Saturday, 18 December 2010

I Wanna Be George Clooney

I Wanna Be George Clooney

I don’t want to sell flowers on the street
I don’t wanna wear old saffron robes
Put plastic sandals on my feet
I don’t wanna sing songs under a tree
I don’t wanna be a spiritual Moonie
I wanna be George Clooney

I don’t wanna play football on a local team
I don’t want dry sand kicked in my face
Hope for a small town dream
I don’t wanna live in a tent by the sea
I don’t wanna be a guy who’s puny
I wanna be George Clooney

Star struck bum truck
Cleaning up the rich man’s muck
Hollywood Bollywood I’ll do whatever Dolly would

Flash car fast life
Alimony payment to my third wife
Uptown tinsel town I'll be a happy celluloid clown

I don’t want to be a man in an off the rack suit
I don’t wanna live in a suburban sprawl
Shucking corn for my daily loot
I don’t wanna beg on bended knee
I don’t wanna be a dust bowl Zuni
I wanna be George Clooney

I don’t wanna win a contested political seat
I don’t want to argue deals with lawyers
Vote on wars or take the heat
I don’t wanna enter a last minute plea
I don’t wanna be a raving loony
I wanna be George Clooney

*     *     *

Saturday, 27 November 2010

Praising the Persian Pussy

Big Brown Eyes

Those big brown eyes
Those Persian eyes
Those big cat eyes
Glowing at me
Between her thighs
The Persian cries
From big brown eyes
Those glowing cat eyes
In the dark
Where she lies
Those big brown eyes
Smile at me
From unsealed lips
The stutter of cries
Tongue to the milk
Licks at silk
From in between
Those creamy thighs
The shuttered eyes
Those Persian eyes
Those dark cat eyes
Glow at me
Between the sighs
Of big cat cries
Those big brown eyes
Those stirring hips
The moistened lips
Between silken thighs
Those crying eyes
Those brown cat eyes
The big glowing eyes
The sigh from lips
That seal her cries
In opened eyes
Through shuddering thighs
Those Persian eyes
Those big cat eyes
Smile at me
Tell no lies
When I look up
From between her thighs
To gaze in to
Those big brown eyes

*     *     *

Monday, 11 October 2010

Dust In My Eye ..

Cherry Blossom

Our love is as the cherry tree
Whose flowers blossom a single day
A morning zephyr, tender
Casts the fragile petals loose to earth
Dust; their memory fades away

*     *     *

Friday, 1 October 2010

Carnival of Dreams

Fair Ground

“Step right up and come on in come on in to join the mirth”
“Roll on up roll up this story is that greatest show on earth”

It’s everything all around more than a feeling it’s being there
Running through fingers
It’s neon it’s vapours it’s the electrostatic pulses everywhere

Shining spinning reflection of the sparkle in your eye
Laughter in the air and the squeal of delight
Colouring the world a freedom unbound
Hand in hand with tears of joy to cry
Where the lights are forever bright
Up here at the old fairground

Shoes covered in sawdust and sand
A barker shouts above the din
Drop a coin in his hand
Let the show begin

The riverboat ride through the tunnel for lovers
Hide their faces steal a kiss under those covers

Pull back that curtain and peer through the gaps
Progress measured in numbers through her flaps

Coconut husks jumbled and weighted against the punters
Hoopla rings wait for the greedy who think as big hunters

Two bits for cotton candy gifts from that vendor’s new trailer
The prostitute laughs at her paying boyfriend flabby old sailor

Two middle age lovers promenade nightly not hiding away
From crowded stares as furtively
They hold each other and whisper sweet talk

The machinery churns gears whirr a calliope organ blasts
Sound through tubes of steel to
Carnival drifters under that dusty boardwalk

It’s sexual it’s mechanical it’s robotic and endless
It’s terminal it’s tyrannical presents with kindness

All so fragile the life of sequins tinsel and rapturous jubilation
They say that this bliss will lead straight to hellfire damnation


