IRRIGATION.

Your mouth sounds dry
Now the cries have subsided;
Now that ecstasy has tested your saliva’s ability
To fill it,
And has eventually
Swilled away your words.

I wish I could water it for you again;
Make rain drain down the gutters of your tongue;
Plunge from your lips
And get my skin wet
Within
Your dripping sentences.

But your words are stuck to my fuck billed face
And the taste of them is leaking from my cheeks
To my throat,
And coating the sheets
With sleet
That blends with my sweat.

I wish you could lean over me and lick up your last
Spitten pips from the rest of my neck and sprinkle them,
Inch by inch,
Into my own pinched speech,
And teach me how
To revive you more quickly,

For I want you to be as thick with me as I am with you;
I need you to know how much your noise means to me when
You’re poised on the edge of heaven’s
Best kept secrets,
And how your strength
Drenches me.

THE LAST DAYS OF SUMMER.

There’s smoke in the air;
In the rays of late August sunlight sliced
By a street corner’s house;
In the mist that crowds the early morning
Sounds of mice and men;
In the shimmer at the end of the lane
That earlier in the year would have been a heat haze;
In the shadows and shade where the daze
Is made even greater;
In-between the leaves that soon
Will loose their greenery
And the far distant scenery
That glistens.

There’s smoke in the nose;
From a fire now tired of re-igniting
The fuel of burnt offerings;
From a coffin of moss that a fool
In his kingdom’s garden just had to incinerate early;
From the remains of a late
Barbecue that didn’t know when to end;
From the ruins of a chimney
That still stains the neighbourhood with coal dust;
From a building that killed
All its occupants in their sleep
And yet simmers to keep
Us uncomfortable.

AN ILLUSIVE INNINGS.

These are the adventures of a self centred
Individual in a world full of benevolent druids,
Who,
To their credit,
Never asked for the truth of altruism
To materialise in front of them,
Or be pulled from top hats,
But,
Nevertheless,
Wrestled with the macabre arts
Of generosity until mastered enough to floss with,

And whilst they were at it
Batted a little longer at the crease
Until they beat back the bowling attack
Of the fractured,
Who,
Like me,
Kept at them
With sufficient line and length
To dent anybody’s defence,
But never bowled them over
Or sent them willingly to the pavilion,

As team talks of walking
Are balked at
When there are partners to chat at,
Or associates to boast with,
And,
Although it may be lonely at the top,
It’s still more social
Than the solitary bottom of the barrel
That still trammels me
To this side of the line
When I long to make magic amongst them.

THE OLDEST ANTHEM.

The wood wind brings a phrase to me
And the hairs on my arms bristle
And stand as straight as trees,

And music weaves over my pimpleing skin,
That rises to receive the news and
Sings upon my limbs a simple tune;

Transmitting it to finger tips
Which flicker in anticipation of
Laying down the sound across your face,

And as the trace of nature’s song
Is touted by my touch along the life
Lines of your body we are synchronised

To time’s old signature which drums
To the accompaniment of hearts
And minds and spirit’s lyrics;

Mouthed and grounded to the
Melody of memories contained
Within the framework of our ancestry

That once ran and danced around
The world in harmony with calmness
And calamity and managed both;

Betrothed to wood and stone
And known by all before the storm
Of evolution muted most of it.

ON THE EDGE OF AUTUMN.

I see us sat
Upon a porch,
A cool breeze sliding by,
I watch the seeds
Of autumn spread
Themselves across the sky.

I notice how
Your features suit
This season’s new veneer,
Observing that
Your skin restores
Itself this time of year.

You estimate
The hour’s name,
And offer it a cause,
And I agree
Your venture’s case
Is worthy of applause.

You lift a hand
And place its palm
Upon my own upraised;
Together set
Into themselves,
In prayer and in play.

And in the fall
Of ev’ning light
We set our wishes free
To mingle with
The world’s campaign
And its crisp scenery.

BELOW THE WATERLINE.

When you scrape the late shift’s lost hours
You might be surprised by what you dredge up from
Deep down beneath the receding surface of an earlier tide,
Whose buoyancy bides its time.

There the surge is sturdier,
And urgent for your tired mind;
Desperate to bind it to thankless anchors
And plant you on its fluid bed,
Where no rest is possible,
And comprehension’s leaden sense is mentored
By primary colours
And simple contours,
And you bob along the bottom
Never once dotting I’s or crossing T’s,
Free to flounder
As it sees fit.

And when delved into at the behest
Of braver bathers determined to save you from
The sediments of selfishness you might find more than
What you thought trawled there;

Where purchase is worthier
Because of the determination needed
To purge settled footfalls of their stilted silt,
And getting a grip of your ship
Wrecked decks merits
More effort than forgetting how they were submerged,
Or who sunk them,
Or succumbed to drunkenly
Sailing into gentle tempests
That switched the minute they hit
And left you listing
This long.

INDOLENCE.

There’s an untapped potential,
That often goes unmentioned,
And it’s assembled
In my mental space,
Though whether I have the attention span
To handle it
Remains unknown.
I have the capacity
To be fascinated by possibilities
But I’m usually too slothful
To engage them,
Or not brave enough to face
The stuff of everyday arrangements,
And unlike a flight test’s frightfulness
The more ordinary an event
The more likely the extent
To which I’ll omit its entertainment,
Or turn tail altogether
And bolt for the nearest hole;
Insisting all along I was quite right in doing so
Even as the walls fall in.
But the only archaeological certainty
In England
Is that you’ll find bones in Towton,
And I know I’m not amongst them,
So unless I want to rest in peace
I’d best recompense
Common sense
And address my laziness.

EXTENDING.

She wishes she could stretch her legs forever,
Having had a bad day
Trapped in her tree-house,
And car tripped across the countryside,
And I wish I could join her
And help to loosen her limbs.

Laying beside her I’d lend her my own frame
To unwind within:
It being longer,
With more unreeling room,
I’d fill it with the fullness
Of her love and feel her focus ease.

For I have space inside and a reservation card
With her name upon it,
And I yearn to turn
It over to her exposure;
I hanker for her landing
In the alcoves that have always been abandoned,

And together we’d meld ourselves to its shape;
Our minds would drape
Its walls with all we are,
And our branches thrive,
And with life uncurled
We’d reach further than the edges of the world.

A BRAVE NEW PROMISED LAND.

