish now for wonder wind!
This spoke parchment wings
curled and needing crystal thread.
Don’t speak, don’t speak at all
is what the needle
said.

Shut up, cut the cord
From you to a future come
Stretched but sanguine too.

What makes them so special?

They can fly, yes.
They can flash like jewels in summer, yes.
So what, that they flit with beauty’s charm.

We can do all these things too.
We can, you know (but perhaps you do not).
And anyway, who is to say that when we die
we don’t all come back as butterflies?

And such thoughts should not be left
just to the melancholy of you and I.

Ah yes, you and I …
at each end of the line - pulling against
our doubts and fear like brutes in tug of war -
not knowing without wings we can fly.

You
lit the fuse inside
and were the muse beside
quelling bruise and cry of tide
never refusing or denied.
Oh how you skewed my pride
and continued to deny -
no use for us to try
or choose as we
not I.

Even a champion will sometimes find
situations that conspire to defeat ambition.
Contained maybe, by wrapped circumstance -
a soul in crinkled hold - in darkened fold
exhausted by the walls that sap his will,
that suck the air that starves the light.
Trapped, in a brown paper bag - scrunched and
dirty bunched, held tight in fate’s hand.
And he has tumbled in with bruises
and sweaty fists that push against
the muted thing he dreads to know.
Even champions will tire.

Stop rooting around
and gazing at the finery.
Stop staring at the bottom
of the bin they’ve put you in.
You’re worth so much more
than those wailing sighs,
and blodshot nights,
that bruise your heart
in awkward fight.
Don’t you understand?
There is noble majesty
in the darkest maggot bowl -
burning bright and lighting
rusted scrape and tin,
and meaning so much more
than other unkind souls
will ever mean to me.

Can you run faster than the truth?
Can you catch it in your hands,
And throw it back to us?
Strike the bullseye!
Split the apple!
Storm the ramparts!
We all have targets
in our hearts.

Caught you are
By your own invention.
That thing for which you previously cared.
Stuck you’ve become on the tangle side
Cat’s cradle threaded over hands with no thumbs,
Tripping steps through mask room of fate
Now resounding for someone else -
Someone you don’t know
(Or never knew).
Someone,
Never,
You.

It’s mine now.
I found it,
and you didn’t miss it
until I told you
where it was.
If it was yours,
how come you
didn’t care
for it before?
You can’t
have it back now -
this thing needs
unreserved attention.
Anyway,
you shouldn’t
have thrown
it away.

Damn these currents that drag you down
and pull against the muddy rocks -
you don’t deserve such atrophy.
Spun and untoward in turbulence
that batters and crushes hope,
where gulps become swallow
of vile stew in which you sink.
My friend - just remember
to hold your breath, and kick
against this cruelest pull -
and you may again swim
toward the shallows.

Don’t tell me
what you want
me to say,
or show me
what you want
me to see.
Don’t mark
the path
that I’m
not on,
or ask
what you
already
know.
Have you
forgotton
to remember?
I’m not that
dumb.

Don’t stop,
and don’t look back.
Every day has possibilities
for something new, something majestic
amongst the drudgery - a shining hope
glistening with flare of optimism’s flame
burning like magnified sun.

I’d prefer to be seated
when you give me the news.
Is that O.K? I know it’s coming,
I’ve seen the signs you see -
the struggled smiles,
the cutting sighs,
the hunch of compromise.
Just so you know,
it wasn’t that I didn’t
care or try, it was more a case
of feeling paralysed.
I knew full well of my neglect -
the wonderful you I did forget
whilst focussed on the wanderful me.
Oh how vain, to think alone like that
not to reckon on a more co-operative life.
To rush ahead ignoring my second heart
that sang, then spoke, then whispered
but now is quietened by dulled regret.
And yes, this is all my fault and I know,
it’s time to come to terms with you,
who thinks of ending things,
whilst I prefer to sit.

Afterwards.
Breathing more,
tired bones re-aligned
from hunched disposition.
Inside, the curl of change
like snapping chains
and knots untied -
teased threads undone,
winter ribbons
frayed by afterwind.
In knowing
all is even now -
no fractured sleep
or shuddered night
to steal the soul,
pour freedom’s gold
in leaden mould.
Now gone choked days,
and shutter eye nights
forgotten mutterings,
of chipped-cog cries,
all but silenced now.
Through defiant eyes,
stare straight on
past tense, past all -
see your toils spent
in preparation,
for this event.