That whirling swirling amusement of the senses is no shortage of extravagance
The opulent abundant indulgence of intellect heralds a richer and truer dance
Thinks the naive moderate youngster preparing to seize life’s first real chance

Opportunity comes knocking and he answers without fears
What’s he to lose this way he’s young yet with many years

No more wasted time on this silly sideshow
Destiny’s calling for serious business below

Parade through the high arch and past that guard on the gate
Leaving this show behind heading downhill to a game of state

Down to that valley I strolled to encounter real life
I studied and learned all conforming to those ways
The mist of confusion removed in protracted days
That boulevard is busy with big troubles and strife

You soon learn this grey stones existence ain’t nice
Work all day ensuring goodness is awarded its right
Struggle to resist you’ll soon give up that good fight
They aren’t trustworthy enough for truthful advice

Don’t listen my friend to those who say that you will gain
Down there is confusion too much sorrow anger and pain

The system in living there is settled for past dreams
That power and glory is a money changer’s schemes

News reports hide or reveal the creepiest sin
While never the lonely only the rich ever win

Although all talk a good storm the prayers for world peace
It’s only an illusion that disguises the dirty palm to grease

War justifies poverty and corporate pharmaceutical addictions
Starvation on televisions gives a community serious afflictions

Rhetoric employed keeping balls spinning in the air
All the falsehoods of history like the bride laid bare

These are the little things that make up every day
Going insane trying to live the sinister world’s way

Hierarchy keeps guessing but it never stops for the rest
Entrenched in accountancy that bureaucracy’s a big test

It’s chance or good fortune not ambitious technique with tools
When witnesses go down it’s fate that can teach us those rules

Only set pieces change as leaders of men come and go between
Backdrops painted in garish pastels that anthropomorphic scene


Down in the valley the shadow people congregate
Down in the valley those silhouettes do anticipate

What arrogances drove me to suppose talent during youth
What conceit that existed allowed me to paint with truth

What vanity I thought with language I could juggle rhyme
What pride inspired a belief that the arts can affect time

Down in the valley the shadow people congregate
Down in the valley those silhouettes do anticipate


“Step right up and come on in come on in to join the mirth”
“Roll on up roll up this story is that greatest show on earth”

Ink on stamped palms washes off like summer rains
The facade entices with a magical mystery name
The wheels keep spinning round and round
Daily lives change in the world of pains
But harmony always stays the same
Up here at the old fairground

The stalls are empty no one comes to play here anymore
Rides are deserted the ghost town is now simple folklore

Everyone is so busy making their deals down in the vale
A marketing industry that’s dying buying to make a sale

That marionette conductor waves his baton
The company strikes up the band
Above diamonds sparkling guides to dreams
Countless stars fill the night sky
One by one I watch as they fall to the earth
Cast down to the dusty tired land

Then a cavalcade of beasts marches through that door
We’ve no time to explain to this world what’s in store

We haven’t a choice in this late day and age
Write the story read the book turn that page


Wow! You can see everything from way up here
When you blink away that blurry and bluish tear

Oh look! There’s my ex-girlfriend standing outside a shop
Still waiting to buy her dreams or for the pennies to drop

And hey! There’s that guy I’d once thought my best friend
He turned out to be like the weather so, it too had to end

Down there it’s my old teacher going about her business
When I learnt how to think I realised she knew even less

I wasted too much of precious time chasing the life that ends
And that trivial parade below isn’t the reality that transcends

Artists beneath the hill try to capture pieces of what’s up here
Vision they show simply mirrors of mass production all unclear
Don’t worry about perspective acidic ideas now they drink beer
They don’t get no blues and that salt water’s a crocodile’s tear

They will do anything to appear all new hip and trendy
Telling a public it’s so cultural it’s media hype friendly

If artists use government power to settle their critical acclaim
When another one comes along then they too share the blame

Social stratification buys new theories of a treasured trash
As long as it fills this space and grabs bagfuls of grant cash

Time won’t be kind to those of this disposable art generation
So enjoy this fleeting moment of fortunate fame an ambition