So after the Western mind
Had subsided into the pits of history,
It ascended
To Heaven,
Where,
With typical attention to detail,
It proceeded to strip the place of its resources:

Feathers were plucked
With gusto from the wings of angels;
Various ambrosias
Consumed
With greed
And harps were harvested
For their parts and turned into slings and arrows.

After a while a particular faction
Arose whose leader usurped the previous,
Treating Him
Disdainfully
As he left
The place to wander amongst
The remaining clouds that showered the Earth;

And upon one of them He wished
He’d been more honourable to the Eastern fringes
Of the World,
But when
The deities
Of these realms also arrived
They concluded they’d wasted their time in the first place.

WORDS OF LOVE.

Somewhere in the great pantheon of man’s language
Resides a word,
Or phrase,
Or ideograph shape;
Or glyph
Or guttural riff,
That once uttered,
Or grunted,
Or otherwise tumbled from tongues
Will reduce a woman
To crumbling knees,
And make her freeze in ecstasy,
And I know
That better men than me
Have sought the centuries
For its patronage,
But I’m prepared to look longer
In order
To discover
This lover’s idiom,
And once attained
Will claim it and tame it,
And bring it back home,
And use it on you,
My sweet paramour,
And make your orgasm
Talk back to me
In a whole new vocabulary.

IN TEN MONTHS.

From the first moment we spoke
Across the screens
Of flat panels

To the actual audible tones of
Land lines and
Cell phones;

With pictures flickered from
The farthest
Hearths,

And fragrances sent in cards
And kept
In wallets;

From a meeting in April heat,
And confirmation
Of first thoughts,

To a sad goodbye before
An airport’s
Unforgiving walls,

And with cameras installed
On return to see
Each other daily

We have raised love from seed
Into the hardiest
Of gardens.

REVEALED.

Open your soul to the old world
And piece together its stories;
Peel back the blackness that
Has trapped them.

See the scores of heretics
And martyrs starting out
Along the paths that captured
Their attention.

Watch them fall before the
Sensible hoards who swept
The corners of religion free
Of truth seekers.

Look at the ruptured masses
Grasping what was given
By the living word of books
And crooked bishops.

Catch the light that scatters
From the cracks that crept
Into the august mess left in
The Lord’s name.

View the cleanest scenery
Beneath moth-eaten cloths
Once lifted from good gifts
Initially given.

Then close your soul knowing
That its purity is surer now
The crown of love has finally
Been enthroned.

MORNING STORE RAGE.

This morning,
In the shop,
I went into a strop with the mop
Behind the counter,
Who wouldn’t allow me to return
A set of baby clothes without the label,
Although I had the receipt,
And they were neat,
And,
Initially,
I was sweet.
But this bitch
Made me twitch,
And I consented to my temper’s request
For a mention,
Which it did,
And I shouted that she may as well keep them,
As I didn’t have time,
On a day like today,
With it pissing down and me being late,
To stand and debate the intricacies
Of her store’s policies,
And the jobsworth’s posture she presented,
And she smiled facilely,
And maybe I made her cry,
But on reflection
I don’t give a shit for her position
As she should have found a better occupation
If she didn’t want to deal with
Dicks like me.

UNDER OBSERVATION.

Eyes need stalks
And ears the ability to recognize a tuning fork’s twitch,
For when he pitches
I’ve got to try and catch him
Before the floor does,
And splits his lip,
Or bumps a brow
Or allows a bruise the room it needs to bloom.

And I know these trials
Are the same for all the contestants who bless them,
But my little guy
Seems to be trying more than most
As he staggers to stand
And grasps at thin air
Between a table and chair
And misses and slips forward a little awkwardly.

But so far I’m quicker
Than gravity’s grip and am able to save him
From any grave harm,
Though occasionally he evades me
And lands with a thump
On his well padded rump
Or more worryingly
Falls hurriedly forward and causes misfortune;

As his own sprightly sight
And rabbit keen hearing mean he’s speeding up,
And soon this toddler
Will be wobbling all over the house
And he’ll look like
A boxer’s whose just tried
To knock seven bells out of himself
And I’ll have to train my senses to lengthen their reach.

BALANCING ACTS.

Sleep fueled by the energy of day
Proved rueful
As my last
Conversation with you
Continued long after you left,
And when I woke
I found I was still talking things through.

I called you
And told you how much we’d said
That had remained unspoken,
And you mentioned maybe
I’d overstayed my welcome
The previous day
And should have rested earlier.

It could be I need to seed
Each segment with more integrity;
Maybe relax more,
Or impact more,
Or call for help when helplessness
Betters me
And a welcoming hello settle.

Maybe I expect too much
From the structure I’ve put in place
And should allow grace its favour;
Make dinner in a minute
And not when the clock says so,
And unwind when the time arrives
Instead of busting a gut to find it.

WRAPPED UP.

Steaming in this cellophane skin of mine
That seals in the tissue of youth
Whilst peeling to prove
Age has no respect for freshness;
Eager to be released of the duties
That no longer suit the beauty of its function,
That once lunched at God’s table
When all were able to see a brighter future
Upon the new planes made;
When angles played card games
And Lucifer wagered a new planet
Against the perpetual void that sustained them.
A hand of course lost by the boss
Who, being a bad loser,
Cast out the winner for his sin,
And damned us all in the process.
The fallen seraph danced with Pan
And made pacts with Man
And came to understand our needs
Much better than He who was beaten,
And as our meat took shape draped
Us in a cape of his own image,
And gave us eternity in which to wear it,
But God and his defeated pride
Took one look and cut our hide time
Down to 3 score and 10 revolutions of the sun,
And abandoned his own boy to
Compound our joy and command
Our wandering minds.
And now, forty four years within my covering,
I sit well passed my pelt’s melting point
Considering the fact that maybe
We should have been more certain of Satan.

THE NIGHT'S TIME.

In a corner of a room,
Where moonlight breaks through
The cankered glass of a painful window,
A shadow grows over the faintness
Scraped on the walls and arthritic
Door frames.

Upon its cloak,
Illumined from within,
A face appears above the borderline
Of sight,
Below which no legs suspend
Or bend seated,
And no other support is visible.

Hovering in place,
As shade traces across the floorboards,
It looks for those with
Wide night eyes
To see it with;
To frighten and inform,
And call forth the morning faster from its bed.

Dreadful sleepers reap its fear
And wake relieved to be without it,
And out of their bunks they leap
To lunch with day’s sweetness
And keep from wandering
Around the haunted houses of their minds.

