Under the little stars,
I abide still in your shelter
Shielding me from the night wind
Swindling my connection to you.
And under your sweet pitch
I savor every moment like eating peach,
Your body warmth against my temple
Gives me this ethereal feeling.

.
Helga Moses
who lives in a converted stable,
among shagged out donkeys
and a lone llama with attitude
near Mangotsfield,
along with her black cat Beelzebub
bunions, oxygen mask and cylinder
and her fire escape trade convictions,
has a painting circa eighteen something
of a long-haired bearded oik
draped in off-white bedsheets
that hangs skewiff on a nine inch nail
above the cast-iron mantlepiece
festooned with knick-knacks.
one of which, a silver menorah
bound in gaffer tape

Sometimes I feel like a spot on the ground
When I open my mouth and I don’t make a sound,
But really I’m not just a spot that you call
I’m just so big that I’m not seen at all.

the old cat wanders in from the cold
and dullness of winter
his thoughts are unaffected
they are stable

I am an old man,
also, stable in my thought
nothing new to speak of
and I am comfortable with that

I, like most people,
am not special

only the cat thinks otherwise

that's nice

if one is looked upon as special,
and obviously is,
that is just observation

but to be looked upon as special
when one is not,
now, that is special;

Each time she looks looks at me with those eyes
My heart skips with zest through the skies
Making me wonder why she is so cute
Her countenance driving me mute

Pink lips
Slightly parted revealing
Bud that sips
Men's destiny

In bottle she is red
In clothing she is a sheep
In hunger a bread
In the middle of the sea a ship

Ship sailing men to early grave
Food choking men to death
Sea infested with mad waves
Crushing and sinking men to mother earth

It’s that soft salacious voice I hate.
I’m sorry I keep on cursing at you,
Expecting you to get red in the face;
The names I call you would get me arrested
By the fashion police.
Can’t they program you to swear?

Over and over, “keep left...keep left,”
Damn it, there’s a fucking dying deer in that lane, ok?
It’s convulsing on the ground, broken, bleeding,
It’s antlers lifting its head to the sun,
Knowing a different sleep is coming to it...

.
worries at zero and some parts of London,
my all-time hero, the great Ove Fundin.
Swiss roll and custard and Boot Hill and bikes
these are a few of my favourite likes.

methanol perfume and A Perfect Circle.
Germany now, but for Angela Merkel
no, that's not true, it were but for the rhyme,
Sweden and Ingrid would best please my time.

No hint of snow this winter day
as I sneak through the December world.
All hints of autumn sent away
by breeze that makes the high limbs sway.

A step or two then stand and wait
trying to spot what might be seen.
A slight movement makes me hesitate...
just a squirrel seeking a mate.

The sun reclines slowly toward the west
and temperature begins to fall.
Is the sun seeking a long night's rest
now that the woods are all undressed?

We all come to go......................
The light vessel kicked about
and when the one saw light
out from the darkness
he cried and cried
as we all shared in joy
the one’s arrival.

For the rest of his life
he would cry and also smile
when we are on the exit route
upon his shoulders
he will share our burden
as we smiled
ere he arrived
now he will cry again
but for a wee while
and also smile

Once upon a time
Letting all align
Getting through a line
Pulling hard the twine

Every thought on mind
Gazing through the hind
All along like blind
Only get behind

To be seen ahead
Blindly set forget
Getting rid to set
Never met at then

Peeping through the side
Looking all of kind
Slowly walk remind
At last set aside