Being part of a transitory scene can limit potentials for scope
A politics of art that retires future paradigms in a grand hope

No fair ground believers are struggling down at the base of a hill
Those who stomach endowments
Insanely giving up a dream are the ones who’ll survive there still


“Step right up and come on in come on in to join the mirth”
“Roll on up roll up this story is that greatest show on earth”

That devil at the gates tempts me toward the prospect of fate
He’s but an angel disguised in kindness I’ve recognised so late

Leave the material world’s objects back in the past
Why chase the irrelevant things that can’t ever last

We climb that hill ‘cause we know what we’ll find
Laughter dreams and hope fulfil those of our kind

Play with the game of this age a trip beyond reason
Festivals exist for this through each change season

Humanity’s indulgence is the essential ecstatic luxury
It’s simply another truth to set all seeking minds free

Outside these gates where reality awaits
The depression greed and corruption
Outside these gates that sadness berates
The suffering that continues forever
Outside these gates a darkness hesitates
A delusion of true happiness lasting

Embrace eternity’s archetypal representation so divine
Through time the importance will age well as fine wine

Don’t worry about some local in-crowd’s latest fashions
Discover the inner self create thoughts of true passions

Search deep for revelation it exists in this simple line
Discover wisdom beyond words the sweetest sunshine

Open your heart break down the stone walls
Meditate daily connect with those universals

Enjoy all emotions of a love that we feel
Only pleasure and our memories are real

Up here at the fairground
Prodigal homecoming welcome
I’m going where all is as it seems
Everyone knows Love the world around
Playful yet peaceful a paradoxical pandemonium
Get a ticket hard earn easy currency to satisfy dreams

Then come and celebrate tonight with the lost and now found
In the comfort of friends on the wheels at the old fair ground

*     *     *

I’ve given a great deal of thought to the role of the artist both as an active agent in this world and participant observer of our time .. should we be attempting to define our age and illustrate the disparities and inhumanity that cause so much suffering as well as the noteworthy moments of wonder at our distinctively human achievements – should we attack injustice with works of powerful meaning and relevance in hopes that our efforts can sway the minds of those with power, or, is it our job as keepers of the flame of creativity to transcend temporary concerns and fashion works that reveal the universality of the human condition and attempt to reveal truths that provide pleasure and peace of mind ..?

Can artists actually make a difference? Sure, Picasso’s Guernica was a potent anti-war statement, but his Weeping Woman is surely more touching, evocative and moving in it’s revelation of the person within, and these basic traits exist forever whilst particular events are transitory .. war, famine and the hideous consequences of greed are disastrous and evil, but the soul survives – and passing along from one generation to the next the message of what we hold sacred and dear – the mystery of life in all it’s forms and the need for happiness to sustain love, might be a more sincere endeavour ..

I have always believed finding a balance, an interactive relationship with our era of change and it’s concerns whilst investing art with significance and substance that exemplifies the eternal, is necessary and perhaps, eventually, more appreciably enduring ..

I hope you enjoy my poetry; at almost 1500 words this is one of the longest pieces I’ve written and contains some of the most complex rhyming structures I’ve attempted (don’t believe those who say rhyme is dead, poems don’t need to rhyme but sometimes it’s more fun that way)(and I tried my hardest to maintain the rather complicated formatting for the blog, but it still isn't perfect, oh well). If you have any thoughts on the work please contact me through my usual email address or by private message on FB. And, if you enjoyed the poem, and believe any of what it is about, then once I get my tongue outta my cheek and my heart outta my hands, I’ll see you up at the fairground ..

For another enjoyable take on the theme of the ‘Fairground’ visit this site:  The Bontempis and listen to my cousin Bill’s band .. they are based in the Cayman Islands and have recently been touring the UK.

*     *     *

Thursday, 26 August 2010

On the Back of a Postcard ..