THE RIVER BANK.

The river bank ran wild
With the wind’s cries,
As the watercourse smiled its way around
The bend towards the Humber Estuary,
And summer filed another thin return.

But conditions usually fit for sailing in
Were somehow graced with a warmth
Drawn from a different climate;
Heating the torrent with incongruous steam
That kept people attached to the tarmac track.

And those that clung to the top,
Dog walking or pram pushing,
Were cushioned by the sun’s late surge
And fortunate enough to find themselves
Sweltering beneath the sky’s contradictions.

And a final pitch for short sleeves
And bare legs is still likely,
Even as the August Bank Holiday approaches,
As it has been known to glow so brightly at
This time of year and foreshadow an Indian summer.

But over here we’re not dumb enough
To rush too far into that future,
Or take much heed of weatherman’s chart,
We’re just happy not to be blown off
The paths that lacerate the river bank.

HER ART.

She makes a shape organic;
Whether granite
Or synthetic
She abets the living process
With a root
Or suit of colours meant to liven.

And she widens the horizon
Of what’s possible
With canvas
And acrylic and the bits
That other people
Would leave in the street.

She creates a synthesis of what is
And isn’t given;
Taking forms
Distinctly hers and turning
Them to represent
Your deepest unknown wishes.

And she never misses the connection
Between cause and effect;
And what’s next
Only she knows when set
Before a virgin space
To generate new life upon.

RAISING HER NAME.

Valves make weak links
When hairline fractures map their surfaces;
Scratched into them by a bull beaten pump
Whose sump is overflowing
With runoff
And dottle
Not coughed up.

And when I leave my lover
With her blood still swilling in my mouth
There’s no doubt why my heart starts acting
Like a fairground attraction
That’s had its
Shafts cracked
Once too often.

And there’s really no way
To soften the news or alleviate the bruising
On my ticker’s skin once its mettle
Has been wetted within
And pulsed
In Morse code the
Letters of her name;

No wonder the thunder that
Heightens my drum beat is lightening fast;
Cast in the forges of passion
To smash against
A rib cage that
Sags and crashes back
To make its lasting mark.

OUR BOOK.

Words leave the tip of my tongue
And touch her cheek

Painting pictures on her face

That she breaks into shards

To construct images of us
On treated canvas sheets

Spread upon a bed of Heaven

Scented with the breath of Hell

Fetched from deep within the
Fusion we have used there

Where our elements spread apart

And came together settled

In the sheaths that only our words
And images could have created

Mated in a single mass of flesh

Stretched and bound and captured

In a covering of walls until
We rise and start another page.

NO MORE MONOPOLY.

Never will his mother earn the right to see him,
Wallowed as she is inside
Her mind’s recital of the reasons he’s not with her,

And blame’s a great game to play when you’re
The only participant,
As the rest of the protagonists have cheated throughout.

And if she’s drinking on and off then it would appear
She’s more upon
The path to the edge of her particular board,

And likely to fall further before she passes GO,
Although she’s
Still collecting money every time she rolls around

With which to fuel her addictions and add more
To the fires
That burn within and sunder any hope of finishing.

That winning is even an option has been forgotten
Along with
The rules that were approved before the start,

As if building a bolt hole for the heart on free parking
Mattered more
Than shoring up the relationships at home,

And that is where the heart lives and not at the
Bottom of bottles
That she has used to replace her kids with.

THOUGHTS OF YOU.

Another day without you
To hold onto;
Only the
Velvet steps
Of my memory,
And the desire to provide more.

Even the inkling of another
Encounter
Would
Caress the
Bare stairs of the
Corridor at the end of each day;

Carpeting one more footfall
Upwards;
Parting
The curtains
For me before I
Enter my central chamber.

But life has a habit of trashing
The rare bits
That matter
More than average,
And the steepness grabs
My balance and flatters it;

Calling me further from
The room I wish to take;
Making me
Stumble a step
To the next where I
Inevitably sleep without rest.

OUTSIDE.

I went to the other side
Of these four walls
To see what all the fuss is about,
To discover where the action is;
What the buzz does on my day off,
As the baby’s with his family,
And all the meaningful people
Are either asleep or at work,
And I’ve become accustomed
To hustling after them
And can’t quite find the impetus
To keep amused without their presence.

Sure there are books and films
And tunes to be used for entertainment,
And I’ve caught a bit of sleep myself,
But my concentration can’t maintain
A duration these days,
And there appeared to be more
Options searching the breezy streets
For easier treats to distract me.

But upon a wander to explore
The corners of the compass’s hunting ground
I found just as little fizzing there
And returned home with a bag full
Of unwanted fare from the store,
And now sit with a cigarette
Penning the story of my morning
Wishing for my son’s return to spur me on
And my lover to rise and once again surprise me
With the richness they bring to my life.

SERVING THE WORLD.

We’re going to lure everyone to Antarctica
With promises of paradise and fish,
Then murder them,
And keep them in the deep freeze.

Then we’re going to live off them;
Serving up regional meals
And specialties out of the relevant
Occupants of regions renowned for cuisine.

Indian curries and Chinese chop sueys
Will use the finest specimens of flesh,
Whilst Mexican tacos
And Italian ragus will be equally well dressed.

Obviously American helpings will be
Generally oversized,
Whilst British dishes will be battered
And North African platters piquant.

Regrettably there’ll be nations we’ll struggle
To accurately represent,
And whole continents whose culinary
Contents will elude us completely,

But we’ll breathe more easily knowing
The population problem has been solved,
And will remain eternally sustained
By the varied tastes the world has to offer.

ABOVE THE TUMULTUOUS.

It’s quiet
In the sky
Where giants thrive;

Idle seen
From the green
Of ground’s beat.

Bound
And surrounded
By sound proofed space;

Yet sure
Enough to know
Of its own audio.

Often flown
Beyond the brow
Of gathered crowds;

Yet paths
Remain that maps
Have still to capture.

It spills
In silent frills
Across the wilderness

And rests
The best of us
Beneath it’s breath.

MOTHERS.

We have grilled pancetta
And scrambled eggs baked in the microwave;
Hash browns bathed in fire light
And pancakes drizzled in maple syrup,
And surrounding this attempt
At an American breakfast
Are barbeque seasoned beans.

Half an hour in the kitchen
And finished in minutes,
And another combination
For the menu that fills the hills
And valleys of his body;
Padding out his middle ground
As he waddles to a knee for a sleep.

