Green trees 
black industry
morning mist
 
dank odours 
clank of locomotive
painted metal surfaces
gloom
 
in dawns sweet
sour dance
flung seagulls 
weeds in a heap
lawns bristling with daisies
 
weeping willows 
grey against the floating dead brown leaves
deep sleep 
breathes clouds

two socks on a chair
a comb on the floor
some red hair
in its teeth

twang of cycle spokes
wheels of day
sounds travelling 
far into space

THE NEIGHBORHOOD

I walked down the corridor
at seven this morn
I quietly knocked at your door.
turned away
”Too early''
you say.
Smell of coffee
freshly brewed
not too early for you.

I don't fit in this place
there is no connection
with one into two
I am the third face
looking through a window pane
never a part of anything
it''s time to find my own,
I need to go back home..

He portrays,
demonstrates,
and illustrates,
in mother nature
what you need
to naturally
imitate,

then you live
in love
and peace.

God

Men like gravel & wine
big lungfuls of space
to breathe
like biting on oxygen
and hitting a six

Women get their swag on
opening windows
gulping Universal life
eating raw & meditating

Food & Drink & Sex
Meat & Wine & Orgasms

The clock chimes Midnight
The woman in me pulses
sleepy veins surge awake

I hit a six
I sleep the sleep
of a Buddha
at one in
mindfulness tranquillity

creative imagination

you create thoughts
visions from your rife imagination
single ones will love to share
what you deem to create,
in the wildest of dreams
they can't imagine…
how love can simply flow
from a single glow
and
seed electric currents
of such high voltage
none can hope to blow….

blood runs
the nickel guns

creek fed dreams
slip
through whiskey amber alms

choked visions in deisel city buses
and bright cathedral rules at sundown

poplars and moonlight
cedars and wolves

there are casks of mortal
sins sleeping
in the cool cellars

the touch of
clarity
on working girl hands

cheap tobacco
and bitter skies

the clouds are wounded
on the dusks bruise
and I want to kiss
your scars in the
sancity of your room

He held her like a poem,
a breath of words,
a body of thoughts,
sentiments expressed in subtle metaphors,
that drove his heart to beat faster ;
never to feel a warmth of hand, 
a breast;
imagined,
spun into fairy-tales, unreal. 

The empire will end soon
But it’s ok
I’m a poet
I am familiar with change
The grand reconstruction of it all.

In fact I like
Because I’m a poet
Because I get to note it all down
Or else no one else will.

We’re a dying breed
No fame can be achieved
And that is sad
But it’s ok
I’m a poet
I’m used to it.

So when the empire falls
And explodes
Into golden dust and shimmering pieces of crystal
I will not be sad
I will sit and watch.

Middle of the night
car abandoned
on the side of the road.
No cell phone signal
for miles around.

This is just great,
he muttered,
beginning to walk.
The perfect end
to a hellish day.

Looking around
the road was empty,
not a soul to be found.
Suddenly he got the feeling
he wasn't alone.

Twisted giggles
coming from leafless trees
caused him to stop in his tracks.
Where the hell was he?
How did he get on this path?

Part 1

I have been the silent soul
watching from the shade

my hands stopped bleeding
when reality poked her head in
I was overcome with flames
still, I became the mourning

hollow, I could only murmur
as the birds in your garden
whistled a hushed melody
I shuffle, wrapped in their song

the ash of my grief flakes away
outstretched hands pile with white lace
so I wander lost and faceless
knowing there is no going home today