Endless Love

A life without love .. Is a poet without words
A poet without words .. Is a body without spirit
A body without spirit .. Is a day without light
A day without light .. Is a flower without colour
A flower without colour .. Is a poem without verse
A poem without verse .. Is a rhyme without rhythm
A rhyme without rhythm .. Is a phrase without pulse
A phrase without pulse .. Is a text without heart
A text without heart .. Is a heart without blood
A heart without blood .. Is a sea without water
A sea without water .. Is a moon without sun
A moon without sun .. Is a word without reason
A word without reason .. Is a self without sense
A self without sense .. Is a sense without being
A sense without being .. Is a being without soul
A being without soul .. Is a soul without life
A soul without life .. Is a life without love

*     *     *
Something sweet to keep you going round and round until the carnival comes to town. Promises, promises, but the real question is .. ?

*     *     *

Saturday, 3 July 2010

Four Seasons


Springtime bursts upward
Flowering toward the sun
Revealing new life

Waves break across rocks
Tidal pools anticipate
Summer brings fresh hope

A spirit soars high
Tracing the downward spiral
Of leaves in autumn

Winter moon melting
Dreams of ancient history
I forget the past

*     *     *

Friday, 30 April 2010

Princess of Perjah

My Iranian Bride

Where are you now my Iranian bride?
Your caramel complexion toughened by time
Moonlight smiled on dreams and cast you from the garden
Provided hope and work as harsh as the fruitless desert summers

Where are you now my Iranian bride?
Your almond eyes painted with ochre and olive
The roots of happiness buried deep within our memories
Those long flowing garments a wedding gown crowning history

Where are you now my Iranian bride?
Your softened belly weak with multiple births
A cousin’s hand that stole you from my evening shadow
Gave you children rich as the earth we ploughed in the morning

Where are you now my Iranian bride?
Mother of pearl shimmer in your ancient smile
Knowledge forbidden like the restless nights we sweated
Erasing traces of shared lives as sand washed by ocean currents

Where are you now my Iranian bride?
Locks as dark as the treacle in your sweets
Your perfumed flesh intoxicating incense to my lively senses
Praying secret thoughts of years past together shaping destiny

Where are you now my Iranian bride?
Feet softened with pumice from the dusty trail
Jasmine and lavender oil betraying your heritage to the west
Veiled emotions captured forever in visions wide as an Arabian sky

Where are you now my Iranian bride?
Lips puckered and outlined with hazelnut henna
Gentle fingers that eased my burdens from those heavy days
Reflections of the future in your ancestral culture taught me wisdom

Where are you now my Iranian bride?
Skin tingling with a burning of the afternoon sun
Offering bread to strangers from the oasis of your heart
Returning to the land of your childhood to walk proud among men

* * *

For Samina .. with the eternal love that can only exist when time and nature conspire to separate beauty from life too soon .. may your dreams be ever peaceful.

Thursday, 15 April 2010

Sundance Mountain

Shorter Days

High on Sundance Mountain:
above the tree line, into tundra, glacial;
looking out across the Mummy Range
watched by raven eyes
translucent, purple, passive.

Under mushroom capped boulders,
I dreamt of hunting and gathering.

Eagle feathers,
teeth, bones, wampum shell
pearl glint off cue ball smooth pebble
ancient scarred land
ocean breeze history
of sundown states, sets flags a’wavin’.

The Painted Desert
reflects a bleached sand message,
on the palm
of the hand, too busy
raising wheat, and children,
to catch the news;
new wars –
monumental errors, hardware software,
gangster mob wars, police brutalities,
heroin heroes die, people on streets,
victimless crimes.

White-boy rednecks throw back Coors lite,
swear by th’almighty,
spit into the wind and cuss,
the Jews, the blacks, the commies, the fags
they’re common, enemies.

The polished political dome, all magnificence,
looks out across the harvest
bangs the gavel on empty silos.

Copper tarnishes green on golden flames,
Ellis island-landing immigrants seeking fame,
investment, investiture, multi-national disease.

Wall Street drops,
red lines trace innocent blood
a thousand miles from ..
long, warm, summer evenings
under weepin’ willow branches
at Dead Horse Creek,
suckin’ on agaves, and sarsaparilla.

