Unbalanced books.

If the fail safe tower
Should fall then how are
We to mount the surrounding
Walls to secure our safety.
Bring other place debris,
Left over from every
Known recess, to shore up
The high vaulted cave in?
Or allow it to settle in situ
Without any rituals
Designed to improve the
Defence of our saving.

Turning riled.

Fermenting processes aside,
It’s good to notice
The stages changing
In recognition of the
Initial prescription.

Preventing words colliding
And strengthening
The arrangements,
Before presenting
Their destruction.

Trials by error.

I tried,
But the effort was forlorn,
As the prone outline on
The brand new bedroom carpet testified to.

I tried again,
This time with a polythene sheet
Beneath and about me,
And, although the result was the same,
At least the soft furnishings were saved.

I tried somewhere else,
But the conclusion only confirmed
That it didn’t really matter where
I was for my defeat to be planted.

I tried whilst moving,
But it finished as before,
And with a quite unnerving jolt,
And not only was I broken, but
So were parts of the people who had
To free me from the wreckage.

I stopped trying,
And was relieved when I
Settled to have the same
Silhouette as everyone else.

Treasure buries.

So far
As our radar
Is further,
Our fortunes
Will chart.

And fast
As we forecast
Its compass,
Our contract
Will last.

As long
As we belong
To someone,
Then summer
Will come.

And soon
As we taste
Its costume,
Our coarseness
Will swoon.

Train set.

The light at the end of the tunnel has gone out,
and now there are only the seamless over coated
clothes of night. No surface available for a shadow
to show against, or indication that one could ever
arise inside this funeral suited place, where even
an undertaker would wear white cotton below his
neck and not this coarse uncoloured Melton cloth.

I touch my skin a little to see if it will bristle under
my fingertips, and it tells me that I am still here and
not fallen from myself on the way inside this funnel;
for I do not know any more which track I’m on, or
what road goes where, as the throat hole ahead has
choked before its time and all ways seem the same.

Behind I know begins beyond my ears, but only
when I turn, and ahead is usually gauged correctly,
but not now, or I imagine ever, as my tinder has
been dampened in the dark and no spark will take
there again or lamp lend itself for the drying;
therefore I must trawl along what buckled rails
support my gravity the best and find their inevitable
end without life’s illuminations to guide me.

Tour de force.

The blowing wind
Is an awkward thing,
As it is always in the same place:
I rode anti-clockwise,
Then clockwise twice,
And it was still there in my face.

Tomorrow’s life today.

Unable to deal with the comfort
Of a blade, or application of a needle
Upon the compass of my soul;
Blood tests or opiates injected,
With the best of most other invasions
Penetrating to the bone.
Tomorrow’s mass inspected
And samples from all angles taken,
Composing the complete picture;
Left in the right place in order
To approximate the expected destination,
And probably too soon.

Together.

As long as none of us are sickly,
And times’ turn is quick we’ll
Be fine.

And the meagerness of wick light
Will be all we’ll need to stick tight
And combine.

Toby.

......My little slender thing
Gone round with food and other
Sustenance unable to be shaken off,
And thus adopted.
......More faithful than the grateful
Souls whose liberation from arrest
Was wrought by strangers from
Across the worlds extent,
......And sweeter than completion
Driven by the labour of uneven
Creatures once unknown, but
Now at work as one;
......Wiser than the open eyes of
Age old sages who scorn
Sleep in awe of knowledge
Learned in lieu of night,
......And more beautiful than youth in all
Its glory and acclaim before the
Passing days conspire to crack
Its transient perfection,
......Though wearier than either of us
Thought possible before we let him in
The middle to expand in all expedience,
And separate our pallet space.

Tobogganing.

Dysfunction is endemic;
Heads smashing well
Before feet first rushed in.
Convention problematic,
Spread evenly
Across the tops remaining.

To let.

When.......age...........as............my
I..........Craven........mixing........hand
have.......ideologies....of............I
come.......shall.........the...........will
to.........be............species.......lay
my.........ripped........has...........waste
senses.....from..........not...........the
and........their.........succeeded.....human
realised...foundations,..in............race
that.......stripped......creating......and
my.........of............a.............make
tolerance..praise........peaceful......vacant
benefits...and...........coexistence...this
no.........returned......And...........place
one,.......to............if............once
I..........their.........this..........again.
will.......homelands,....is............Apparently
rise.......whilst........not...........the
and........all...........agreed,.......planet
make.......peoples.......then..........is
known......will..........with..........wetting
the........be............one...........itself
error......repatriated...sweet.........in
of.........to............wave..........grand
my.........theirs,.......of............anticipation.

Topped.

Is love natural in the natural world, or reserved
For those fit to ask, and therefore is the
Loss of such a loss to us alone or felt
By all involved in one life’s course.
Are the things spinning in the wild aware of
Why they do so and what does with them,
Or are they simply automated for
Their birth and life and death.
If so then the struggle of my life’s battle
With the void of this world’s bubble
Should have burst it years ago
And set me bustling free.

Tip.

He wouldn’t even hold
His mother’s smoke damaged hands,
Not that any fire had flicked by her
And carried off a finger, or raised
Unearned blisters or strands of
Ash lingered; only tobacco stains
Kissed her and its stink pissed there,
And her hands held the rumours of death;
The blooms that took breath from
The charnel house gardens of want.

Time’s house declaration.

As your gaze flicks through
the windows of drawing rooms
in Bayswater, or similar views,
you realise that the occupants
are so far removed from the
tribes behind the terraced streets
as to be almost a different species.

It’s not their fault, of course, or
anyone’s, it’s simply their careworn
brick that has been overestimated
for centuries – a formula’s conclusion –
presented from the front of the room
by people who could for those who
best understood.

But time has taken itself seriously
enough of late to re-evaluate these ends,
and modify them accordingly, and though
mediocrity has shown its loathsome face,
it has not entirely replaced the past,
and therefore hope is sustained that
common sense will still find room for all.

Time goes sideways somedays.

The steeper sides
Of deepest dreams
Informed your morning.

Winding hours
Found you wanting
Afternoon too soon.

Horse race ends
And tea beginnings
Hiccoughed the evening.

Old star skies
Dispatched the day
And praised obliquely.

Throughout the year.

Can you hurry
Yet move very
Smart,
Though still
Stay
Tuned;
To fly
As trust
Kept tender,
Flocked over
Known wonder
We enter.

Through the tubes.

I ate it in my head
When I first heard it,
And said it with my head
When I worded it;
Now it’s gone out of my head
To be asserted
And has left my head a residence
More sturdy.

Three strikes ago.

The start of the beginning,
And eye of the beginning,
And finish of the beginning.

The first part of the middle,
And pivot of the middle,
And last bit of the middle.

The coming of the end,
And centre of the end,
And going of the end.

Those c***s next door.

Wherever they are
They’ve not been there long,
As the coffee is warm,
And the oven’s still on.

There are clothes on the floor,
And a bed full of sheets,
But when you look close
There is nothing you’d keep.

He took her for a fool as well,
Spending the dwelling’s cost.
Returned home to Sicily
And left her rather lost.

She took turns around the town,
And came back in one piece;
Found the bottom of a bottle
And watched its depth increase.

They know, they do.

They say some days
Are cursed;
These days
Our ways
Are worse.