I’ve found the last few weeks
Keeping me awake and aware
More than any in my life,
And discovered a deep understanding
Of the role of the mother,
Who for centuries has leant her
Every minute to bringing up her kids;

Without commendation, or expectation
Of such, and what I thought was natural
Actually requires a General’s attention
To detail and the will of a battle hardened
Veteran to get through the day.
So here’s to you woman,
And all your uncommon valour.

HOME.

I’ll take my chances with the tramps and vagabonds
Who belong to a different age;
Where pages made fine blankets
And trinkets were exchanged for songs.
When a bench was a sensible berth for the night and
The blight of middle-class life
Was reserved for those high born
Who had fallen upon hard times themselves.

I’ll make my bed in a working class palace where
Bread is abundant and coffee
Comes tumbling from tin cups on
Sunday that are used in a snap box all week.
Where tea is twice squeezed from its bags and a biscuit
Is dragged cross its surface
In case it should fall to the cold
Greasy liquid below and have to be left there.

I’ll learn my words in a school room long pulled down
From a teacher from town
Who remembers me still and
Has born time’s mantle better than I ever will,
And where every lesson bled into the next except
Woodwork and we had
To change clothes for PE in
Front of each other and no one gave a damn.

I’ll cut my teeth in the streets where I was born and
The neighbours knew when
And how old I was because they’d
Been there to see me fall on my face in the lane;
Who had known my parents forever and when anyone
Left they did so feet first
On a gurney and everyone’s
Curtains were drawn in respect of a lost friend.

I’ll break my back on the tracks of the rail that
My father and his father
Braved in order to draw coal
From the graves that other souls dug.
With a smile on my lips for a good day’s graft at
The pit head or dock side
Where a fairy could serve as a
Bride and a groom could find room for his mind.

I’ll make my love on the settees and sofas that were
Shoved to the back wall
In summer but pulled closer
To the fire place in winter to save fuel.
With a girl I schooled with who no longer wears
Short skirts and a woman
I’ve found in another playground
Half way around the world who I wish to die with.

I’ll raise my own son in the borders of Yorkshire
Where the truth is replanted
Each year with the wheat and the
Chaff laughs at the fact that even it’s worthy.
Where my boy can grow into a man surrounded by
A land that has been pivotal
In this country’s history and no
Doubt once more will shore up its softer centre.

I’ll make my peace in the North of my England
Where the blood of its kin
Was first spilled by William
Who should have stayed his violent hand;
For he made in its name a way of life that cannot
Be named by the crowds
In the South who are still afraid
To venture beyond Watford’s stillborn walls.

COMPROMISING.

The spiders must be striking
As the flies have multiplied,
And they appear to be fearless
As they dive into our eyes.

And no matter how you swat at
Them they make a great escape:
Digging tunnels into bread loaves;
Hiding safely in the grapes.

They will swarm up in the morning
And invade throughout the day
And when a kitchen light is switched on
They parade for us again.

So we’ve dangled sticky banners
From the ceilings to appeal
To their fortitude and haughtiness
And hope to seal the deal,

But the bastards are elastic,
And prepared to loose a leg,
And so we’ll have be more crafty
If our tactics are to take.

So we’ll enter arbitration
With the critters on the picket line
And put up with them jumping
Out whenever they decide.

TWOFOLD.

A blow to the head
Removed the friction from the soles of her feet
So the distance she moved was the same
But she had to work twice as fast to meet it,

And the blur that
Greeted people gave them the impression
That the mission she was on was impossible
To sustain at such a pace.

And her aim was
Maimed for a moment so that when she made
To mark her target she arrived at it before
It was ready to receive her heart,

So as she blew
A kiss to me it missed the Irish Sea and ended
Up in Dublin where it was last seen hunting
For lips to attach to in Grafton Street.

But her groove
Increased in depth and improved the lengths
It trenched whilst shedding the effort she always
Knew would always be rewarding,

And the partnerships
She cherishes were nourished by more love
Than expected and double draughts can leave
Weaker liquids thicker for it.

BENEDICTIONS.

How can the night reduce its reach
When all are stretched before it:
Afraid of blundering
In the blindness that defines their
Frightened lives from their first steps.

Brought to book between the nooks
Of days that oscillate
Unsteadily throughout the year;
Darting through the colour charts
And seeking light’s approval

Whilst the dark remains unfazed
By seasons;
Amazed that the uneven
Wanderings of rays are so important
To the planet’s habitants

When its displays are fixed,
And pin pricked,
On a roulette wheel that only seems
To change when viewed
From blackest vantage points

By travellers unravelling a journey
That they haven’t planned
As well as thought,
And brought significance along
With packaged goods.

But then who would assume
To touch the void
When variable and vivid noise
Suffices their requirements
Except the tired and praying.

HER CHRONICLE.

She’s working the night shift
In conditions unlikely to be seen outside
Of a bad film script
Where the protagonist
Is exploited by a despicable despot
And the plot
Is so unrealistic
That the audience walk out.

But unfortunately it’s true
And she having to do work unfit for kids
Who used to sweep chimney flues,
Or scrape coal from a hole in the ground,
And I can’t stand the thought
Of her been
Squeezed into the story
She finds herself in.

It doesn’t sit well with me
That I haven’t yet lifted her clear
Of the crowded South
She’s found herself floundering in,
But give me a mystery writer’s insight
And I’ll pen her a suitable ending
Where the sunset beckons
From a seat to the East of her grievance.

A PAUSE FOR THOUGHT.

I need a restorative moment;
A logical governance to hold me over
Until my shoulders broaden to bear my own burdens,
And thirst is worked into my words;
Parched of the sparks
That create agitation in the alleyways of debate
And shape the pace of surrounding streets.

Dried fruit rooms crowd
The houses where my less than rousing
Verse once grew,
Now pressed of any juice worth brewing;
Over-stewed and mashed passed the point of news
To elucidate an aim
Or paint a picture on once eager walls.

Dehydration peels
The ceilings of the echoes they once stored
Or amassed upon the door jambs
For when renditions were wished for,
And slates of crusted sentences collect across
The warped floor boards
Or fall beneath to keener ears,

Where the desiccated
Congregate and reach to catch the hatchlings
Of a hopeful mind
That sighs a little higher every time they fall.
So call me inspiration and I will fill
Your pit with thoughts fit for orchestration
Once I’ve been soothed by time’s renewal.

HIS NEW WORLD.