Humid thoughts
of thirteen year old memories;
tree house dreams of
Hardy Boys adventures
Dennis the Menace comics
and young girls’ budding breasts,
not stopping to think
of shorter days

Wednesday, 3 March 2010

Hame, At Last

A poetic composite of snapshot episodes exploring my discovery of and harsh entry into another side of life. As this piece, written in West Scottish dialect explains, I was an innocent and naive child encountering a depressingly dreary existence only a short bus ride away from the massive lawns, swimming pools and towering castles of my pre-teen years. Although I had made earlier less successful attempts, I wrote this after reading Alison Dermott and Hugh McDiarmid and other poets who often write in this vernacular speech pattern style. I do hope it rings true.


Ah kin onli be Scoatish when ahm naw there.
Ah wuz born in Ingeland
so they toald me
aw the time.
But ah’d never bin there.
Ah moved tay Jurminy when ah wuz wee
and hud a nanny there
who tawt me tay say ya fer yes
an ma parents sed aye.

Ah hud tay get aw these jabs tay go tay Amerika,
an so ah thawt
mebbe it wuz in a jungle.
An when ah got there
ev’rybudy asked me whit haggis wuz like,
an did we come o’er on the bridj,
an ah didnae no whit a haggis wuz
an there wuznae a bridj.

Anyway, ah wuz aboot eleven uhr twelve, ah think,
An ah wuz back in Scoatland an it wuz in the Awtum
cuz it wuz gettin dark urly
much erlier than ah’d ever rememburd,
cuz ahd bin growin up oot in the States
whur the awtum drifted intay twylite,
naw lived in it aw the year roon,
an ah wuz ridin this bus
fay wan part ay Grenuck intay the toon sentuhr,
an ah mustuhv got on the rang bus,
cuz ah ended up goin the lang way roon,
up thru the Stroahn an aw awfy places like that,
whit always lookt aw dark.

Noo here ah wuz, a wee’un fay Amerika (whur ah hud a red bike, an only e’er took a bus when goin tay skool-a big yella wan-ye musta seen thum on the telly), aw frekels
an shag harecut,
denim jaykit on like a wee hardman …
ecology sine sewed on wan shulder an a pease patch on the uther ..

(mah furst gang fite, wuzne like in the komix or oan the telly or nuthin at aw:
ah’d asked whit time the qwahry boys wuhr comin up the hill and whit the battle plans wuhr,
an this uther fella that mah cuzin had her eye on, toald me,
“jist pick up a hawf brick an throw it doon at thim.”
Ah wuz awfy disappointed as ye kin imajin) …

An ah wuz thinking aboot it,
wi this bus lumberin
its way up n doon
these rubbish tips
whit lookt like roads
had been
carved thru thum
an aroon these grey shells
whit lookt like
bombed oot warehooses,
but whur coonsil flats
whit hid peepel livin in thum.
An thay aw hud dark closes
that seemed tay swally ye if ye went intae thum.

It lookt like wurld war too wuz still goin oan
but nayb’dy hud toald these peepel it wiznae.
An auld wuhmen sat oan durty steps
smokin fags rolt up fay dowts,
uther wuhmen wuz hangin oot clays
jist below chimneys wut wur spewin oot soot.
And thur wuz wee’uns runnin aboot
wi nay clays on
oot in the street,
an thur hare wuz aw stickin oot like it wiznae e’er washt,
an mucky wee faces wi big sad eyes
wuz lookin up at me
sittin oan tap o’ the bus.

An Italyun ice van came up fay doon the burn
ontay the street as it wuz
playin this happy wee tinkly sound
Way whit wuz suppoz tay be like muzik
tay make ye wantay buy an ice lolly,
but really jist made me wantay be sumwhere else.
Ah wuznae shur if ah shuld greet,
as mah eyes whur aw wellin up wi salty tastin tears
but ah didnae no who tay cry fer
just then the conductress came up and sed,
“nay worries son, Ah kin see your house fay here”
an ah thawt, “och well, its naw so bad, ah’ll be hame soon.”
Then ah realized, ah didnae hae a hame,
just a place tay live.

