He works,
a dialogue of tide ebbs and flows.
He works,
a paradigm of clouds tantalise triumphantly in procession.

He engages with the polemics of a ceiling's defects of character,
beauty happens.
He finds the line and talks with a wall's memories,
beauty happens

The door shuts behind,
key turns, footsteps
stravege after
a tedious shift;

eyes lift up
then revert back
to telly, magazine,
PS3 and tablet.

The dining table
is empty yet cluttered--
inhabited by non-edible,
non-essential stuff.

"There should be
something or other
in the fridge,"
a mouth points.

"Got that, thanks."
Footsteps stravege back,
that's what it feels like
to be a meal-ticket.

The door slams shut.

Cold as water, the escalator cascades.
Floating away, channelled by glass,
I'm out of this shiny mall
and home, via more machines,
to my shuttered room.

The bed is tender, the lamp touch sensitive.
(hands splintered by age,
mottled skin a colour blind test)

I'm hollowed out to a small moment pinched tight.
Within the light is bluish
like the sun shining through ice,
or snow.

Politicula

cold and crumbling circles take us
breathed by broods of basilisks make us

blinding minds to yawning flaws, metal shards

the dead man's cards

basilisk bards

despair

The words of prophets nourish

the curds of profits flourish

political genome linked

watch the planet decay, we blinked

the obvious is there

oppressive games pick their

players like FBI or MI6, KGB, or CIA

corporatic incomes pay

rise rise rise, a bully's knuckle

See the old man creep around
slowly through his empty house.
His slippers hardly make a sound,
he's quiet as a mouse.

He shuffles 'round from wall to wall
peering at pictures hanging there.
'Ere night is through he'll look at all
each one checked with anxious stare.

Next to come, all closets opened
clothes and contents, all, he'll search
resulting in puzzlement deepened.
By now his tired old legs lurch.

The First of May.

Pink dawn
Blackbird
The first of May
*****************

Newer ones:-

Pink satin
Black impresario
Spring

((Cliché's:-

Pink sky at night
Shepherd's delight
Pink sky in the morning
Shepherd's warning.

March winds and April showers.))

Lost in the colours 
Of the sky 
The blackbird's voice

In the pink mist
The blackbird's song
Spring morning

Pink mist
Midday moods
Grey rain

free kisses
flown all about man and woman
pops kiss us
so do moms
that’s no exception

gal or guy

all free lips of parents apply

kiss is just a sign of pure affection
between two humans
and I haven't mentioned

lips

so I grant it

kiss, is just a kiss
a free and friendly kiss
so don't anyone it miss.

Me And My…

In the faint shadow of tide,
I still feel wanting there.
Just short of perdition’s pride,
almost touching despair.

Does it matter who left who,
this ache will never heal.
I placed a life with you,
thinking it was real.

Ha! the fool lord above!
following that well worn trail.
She could never give love,
it was always doomed to fail.

Better to have loved than not,
am I really such a deluded fool.
I had such a simple thought,
that love belonged inside a rule.

Stealthy stepping from the alley, moving in the dark
Killer went patrolling, the little garden park

Gray and black, the shadows, corners full of alone
There were figures in the fog, but they were all of stone

Killer watched the paths and by-ways, he didn’t miss a thing
Almost silent feathers heard, as a cagey owl took wing

Senses honed to sharpness; chasing monsters made them so
He sniffs the air for odors, his eyes run to and fro

wrapped this apt cut
healed with a stones graze

heaviness
a density
thick like a falling chord
on the floor

an echo leaning
on a doorframe

Im a million mile
run

and I feel your eyes
digging fast
the history soil
smoothed

the rain dogs slept
there
stirring in the storms

their cunning stealth
rich with snarls
placated in whines

theres no suite
of pleasure
no scar pallid
curved

glittered sunset
surest broken

verve of no other