Reaching out
And stretching for vegetation
I rejoin the race I came from
And pass this knowledge on
To my offspring.

He feeds upon
The leaves and fronds that
Brush his knuckles as his
Chariot passes fashioned
Garden verges.

Colour emerges
To peak between the green,
And I halt our progress
For him to fold a bush’s
Pages open.

Texture vexes
Him momentarily before
The next one is held a little
Longer and on his eyes
Wander amongst it.

And back home
Pictures of floras flicker
In front of him as he searches
Weekend supplements
For sign of them,

And in his green
And pleasant hands a
Secure future for this land’s
Lanes and countryside shall
Evermore reside.

US.

There’s an assembly
Of our parents
And children;
Family,
Friends and their kin;
Recently deceased loved ones
And more distant victims of living.
An assortment
Of previous acquaintances
And maintenance crews.
The many we admire,
The few we revere;
Our heroes
And sponsors
And those who’ve longed for us.
Advocates,
Doctors and clergy;
The magicians and wizards
Of pictures and words;
History’s speakers
And seekers of truth.
Sporting immortals
And lesser know athletes;
Matinee idols and
Movie producers.
The wholesome,
The homely,
The ones we wished we’d known,
And the innocent
In womb or tomb
Who do not wish to be,
And they’re always
Here,
With you
And with me.

BENEATH THE SURFACE.

Out in the countless battalions
Of foot soldiers,
Elbowing their way through the ranks,
I stand,
British bulldog straight,
Debating whether to stay and take them on,
Or step aside as they advance
And announce the victory of circumstance.

Every second that passes
The masses increase,
And I need a cease fire from this line
As soon as possible
In order to cross the immeasurable
Space that separates us;
The one that cannot be gauged by knowing
The paces to the end of town and back.

Every face is yours my love,
Every shape and size,
Every eye, every fleeting expression;
An army of clones
Reminding me that one more day
Has gone without the dawn
Of your status replacing the autonomy
Of mortals who are but visions of your divinity.

And although fate’s game
Has got us together
It keeps us apart at the present,
And resentment
Can’t be used to crucify its actions;
It’s up to me to break free
Of the gathering and lift the iceberg
Tips of our touch out of the world’s water.

PACK DOGS.

The lecherous collect in
Separate trenches;
Strengthened by a tribal style.

You can tell them by the lengths
They go to
Get at you
When they wouldn’t want to know you otherwise.

They snigger behind fingers
Used for bruising;
Slapping as they dish out blame,

And can mingle in plain sight,
But should you
Catch their eye
They become the feared ones your peers warn against.

The act of inquisition issues
Innocently from them;
Gathering the data they require

Then turning it upon its head
When what you’ve
Said has sparked
To life their coldness that’s emboldened by desire.

And you’ll feel akin to meat
Parading by them;
Ordered for a private appetite.

But not all men are treacherous,
And even some
Of us are victims
Of the lust that courses through the human mind.

OUT IN THE FOUNTAIN.

Craning my head at a forty five degree angle
And standing in the middle of the back lane
Looking for match strikes against the night;
Catching a flash
In the corner of my eye,
A tearing of sky,
And unsure whether I’d moved too soon
And smeared a star’s mark,
Or whether it was a spark of dust
Pushing the atmosphere nearer.

Uncertain if the world had been hit by residual
Bits of a greater comet’s journey or if I’d just
Learned to see what I wanted;
Either way I wished
Upon its passing
And threw desire
Vast distances to bid for its attention;
My petition worded perfectly
Before another could enrol its gifts
On behalf of their own lists.

For you I proofed my heartfelt future hopes
Before these universal coins and stayed
A little longer to be certain they’d been heard,
And when another flint
Struck at the planet’s tinder
I sent a second
Mention for my son to hang his name upon,
Then came inside to see him sleep
And rest myself as peacefully as
Promises are possible.

NURSERYMAN.

The floor’s been landscaped by a baby
And trying to decipher its arrangement
Will likely strain your patience:

Soft toys tussle with the tassels of a rug
And have been imprisoned in a ring
Of building blocks thicker than bricks,

Whose vivid colours clash with a mat
That resembles flattened grass and has
Been battered by a xylophone dragon;

A tree barked leather chair has been stacked
With last weeks charity shop haul
That is threatening to fall on his head,

As sundry items of out grown clothes
Compete with recently bought statements
Of fashion’s waste of time.

A climbing frame has been made
Out of a mobile and a travel cot
That he still hasn’t got the hang of it,

And an overturned turtle is being used to scale
What furniture cannot be removed to
The safety of an eye line’s height,

And as night creeps over the scene
Long forgotten battery drained robots
Stand rigidly attendant in the corners

While the gardener starts to weary and,
Fearing he’ll disappear amidst the moss,
Is tossed over a shoulder and set in his own bed.

SUMMER TIME?

Getting ready to go uptown
In summer time
And the rain comes down
In summer time
And they’ve proclaimed drought warnings
For summer time
And it hasn’t stop pouring
This summer time.

So I’ll break out my overcoat
For summer time
And hope that my boat floats
In summer time
And if folks down south mention
Their summer time
Has been gorgeous and lengthened
This summer time

I’ll direct them to Northern lands
Where summer time
Has had bi-polar symptoms
This summer time,
And soon we’ll be Daylight saving
British summer time
So I’d best brave the remaining
Summer time.

SPACE.

There’s a singularity
At the heart of our shells,
Constantly seeking
And leaking
New fluids;
Eternally burning
And returning fresh matter;
Permanently turning
And churning the chatter;
Forever shattering
And scattering thoughts
Along the course of life.

A black hole in the soul
Sucking at sensible things,
Puking up pools;
Plucking at strings
And rebuking the tunes;
Stuck in a cycle
Of death and renewal
While making and breaking
The rules of natural law
That pour in to feed
Its needs and board up
The ruptured order.

NEW.

To read it
As if it
Has just been written;

Letters still dripping
And words ill-fitting
As it’s not yet
Been edited
And isn’t quite hitting
The right notes:

Rare beef still raw in the middle,
A carefree kid not yet bitten by love’s bug,
Sluggers submitting a piss test,
One mitten missing,
A vest half knitted,
A gift remitted,

An artist exhibiting
An unfinished masterpiece
Because of a dumb belief that
It’s art for art sake,
And the making that matters,
And not the taking of time
To wade thru the tatters and smooth them out.

Still I guess it’s better to dip
The unscripted
Into the well of best wishes
Than to leave them with the rest
Of the unused dishes
In my closet.