* * *

Wednesday, 10 February 2010

Migration + Memory = Identity

Memory Man (memories of migration)

Travelling here
Arriving there
An airport the docks
Or train station
Driving in circles to
A new destination

The market square
Distribution dissemination
Amalgamation of the human population

Economic rivalry A political survival to be free
Dig up the old roots Plant a fresh seed

Memories of love And all the things that we gain
Memories of heartache Those memories bring pain

I’m your memory man:
I remember for our future
Daughters and sons
Another simple human
With no alternative plan
Like yesterday morning
I’m trapped in the past
I can recall the world’s things
That don’t ever last


Digging for the human memory
Excavating in the soil for the soul of history
Discover a past to provide us a contemporary identity
Carbon dating swamp life diamond light Reveal to us eternal mystery

Fossilised fragments Of evolution In the dirt
From those days When dinosaurs Roamed the earth
Fire and ice Moving continents Across the great Divide
Meteor showers Shifting sands Rising tides Oceans that Stretched far and Wide

Cave man Neanderthal Mammoth and sabre tooth tiger
Sticks and stones spears and shields Stories 'round a campfire
We’re writing a book
And burning literature for heat in the funeral pyre

The oracles and poets Predict an ancient Grecian sage
Tragedies’ comic performers On antiquity’s Elizabethan stage
These are some of the things
Tomorrow’s child May consign to history’s page


From the pyramids of Egypt I gained second vision
In Mayan temples of stone I committed sins of submission
Building cathedrals with arches I rejected old gods through omission
As an industrial magnate I grew rich Introducing new forms of toxic pollution

Painters and sculptors Who brought us a Renaissance
Byzantine plots in the palace A sultan’s whirwind romance
These things had their moment And missed their lost chance

A cycle of centuries Millennia returning again
The sword truly is mightier Than the quill and the pen
As the same mistakes keep occurring What we call progress yet never learn

I’m your memory man:
I remember for they
Who have come and gone
Another simple human
With no ulterior plan
Lost in time
I’m chained to the past
The future is coming
But those days won’t last


Destiny repeats
And repetition is a fait au Complete
Victories earned through blood
And machinery’s heartbeat
To gain a few acres of fallow earth
Turn healthy agriculture to meat

You can see the fruits of time’s passage In the palm of my hand
Witness the seeds of hard labour Through the scars on the land
Watch nightly broadcasts As oil tankers dump their waste on the sand

Jitterbug jive and the twist That taught us to dance
For love of a fair maiden
Knights would joust with a lance
Events that unravelled
In each period’s particular Circumstance

Those fedora hats we wore Through the jazz age
Flappers’ dresses feathers and boas Were all the rage
These are some of the things
Consigned now to history’s page


New paradigms of thought Are a sensational notion
Inventions change living Setting wheels into motion
Discoveries made creations uncovered
Above the moon’s surface Rocket ships hovered

Secret air flights to foreign lands
Are the means and the ways
Fingernails chewed down
As the sentenced mark out the days
Special jurisprudence
Internment of hostages is the new craze

Gears and springs other winding things
The ticking of clocks buzzing of watches
A prisoner of conscience alone in a cell
Staring blindly at walls covered in notches

I’m your memory man:
I remember the wars battle weapons and guns
Another simple human with no alternative plan
Out of real time I’m chased by my past
Blown in the wind hearing a siren
As I am tied to the mast


The book has been written on tablets of stone
We translated the script from our own flesh and bone
A narrative forever missing the last page
No past and no history a freethinking new age

Continuous migration
A change of the season
A past full of memory
A future unknown
Spring always brings hope
Autumn leaves us
With memories alone

I’m your memory man:
I remember the end
When all is said and done
Another simple human
With no alternative plan

Nature’s struggle
Survive to be free
Put down strong roots
Grow a new family tree
* * *

I approached the Memory & Migration piece in much the same way I usually write for themed poetry projects .. research into my subject, notes of various phrases and thoughts that occur as I read and look, the beginnings of an outline, basic rhythm/rhyme structure, syntactical and syllabic edit, read through, edit again, review the subject, expand the structure to develop the cycle – consider repetition as device – a continuity that links aspects of the piece (it’s a masculine thing), reinforce ‘classical’ and historical references and study the parody, edit and write, look for the fun stuff in it – rhyme and word juggling .. edit and read ..