Away palid sirens
And playground harpies
That tease and clutch
Your unworn soul.
Begone such cruel bringers
Of growth’s nag and poke
And innocence ground
In circumstance beyond.
Forget their shrill voiced
Cries and winsome pangs
And crack’d tears -
And shudderings of age.
Be strong, my quiet one
Though humble and bruised
Still, like a first fallen pear
Brave in dawn-lost day.
You give wind to us
Amidst doubter’s lull
Becalmed by spite
But pushed along.

Begone
this stab through skin
and blood towed heart.
This nagging spike of doubt
that strikes and cracks
the gentle well.

It screeches
like cocktail spite
through quiet now unsteady calm,
Scratching edges, stealing entrance
to the wonderful secrets
that are you.

I was thinking about you
All your things in readiness
Held in a drawstring bag
Clutched like pearl and trove
in netted treasure sack.
You, looking so … little
And scared in the blue
Of losing cool and shine
Of forgetting who you are
At the mercy of cold hands
Lying passive and waiting -
How like a fish jumped
Into strange waters!
Minutes rising, countdown’s pull,
Of meeting bloodied dark
Of growing fate through stir
And current that tugs and calls
Like black queen crawfish
Moving in a mystery game.
How cruel such creatures are
That make me think of you,
Sifting the night sounds
Tossing and turning but not moving
Stilled beneath cutting sheets
Of ripple click and midnight tuck
Of care that feels like harm,
Pin-dropped cold in the pool
And drifting, where no-one knows.
But yet, I think of you
And time rushes as if water
Flowing free the crusted hold
A return to whom you know
In joy of being - of belonging
Back to friendship’s spoils
And the untethered laughter
Of good times swirling endlessly
Like unhooked river trout
Playing in whitewater smile.
I was thinking about you, and know
You will race the stream again.

Please know that yours is not a lost cause.
You will sidestep these horrid, barren gulleys
These concerns ascending though purity’s tears
From here, you will climb still further
Up, through the mist toward sky’s veil
Where some have fallen, and some have paused
Amongst stalagmites chiselled by unkind wind
You will smile at ancient lichen etched in quartz
You will face cold stone’s grimace and find anchor
Beyond knowing and the known, beyond today
Beyond tomorrow and life’s tremulous hold.
There is always the memory of you.

There, he walks,
towards night polished floors
and fluorescent halls
with open cradled hands
waiting for something more.
His restless sauntering,
from pine-tree car to neon door,
clasped by shocked moon air
through nostrils clipped
like moth-winged frost
and cigarettes.
No-one sees anyone here,
that’s why he comes.
For here is calmed
by nothing more than
pale coffee spills
and empty echo calls -
no distracted solitaire
in this abandoned whale hall.
There is just enough to see
but not enough to hear,
of white noise elevated
above daylight residues
in silent bench and bell.
And now he sits quietly,
like an actor ruminating
over a difficult audition -
re-running all the things
that should be said.
Bottom floor - lowest level,
baggage claim - thinking…
among the reverbed booths.
His question spot -
where confusions disappear,
beyond polite knowing glance
and hollow announcements.
Beyond the awkward entourage
of worry and complication.
Here, just him and the night staff,
invaluable backstage helpers all
moving the props in readiness
for tomorrow.

We cling
to the wreck
of our respect
both scared
to venture beyond
the broken island
on which we stand.
Steady, but churlish
on the currents
like tiny splinters
in gulley hold
of waited roar
and waves compelled
to driftwood claim.
Us, craving foothold
on the fading shore.

There must be more than dust
and footprints marking chalkfoot climb.
Onto bent leaf trail and belly of hills
who views the haloes of seeds you plant,
who knows their downwind bloom?

You have grown along the way
soil scratched and tilled with mannered care,
stamped contoured paths for those not near
the remembered first stepped falls
of youth alone that dare not yield.

So pause to raise a harvest high,
hold up trophies found for all to spy -
be prideful in what your shoulders bear
then turn, towards the rise
where you head now.

Ride the wind,
above tip toe ice
below a snowblind sun.

Quieten the roar
of pin drops
in the waterfall.

Whistle on flames
of lava mound
then, drink the rain.

You are fearless.

You want something. Faster, more lucid -
real moments that are sharp, not blurred.
The slippage of mortality is rushing you,
like wind to a candleflame at the start
of its final gleam and flicker.

Oh, she is the damnation of me.
Letting me taste from the cup,
but taking it away before I sip.
I am just a blind man crashing
through the glass factory of her,
opening box after box, but never
finding the steel-lipped chalice.
She pulls me in. Like a sand-yacht
on a windless day, hauled across beach
by the angry parent of a sulky child.
I am trying to finish a jigsaw; peeling
edges not quite straight and middle gone.
Why did she take the missing piece?