ALL THE VARIED BEST.

Good luck with everything you strive for,
With who you aspire to be;
Good luck with what you make,
Or take
From others’ industry.

Good luck with morning’s awkwardness,
With afternoon interviews,
Good luck with sleep again,
Or when
Awake with evening news.

Good luck with love’s new flutterings,
With hate’s old lifelessness,
Good luck with sole endeavours
Weathered
In the skins you’ve dressed.

Good luck with life’s last judgement,
With trials on the road,
Good luck with gauging wisely
Prizes
Garnered by your prose.

Good luck with destinations,
With the next one’s terminal,
Good luck when starting over
Slowly
With the soil you've tilled.

Good luck today and evermore,
With friends and enemies,
Good luck with you and, when
You do,
Good luck with knowing me.

MY CHAMPION.

When words are sent
They tend to take a while to land;
Whether posted,
Or toasted,
Or opened in the hand
By palm held candle lit phones
On a stroll to the store
To shore up the cupboards,

And they can often make you notice
How a far off broadcast
Can achieve a closer impact,
And stop you in your tracks.

And yesterday
Such a remark sparked life
Into my mobile,
Which I combed through
Until found:
“You really are my best friend,
The best friend I ever had”
And instantly I froze,

And this simple little phrase received
Has magnified significance,
And further words breathed into life
Will never mean as much to me.

WARDS.

Though we may gravitate towards the tin opener
I still believe we can tell the difference between
A giver and a taker,
Even if some people can’t tell their past
From a smouldering wound,
And are incapable of moving on.

My play list is littered with bitter critics
But I’m still prepared to watch the clock stopped
Action again and be objective,
And realise I didn’t always perform
With the skill of my abilities,
Or with their best interests at heart,

But some just can’t, or won’t or simply don’t want to
Respond to the obvious judgements
Time has made against our cases,
And insist they were not responsible
For their half of the time share apartment
They once invested in;

They believe they were controlled by a scullery’s rota
In order to force through cleaning schemes,
Or weren’t afforded enough rest
In which to stew their futures in,
And are left with a mess that simply settles
When they finally get out of bed.

And that’s fine and that’s cool and their rules
Will no doubt still apply to other rooms
They will eventually inhabit,
But my stab at it was fatal and that’s that,
And now I’ve evolved and am attached to the thatch
That covers my new lover’s kitchen.

YOUR SKY.

For your sky
I’ll take the truest sun,
And turn it to the smoothest face,
Shed of spots and solar flares,
And daring birds
To draw across.

There placed against
Azure skies,
Soft focus hung
With lightest wisps below,
And at each side,
As bridesmaid like,
The brightest belly rolls
And highest curls of sharp edged clouds
Will proudly wreath the centrepiece.

And when you wish
For colour’s kiss
I’ll drape the littlest rain mop
On one side
For sunlight’s stare
To look right thru a fine tuned corner,
And corona white
Will dive into a rainbow’s clothes,
And all the paints of creation
Will be applied
To your picture perfect sky.

YOU.

I want to make you blush;
To roughen up the colour of your flush.

I want to make you move
And open up the covers of your love.

I want to make you feel
The urgency that bleeds from my appeal.

I want to make you touch
The tender places mentioned by my lust.

I want to take the time
To wander in the forest of your mind.

I want to take your aims
And park them on a target that’s inflamed.

I want to take a knife
And cut away the buttons of your life.

I want to take your skin
And broadcast to the character within.

I want to shake your frame
And break the mould that made it fold away.

I want to shake your brain
And bruise the views that you have entertained.

I want to shake your soul
And free it achieve its greater goals.

I want to shake your world
Until its still and you’ve become my girl.

CONTACT.

Touch is missing from the portrait of us,
Strictly reserved for up close and personal,

But feeling,
Ah, now this can be accommodated,
Even by the cold mistress of distance;

A mixture of pictures
And sounds,
And occasional perfumes sent for special events,
Create a shape
That can be extruded through the portals
That separate our places.

Screens and phones and lip laced cards,
Arranged in thought’s bullring,
Are linking sentence to sense
Until centred
And leant on for comfort,

And then the fullness of you
And unkempt length of me excrete
Their meaning,

And what is felt
Is identity enough to
Console until we’re put within
Each other’s hold
Again.

LOVE.

At the end of each day
You leave me
With love;

At the break of the next
You greet me
With love.

Over shadows of dawn
You orbit
With love,

And as morning stonewalls
You vault it
With love.

In the afternoon hills
You escort me
With love,

And through evening’s trees
You haul me
With love.

And as night closes in
You feed it
With love,

At the end of each day
You leave me
With love.

NIGHT AND DAY.

If the night is awash with the colours
Splashed inside a child’s pencil case
Then the day is made to resolve the mess
And undress the images discovered there;
Stripping off the tracks and marks
Carpeting the sulphur background
Whilst peeling leaves of purple swirls
From trees of green barked randomness;
Chasing curls of blue and red that
Thread through spokes of orange wheels,
Whose axles attach to traction engines set
Beneath a carriage ride into the box’s corners.

Morning mist lifts from a sky board
Of the blackest slate scraped free of dust,
Revealing depths of colour left over from the
Palette that alighted after stars lost heart to live,
Giving the play beneath a stage to
Lay footsteps on and wander far beyond;
Placing sheaths of matter on the patina of
Planet Earth and planting strands of worthiness;
Pursued by every shade of breath that
Wrests itself from every chest of industry;
Holding you to infinity’s long promised ride as
You glide into the sunset of an ever changing world.

FREE TIME.

A breath of fresh air
For a lung full of smoke to suckle on

And a beer for a parched
Throat to be coated with;

A moment of tranquillity
And the ability
To run with it,
And summon the will
To be stiller;

A hustled heartbeat,
Sweetened by
Inaction.

These features
Are eked out
Of the doubting storms of the morning,
The swooning afternoons
And relieved evenings
Of day’s done deeds,

And I’m pleased
To have won its bliss
Again
In that proud and grounded way
That lays people down
Accomplished.

CAUGHT.

Stopped by a barred child gate
On the way to the kitchen,
Where, after entering,
I trip on kids’ things
And slip to the linoleum floor,
And am spotted by him on all fours,
Who trots towards me
Like a buffalo with clipped wings,
Snorting heavily
With the ripped stuffing
Of a Teddy bear dripping
From his fingers and laughing
At my impending captivity.

