I’M NOT SAYING IT WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER WITH ME

I’M NOT SAYING IT WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER WITH ME

You are now separated from the silver canvas
which was a portal to your dreams.
And now you are in a desolate expanse of sleepless
morning, where time blurs into endless drifting.

She once told me her love was a profound blue.
A love of complex cryptic symmetry.
A love consumed by melancholic inertia
adrift in a sea of alienation.

Do heavenly beings embrace a reckless abandon,
or does stability crumble like the commander of the sea,
or a man made mad by the sound of many furnaces
before the mountains are removed?

GENEVA TO PARIS

GENEVA TO PARIS

On every street corner
in every city
and on every mountain pass
a relentless ubiquity lingers
like a spectral
presence.

My wife
a phantom clad
in headgear
walks beside me
a warrior
in a mythic underworld.

Even in the
realm of the fantastical
a semblance of justice
prevails.

Yet fortune feels hollow
my luck as thin as a lover's
embrace and as fragile as
truth.

My love half-mad
with grief
has chosen the path
of finality — suicide she
has made her abode
in a desperate
plea hanging in the air
in the echoes of
her tireless labour.

Is escape possible
or am I forever
condemned to the purgatory
of the 8:25 am train from Geneva to Paris?

LOGIC IS A RIDDLE

LOGIC IS A RIDDLE

In the realm of the music graph,
gargoyle symphonies unfold,
and the mountain crumbles
into dissonance.

And forgotten phantoms nourish
the hollow echoes of
lost harmony.

Through the sonic labyrinth,
distilled beauty is in
discord,and charity becomes an
unwelcome guest in the
abyss of melancholy

We refuse to be
bound by the chorus of lamentation.
We flee to the
sanctuary of the sonic
maelstrom,
where rigidity is only a
concept and logic a riddle.

My love observes this
fragmented world
with wonder, deciphering the
broken language,
ready to weave
a new melody from the ruins
of the old.

WE ARE TETHERED

WE ARE TETHERED

Now location dissolves.
No nadir exists for these,
my kin, birthed from my essence.

We carve beds within charnel houses,
upon coffins draped in
snow.

Crowns of barbarity
adorn their heads—a gaudy
display that masks the
unease.

The reward, though scanty,
holds a slight appeal, yet the path
remains covered in mist.

We are tethered to a zone,
restless and forever
on the precipice of the unknown.

THE THRESHOLD OF JOVE’S COURT

THE THRESHOLD OF JOVE’S COURT

I told them to enter
and see the lamenter
who was a repenter
and became an assenter
to fall to the centre
and become a consenter
and be a frequenter
noble dissenter
and upset tormenter
and bookish augmenter
to make the restrictions
and get the convictions
to cause the new frictions
to burn the sad fictions
like Los's predictions
and all his old dictions
and Ida's depictions
and Milton's inflictions
and Beulah's conflictions
she turned to transfixtions
as she came to the confidante
who showed her the miscreant
who made her feel elegant
with the power of lubricant
and the eyes of the vigilant
and the thoughts of the postulant
and the cowardice of the reverent
and the diplomacy of the celebrant
and the hatefulness of the ignorant
and the safety of the inhabitant
and the words that are blighted
and mediocrity knighted
or the men who are not righted
or the women who are frighted
and soft voices that are spited
with the opinions that are slighted
and the warnings that are lighted
to the ones who feel plighted
as the stalkers who are sighted
turn out to be heighted
for the simple publicity
that crowns our great city
with its glass walled cubicity
and its sky bound toxicity

SAY NO TO TOMORROW

SAY NO TO TOMORROW

Sands of reminiscent footprints on
traversed paths, gather together moments
stitched in nostalgia, while reality converges
with transient tapestry recollections of creating.
Hands of experience and shadows, cast
changes, chances, choices and ghosts
of imprints, painted with days bygone
on the flattered murals.

Covert prisms reverberating with aspirations,
serenade birds with accordion melodies,
while their metallic spines juggle
star formations as the dusk captivates.

Melancholic larvae know more about this than
anyone, and have mentioned it many
times, as Medusa swirls around them as if
spatial dimensions were not the only problem.

Say no to tomorrow, until the the past is once again.

SELL YOUR TERRITORIES

SELL YOUR TERRITORIES

Silent chamber
echoes can
be heard
when introspection
glides through
secret corridors
of whispers.