Sure, this method could become restrictive, locked in a loop of creative exclusion, but I enjoy operating in this matrix of function and find it extremely liberating ..

I don’t find it ‘sporting’ or fair to my subject to write in a personal, intuitive expose' type of manner when working to brief – and yet I generally enjoy ‘the finished product’ of these poems more (although all language is subject to change and re-interpretation) .. I reveal myself to all and their exes through this blog, yet I can shield my self behind a veil of universality and “fictionalised accounts” of the occasional happenings in and around my life while still engaging an intimate and honest expression of my own feelings .. it’s a freedom I assure you .. however, every word of the story is true - according to history, and memory ..

The Memory & Migration exhibition including visual art from the
Cruiser international art collective showed at Deda, Derby, through 27th March 2010 ..

* * *

Tuesday, 12 January 2010

She Left Me

She Left Me

She left me
In a howling wind
By a steaming train
On a misty morning
Beside the rusting rails
In the damp drizzle
Of the Derby dales


The destination list
In my hand
Telling me
Every departure
Is heading
Due south
Out of town
And I’m standing
Under an overhang
In a shadow
Eyeing the snapshot
Of forgotten promises
Reminding me
Of dharma bums
And Hobo days

It’s always easier
For the one who goes
Than for the one who stays ..

I strolled along the tarmac
Edged back
Onto the endless platform

Stretching like a highway
From yesterdays hollow dream
Into a never-ending tomorrow
Of sorrow
Pulling me toward it
Pushing me away

Crashing into my life
Like a runaway
Careering out of control
Onto the sidelines
Of my misaligned
Daily grind


You came in like a thief
You stole the moment
Like a movie star
Shedding a past love
In the sequel to
Last summer’s blockbuster
In the discovery of
New roles
To play
In the limelight
Of red carpet fantasies
That populate
These fleeting instants

Shared glances
Like flashbulbs igniting
A glimpse of your cloudy soul

You flew into
My threadbare existence
On your magic carpet
Pulled the worn rug
From under my faltering ankles
The last fraying
Strings of sanity
Linking me to the reality
Supporting the foundation
Of crumbling bricks
I’d built my shaky house
On the rocks ..

So pour me one too
And we’ll
Skim the surface
Of the slippery slope
And slide
Into the future
Like a baby
A waiting
Midwife’s arms
You arrived
As a carpetbagger
Hawking your wares in public
Selling me
Every trick in the book
Pulling a rabbit from every hat
Every last drop of my blood
That was sucked from my veins
Went down the drain
With the rest of the waste
And all the heartbreak
Into the sewer pipe
Of an aching sigh
That rumbled and purred
In your throat

Gargling a mimic
Of the sounds of
True love
Spontaneous emotion
That captured my heart
Snared in forbidden passion
The few remaining seconds
Shared in a life worth living
I took a breath
And held it
How long can I hold this

Breath I thought
Exhale I thought
Breath exhale
Don’t breath
Play along
Don’t play

Play at Love
Play Be Real
Play Dead

Why Play
With Love?


As I cast my sail to the wind of change, turning away from the rocky shores where many have lost their hearts swimming against the tide of time, I offer this fragment of a tale ..

With passion, regret, longing, anger, fear and all the other confused and altered memories that accompany a separation of soul mates, I've tried to present a personal yet fictionalis
ed account of that emotive sense of lost love as it manifests itself in the early stages ..

As an artist I try to open myself to all the potentialities life presents – I believe that dreams require effort and risk and taking chances is essential to growth .. and this piece is but another examination of the wanderings of a poet through the encounters that create those opportunities for experience ..