Once he’s cornered me against
The refrigerator I’m done for,
So I make to break for the back door,
But he cuts me off,
And scores a direct hit
In my midriff with his head,
Whereby I collapse on my back
And he has me,
And clambered and climbed
He plants a smile shaped kiss
On my lips and an imaginary
Flag of ownership on my forehead
To say that I’m his from now on.

RECOLLECTIONS.

Catching cracked memories from her
And pinning them,
Along with mine,
To the timeline we’ve attached to our actions;
Matching the facts and laughing.

A sanctioning of passion in an irrational field,
Where seasons shed yields
Of people,
And reaping them becomes more difficult;
Glowing as we sow another seed.

Where similar features repeat and you need
Ears in the back of your eyes
When sight is blinded
By an impulse’s convulsive stupidity,
Or an idiot’s fist.

Maybe we realise we liked a certain style,
And actively courted it,
And that’s why those
Who were handy gravitated towards us,
And those who weren’t we avoided;

Or we missed a crashing fashion altogether,
And our selective recollections
Are now best represented
By typed lists that exist in internet whispers,
Or hard drive fissures and silver discs,

And the photographs that were taken hastily
Are the scratches dragged
Across history’s face
That will remain to say
Exactly what we did when we can’t remember it.

THE SOUNDS OF AROUSAL.

In a whisper
An urgent orgasm passed her lips;

Pressed flatter
Than natural,
And through her throat posting itself;
Coating the roof
And floor
Of her mouth with the thoughts
That had brought it;

Spat passionately
Out of her grasp in unnatural sounds,

But none the less
Loud enough
For her breath to touch my face
A distance away,
And make
My own rage more forceful because
Of its importance.

Wretched it left me,
Longing for noise to take our statements

And shake the paper
From walls;
To make tiles fall from ceilings,
And express feelings
As raucously
As possible in the morning, afternoon
And evening.

FLOATING.

Sat cross-legged in the shallow end
With the little one
Learning the merits of the pool again;
How it future proofs us against
70 percent
Of the world’s perils,
But also heralds
A planet wide
Employment of all its joys.

This old friend of ours keeps
Trusting us with treading
In its depths and spreading ourselves
Horizontally, on front or back,
Across it cellophane,
And wrapping us
In the comforts
We once
Knew for nine months.

Though having said this I never learned
To swim properly,
And this is probably why I find
Most of the world uncomfortable,
Unfathomable,
Although together we
May both discover
The benefits
Of getting more than our feet wet.

BLUEBERRIES.

I bite it in two
And my teeth reveal
The translucent flesh of the fruit.

Deep blue skin
Leaves fingers bruised
As juice imprints its offerings.

I chew my half
Whilst he spits out
His portion hoping for another

Made of sweeter
Meat and less ruined
By the ripening of confinement.

And one by one
These partnered pieces
Equal more than two dozen,

All shovelled up
Just as carefully until
Chewed husks are roughly removed

And I know he’s full
Of super food to smooth his
Movement from one meal to the next,

And all that’s left
To do is see him off to sleep
Where dreams of further hues occur.

LAST CHANCE.

At the market place
I exchanged a minor headache
For a severe one,
And that wasn’t what I went there for,
But we seldom get exactly what we need,
Even when free to choose.

I thought little for careers
When I exited the halls of education,
Thinking I’d settle for
Whatever side the coin arrived at,
And make the most of the intelligence
I fell to Earth with.

I mused the future would
Arrive in time to discover the achievements
I’d have collected,
And the past would marry evidence
To common sense and between them
Cement my place.

And when encumbered
By animated stumbling blocks of polymer
I figured giving
Them the benefit of doubt would allow
Me to navigate a path around their
Billowing acrobatics.

Religion and science,
And the political appliance of both,
Would ignore me,
As I’d sear me a route between their cold notions
Or dig a hole too deep for their lethargies
To get at me.

If I excelled at sport
It would be in order to attract more batting,
And any discourse
With thought would benefit more time
To consider the rhymes I’d make to motivate
Its reasoning.

If a charity or cause
Worth fighting for poured scorn upon
My pride’s inaction
I factored in the silvered liver I’d leave them
When I passed regardless of the fact I chose to
Toast well my endeavours.

Governments would
Beg for my pencil mark and I’d skirt their
Flirting well
Whilst telling all who cared to listen,
And those who didn’t, how to vote their ghosts
Into existence.

And any mission
Undertaken to the warehouses of commerce
Would be so to endorse my worth,
Converting my particular brand of fancies
Into a vestment to plump my chest into
And compare against the rest,

But when I felt set,
And pleased to greet the coming storm,
I met, at the end of it all,
You, who through your determination,
Laced my palm with a two-headed coin
And a reason to heed it.

BRIDLINGTON.

The North Sea bleached the tan
From my sandals,
And glued the beach to their souls,
As it rolled over
The damp dunes;
Furrowing still further
The brow of this eroding coast.

And after dangling
My boy ankle deep
In the retreating tide
I carried him back
To the island of towels
We’d housed near the new concrete
Breakwater.

He was initially unsure
Of the golden grains
But after a while
He gently stretched his fingers,
And with sand clinging to his skin
He began to appreciate
The seaside.

We ate fried fish and chips
And dipped a little further
Into the silicon grit,
And the collective memories
Of holiday makers,
Before taking our leave
And returning home.

MY CHARGE .

Rolling out the heavy set:
The rubber wheeled carriage
With its grey velour seat and foot rest,
Where,
Nestled in its grip,
Sits the prince of the city
And pity any mortal caught by his gaze:
Those flashing,
Dashing eyes of crystal blue,
One pupil slightly larger than the other,
Smothering his prey
And daring them to shy away
Or fail to say how beautiful they are;
Larger than
Is the light that streams from them
And keen to shed enlightenment on everything;
Seeing all
And more than sight
Had ever sought before and thoughtfully;
Laughing at the
Patrons of the zoo met queues
And reminding them of feeding times;
Replacing strangers’
Angst with granted ease,
And seeking more to solace and console;
Tapering anxieties
And tying up loose wiring
Where worries have been hurried into heads,
And replacing
His coachman’s doubts
With the clarity of confidence.

THEN AND NOW.

My father was rather an average man,
My mother another housewife,
My son no more special than anyone else’s,
My lovers no better than others.
My sister and I were indifferent kids,
My pets a collection of hound dogs,
My toys were deployed by an army of stores,
My interests as varied as any.
My house was encased by a neighbourhood’s mass,
My street a discreet terraced map grid,
My town was surrounded by fancier hamlets,
My language a mixture of accents.