You stand
on your
untrodden territories
facing the
map of
existence uncharted
from a
compass point.

Sell your
territories to
those yearning
for cryptic
melodies of
depths and
let them
sing the
lullabies of
vagabond echoes.

THE WALL OF CONCEPTIONS

THE WALL OF CONCEPTIONS

Echoes of faded dreams,
vanish into the niches of
the mind.

And unseen
fleeting contours shape
the labyrinths of
eternity.

Delusional illusions
project possibilities onto
the wall of conceptions.

And shifting thoughts
about the landscape
remain unspoken.

The silent symphony of
whispered emotions
guide the footsteps
of veiled enigmas.

And beneath the
surface of consciousness
muses sing songs of
forgotten desires

TIME OF WHISPERS

TIME OF WHISPERS

Between echoes of forgotten
laughter and unseen spaces,
I feel the ticking seconds,
where memories linger
in the quiet places.

In an old photograph,
blurred by touch,
your essence remains,
as a trace of existence,
fading into the known.

Unspoken conversations
of suspended words,
silent in the air like mist,
taste of what could have been,
now the fabric has gone.

I'M NOT DISAPPOINTED

I'M NOT DISAPPOINTED

I'm not disappointed.
I came here on my own.
I can't even imagine
the way it might have been.
I'm waiting here for something,
afraid in case it shows.
I'm not disappointed,
but nobody knows.

I'm not disappointed.
I've had love and I've had care.
It was a long time in coming
as far as I am aware.
I had everything I wanted,
more than I could see.
I'm not disappointed,
what use would it be.

I'm not disappointed.
I continued to climb.
I knew at the start
it was a waste of time.
I couldn't even tell you
where it is now.
I'm not disappointed,
though I don't know how.

I'm not disappointed
now that I'm back.
When goodness came to me,
I still felt some lack.
There are much better places,
I have to assume.
I'm not disappointed
I can't find the room.

I'm not disappointed
she drew back from me.
It should have been expected,
but I couldn't see.
When I leave tomorrow
there will be no regret.
I'm not disappointed
that I lost the bet.

CYBELE

CYBELE

Watching from my window.
Watching the street at night.
My defenceless doors were open.
My wings were closing tight.

My defeated army turned to light,
and a piece of me reached its full height.

I was a climber when I met you,
that is what made you pursue.
My arms were wide when you first leapt.
My climbing stopped and soon you wept.

The sun has set,
and she sleeps in my hands.

She was perfumed by the fisher king,
who gave her strings to pull a ring.
A ring that would but linger
upon her touching finger.

A finger which would point and bring
a life well lived without a ring.

Why a ring to stop a sin?
Why a ring to let me in?

To be independent.
To be secure.
To live without company—
and what is more,
to be cherished for what you are,
without having to walk too far.
Or to stand in corners in the night
without carrying a light.

SCHOOL BY THE RIVER

SCHOOL BY THE RIVER

To the school by the river I was swept.
I went there on the rebound
from my luck who had flown.

And Aaron would sing to me,
and show me trees and mountains.

And the long summer had ended,
and autumn-summer had begun,
with its crackling mornings
and nervous stomachs.

But the trees behind the walls of
Riversdale Road, welcomed me from either
side, and led me in to South Mersey,
where Auliss called out to me,
as I sat with my back to the sun.

And there was green and shade and
river-light. And food was plentiful and free,
and the tea cups were not heavy.

And I read the A to Z of film law,
and those who taught me knew this—so
many of them who were passing through.

And at the end of the day, tokens for the
bus took me to bread and honey.

Then after watching lights move on a wall,
I would climb to Croxteth Road where
the Jackdaw, on dark evenings, refused
my offerings with grace and courtesy.

CONTINGENCY TALKER

CONTINGENCY TALKER

I'm a contingency talker.
A waking sleep walker.
A present moment sequentialist.
A paperback existentialist.
I'm a gold medal fencer.
A one hand dispenser.
My mouth makes me hurt,
and my bull makes me blurt.
My wounds always fester.
My friends always pester.
I always feel restive
when everyone's festive.
I'm never locked.
I'm always blocked.
I tried to read Chaucer,
but just got hoarser.
i know people who are misanthropic.
i know people who are philanthropic.
i know people who enquire.
i know people who expire.
I have stood in line collectivity.
I have stood in line subjectively.
I have tried to be a binder.
There's no place I can find her.
She shook my hand without her glove,
but she was someone else's love.