Balanced on cotton thread
with arms aloft - struggling
to catch each word
wishing for the night-latched birds
of tissue bed and sleeping soft,
and back to life normality.

She says;
“Come, fly to me”.

Me, so proud
of your fortitude
despite the pain.

You, grown up
beyond your years
strong with hope.

Let me help
with all these
nasty horrid things.

Are you truly a fool?

Or just prodding,
the ant-heap of argument
for the sake of it?

Why do you enjoy watching
your up-ended antagonisms
falling out?

For sure, you stoke
the steam of despise and spoil,
but where you go - ego flags.

What is the point of you?
Your tools are blunt, but
they won’t cut through my paper.

Well, I’ve clicked my heels
and I know.

You are nothing more
than a tiny grey grotesque
pulling the easy levers behind
the fake wizard grimace of
an intimidating mask.

The fallen trees
of who you were
hiding from today
are now an angry dam
holding back the roar and flow
where should be stream
and gulley tempered gleam.

The things you said
just tiny matchsticks in the swhirl,
or riverdust in the swell.
Like helpless ants in the water -
massed behind the downhill pull.

Worry is the purest form of prayer
a mantra in the grey of wavering
the voiced meter of our concerns
quoting the prophets of doubt.

These channels are too shallow
to catch this entire granularity
spilled from rippled fall.

Dug out by tired hands that fail
to grasp the strong downhil pull
of all they want to be and do.

The intent of tomorrow should be syphoned
from the silted discontent of today.
O’ will that gravity take care of such
complex and introspective activities!

Only then, might we find diamonds
within the lucid edged furrows
of cool clearwater’s flow.

Someone told me
you were once a bird
that forgot how to land.
With restless wings that ached
to leave steadiness of earthly hands.
In flighted glide (you said) because you knew
that our fitful ways were not for you.
But now, your night and spiralled tan
lights up the room in which I swoon
bewitched - by fleeting flash of interested eyes,
all perch and hold succumbed to slipstream touch.
Someone told me that you were once a bird that forgot how to land.

Now I understand.

You’ve let someone in
like a tame fox gone
bad, wild in your head -
rattling the cage of you.
The harder you shake, the
more you’ll feel grizzled
by the persistence
of their snarling way.
Leave them to run. Let
them tire, let them calm -
you’ll only get rid when
their resistence has gone.

There is no oil in the milk
of this coincidence, for you.
Chaperoned by the purity
of chance to read this now.

Words connect like the errant
stars you count - one by one.
But do you see all the silver
threaded textile sewn of night?

This shy reclusive truth you seek,
a search for comfort of whole.
All but the dullest pebble found
on the solitary basalt shores of now.

There’s a crazy kid trying to skim
stones across the ocean towards
somewhere they once were.
Tell them to move on.

I saw the red steam rising
and thought of ways to circumvent
the climbing vapour of your despise.
A means to stop the angry mist
from settling on unlucky souls
like acrid, airborne aerosol.
But shoots of spray stay powerful
no pressure drop - or cause to stop
when flow is locked and discharge blocked.
You need to learn, to slowly turn
and open up the valve.

I see you wrenched by the grip of the current,
prised from your leap by a false aperture,
no more enough to hope, yet just enough to strive.
How can I tell you about the whole of this?
Of joyous return to the source,
and time’s circle - of journey resolved?

I fear for you wretched in the moment,
gaze fixed unerring against the spite of the water,
constantly onward and pummelled by backward flow,
How can you guess at the end of this?
Of still blue pools and nature calmed,
and yearning end?

I’ll promise you something.
Your broken skin, rock-scratched and scarred,
badge and bruise of mortal toil worn,
in end, a fated hurt embraced.
Let it flow, let it all wash away.

Pity your eyes.
They have seen too much, but not enough.
Cross eyed stare - lost gazed across the row,
seeing detail in the detail but not the canvas.

Damn your hands.
They have felt, but do they touch?
Rough as sinew thread - hardened by ages sun,
cotton reeled and fretted like driftwood.

Curse the silence.
You do not hear, what could be said.
Murmer lost in shout - plaintive soft,
in the darkness of the quiet.

I praise your heart.
A coda strong and truthful,
still not adrift - nor blooded witness sea,
to life overflowed.

Your heart still lives, and can be heard.

(For Squirt, an old Trucker.)

Man! It’s a heavy load to haul,
that worry under tow,
with all your gearing slow,
you are speeding to crawl.

A challenge that you know,
is troublesome to call,
engine burred against a wall,
destination, zero.

You, who dare not stall,
now a motor without growl,
no traction sense below,
A lever without fall.

End this static highway show!
Seek clear directions all.
For now, take joy in measures small,
and tire stains on the road.