My dad rose above the constraints of his day,
My mum laboured hard to support him,
My boy is the joy of the world in a child,
My woman is someone of stature.
My childhood was studded with magical gems,
My animals loved more than measure,
My action men vented a singular mind,
My hobbies filled lobbies of splendour.
My home was the Rome to where all my roads led,
My avenue proof of my people,
My city the centre of my universe,
My words the preserve of the world.

HARRY AND I.

After the routines have been agreed
And completed,
And we’ve beaten another day back,
And packed it
Into history’s storm proof storage box,
We sleep secure
In the knowledge that the following
Will be met
And settled with the same nature.

And sure there will be deep creases
To be smoothed,
And bruises raised about its surface;
Tracing a purchase
Too tightly gripped or slipped from,
But along with
These will be the gallant intricacies
That our resilience
Has had the balance to uncover.

And with night’s blanket shed of bed
Rest and rise
The highs and lows of growing go about
Their business
And we both say so what if difficulties
Assault us,
For we will be undaunted by these
Temporary fraudsters
As we board day’s transport once again.

DEPENDENCE.

In drink they wallow with no cause concern,
A bucket set beside them for their bile,
Collapsing where a circumstance adjourns
And situations wish for swift exile.

In sleep they find release is seldom found
Along the strong staccato leaps of faith
That land them in a tangle wood of ground
That bears no likeness to their Earthly place;

In which a flickered light bulb coruscates
Upon the dappled landscape of their lives,
And nothing can hopscotch from plate to plate
Or reconnect what crockery survives.

In life their mood shapes have obscured the lies,
Or shattered whilst unwrapping virgin truths,
And left their loved ones scrambling to compile
A case to hurl against their waterproofs.

In wretched weather floundering’s preferred
To laying still and capturing a charm,
Or listening to undesired words
From un-required shades of requiem.

In death we wish our efforts had bourne fruit,
Instead of reaping deeper in the soil,
But from the depths are found the sour roots
That grow into their version of turmoil.

SOLID.

On the honours list of the blissful
Sit those names known for their commitment
To the cause of love’s rituals,

And although enrolled and graded
The ratings bear little resemblance to the state
Of the relevant relationships

As fate and its debating class
Have amassed a gathering of disparate characters
Unlike any previous database.

So at the bottom are forgotten
Couples who have dwelled with themselves forever,
As well as newer recruits,

And amongst the middling are kids
Who have recently dipped their toes in the mix
Amidst old timers in their prime,

Whilst at the top are couples cropped
From the freshest fields of helium filled amorists
Charted alongside old sweethearts.

And with every mention the sentient
Rewards of togetherness are measured against
The insensate nature of loss,

And awards and baubles are unnecessary
As simply being seen in the blessed company
Of paupers and queens is enough

To show how much has been accomplished
With the flushed material of love’s substance,
And we, my dear, are with them.

ONE.

I wish to bear witness
To the passing of Alex,
Whose ability was rivalled
Only by his uncompromising lifestyle;
In fact he taught me that
In the face of those who would suppose
To know better,
You should know better:

Be fuller in yourself
When deflation ails you
And secure in your moods
Although they may pursue you sullenly;
Fresher than the breath
Of well wishers dishing out advice
And delightful
Even when displeasure stretches ahead.

Be your own vessel
Even when the pressure of weight
Breaks heavily against the waves
Of conformity’s sea,
Or water breaches your door
With formality’s inability
To ally a why to a wherefore
When you want more from your manners.

Stand the banners
That praise and favour
Handed out by family members
Or clan vendors and tribal rivals;
Break your own branch
And plant it deeper than demands
And hang from it your
Own unfurled flag of thanks.

Be grateful of heroes
And champions who have granted
Your life more options
Than the vilified have offered,
And in praise of
The faithful who trod flat grass
In untreated fields just to show the masses
A clean set of heels

And displayed to them
The reality of a different path,
With its pitfalls and furrows,
And unquenchable accomplishments
That follow
Once its end has been reached
And a seat of relief
Has been set for your rest.

Be the one who travels after,
And crafts their own transport;
Who views the scenery
With keener eyes than spy-glasses
And takes the passage because
The cost of not doing so would cast
Your soul to the coalface
To break against its veins;

Reign in the land
Of the last one standing
And brandish gain and loss modestly,
Honestly making a mark
Of promise on whatever dotted line
You find foremost,
And when next you mull the options
Regret not your portion.

HOOKED UP.

I loved her
Colossally
So in order to avoid her purging me
I searched for a Siamese twin splitter
To stick us together,
And keep us that way.

He was unsure
About the merits of it,
And quoted examples
Of star-crossed lovers
Who’d covered their skin with ink,
But I was insistent.

Maybe a join at the hip,
I said, though this is not as hep
As the pelvis,
And is mentioned too much
By those out of touch,
And envious of love.

Perhaps the forearm,
As forewarned is important
When thoughts of lust
Brush past,
Although this reduces the
Chances to grasp when it does.

Maybe the front,
As being glued to her sternum
Would earn us more face time,
Though less breasts
Would be flashed,
And there’s nothing worth that.

So the backbone was mooted,
With grouting to root us
In deep,
But sleep would be fruitless
And the need to be seen
By her is unsuited to such ties,

And being laced at the face
Would cause similar enigmas,
As the chin, cheek or nose
All presuppose
Too close a bond
That would surely sully the view,

And the back of a hand,
Or finger tip glance,
Would stifle demand
And lead to disagreements
About cutlery
At supper time.

So that left the legs,
Or the instep or heel,
But the prospect of racing
Against displaced parents
On sports days
Quickly overcame that suggestion.

So I didn’t hire him,
And instead spoke to her
About our binding,
Whereby she amazed me
With the truth of our partnership,
In so much as we’re joined at the heart.

NAKED.

So I shaved off my beard
And it was weird
How much I feared
Freeing
My chin to leer at me,
As it had been
More than two years
Since I last sheared it
And I’ve steered
A varied
Course since my skin last appeared,
And I expected tears.
But once cleared
Of fluff I was cheered
By the realness
Of its features,
And their agreeable
Endearments,
As they were not smeared
Across the sphere
Of my face or bleared
By time’s gears,
But adhered
To better engineering
Than I thought me
Capable of seeing.