IN THE POOL OF ABUNDANCE THERE IS DROUGHT

IN THE POOL OF ABUNDANCE THERE IS DROUGHT

Dreams can come true
if you know the things to do.
The only thing that’s stopping you
is that you're tied up too.

I've got someone to comfort me.
I’ve got someone to care.
I’ve got someone who has the key,
and she’s around somewhere.

I’m dreaming of the portrait
you never gave to me.
I’m dreaming of me and you
standing by the sea.

I could never be the master.
I could never be the son.
I could never be the finger
that pressed the wrong button.

I CONTEMPLATE THE SPIRALS

I CONTEMPLATE THE SPIRALS

Chiselled spirals
and falling streams,
that seem to walk
alongside me,
point the way to a
golden bough
that opens up
the western caves.

The caves that lead
away from the
benighted streams
of gas and drying
fluids which drop the
mountains from
the sky.

Water walks the fields
when winter slows,
and pulls the frozen
carpet that bleeds upon
the forehead of the
forest gate, back to
where the beating
of the summer's shade
can still be heard.

And like the guilt
of ages that hands me
down to the child's tear
or the father's frown;
or the failing maid
at her mother's breast,
who clings and grasps
to the tragic earth;

or like the painful
counting of my dreams,
or the shiny light
upon the endless blue
lake;

I contemplate
the spirals that
dim the haunted realms
within my
resting place.

LYNN’S BIRTHDAY

LYNN’S BIRTHDAY

I was a kingfisher in your hand.
I was a man who licked the land.

The switch is off but the light is on.
Sometime in the future you'll be gone.

No more men will struggle in the sea.
I’ll refuse the fish that are brought to me.

The keeper of the snakes has you hidden.
Like a man on probation you're forbidden.

Eldred walks the fields when the day is done.
He reads too much of Blake and Tennyson.

Simple measures, simple pleasures
You don’t have to count other people’s treasures.

I touched the ruler with the jagged edge.
I have not found the golden hedge.

Niobe weeps upon the floor.
She cannot find what she is looking for.

Through our many endeavours we learn what is right.
From the days of our worship to the curse of the night.

FREE SPIRIT CHILD

FREE SPIRIT CHILD

I’m counting all the books
upon your shelf,
and it looks like you're hiding
something from me.
You should have told
me to be fair.

Your shadow
secrets dance in
the midnight air.
I watch them
every time you are
so far away.
And they can see my
lonely empty stare.

My free spirit child
is resting
underground.
She won’t make love no
more. My free spirit
child.

In the echoes
of your gaze I feel
your absence,
like a fragrance of memory
drawing near to me.
And, still, there
is so much I need
to share.

I felt the weight of
questions unanswered in
the cold.
And when I phoned
you, your voice said you were
not in.
And for me, that
was the biggest sin.

My free spirit child
is resting
underground.
She won’t make love no
more. My free spirit
child.

In the pages
of our history, I found
solace in
your arms.
You touched my life
like a fleeting precious
song.
And I felt your
whispers deep within.

In the garden of
remembrance your flowers
no longer bloom.
And in the quiet of the
night I watched
you sleeping.
And like that song,
you said you
were my twin.

My free spirit child
is resting
underground.
She won’t make love no
more. My free spirit
child.

IN JACQUELINE'S ARMS

IN JACQUELINE'S ARMS

In Jacqueline's gaze a truth resides.
Within her soul I find my silence.
Throughout life’s whirlpool our love remains true.
In her smile I find my embrace.

The years have passed but memories recall
the moments we shared in our concealed retreat.

In silent nights I recall her voice.
in Jacqueline's arms I find my sleep.

CYCLING

CYCLING

Cycling with you in summer 1989,
I am riding close behind you,
with the breeze in your hair,
and I can smell your scent
as we ride downhill towards the river,
with the sun in front of us, forming
a halo around your body and making
you almost a silhouette.

In your summer shorts and shirt,
that is tied in a knot above your navel,
your beauty enlivens my spirit, and
my soul yearns for your love.

You are the queen of my heart,
and the mistress of my soul—
an angel of delight sent from heaven
to show me how to love.

GOING HOME

GOING HOME

“Looking in the mirror—

mirror

mirror

mirror

Tomorrow—bright light.

I will see God tonight.”

Thanks for running after that bus for me, Dad.