My Angel Of Light

Your heart sings to me this beautiful wondrous melody, it is like spring it all come to life.
When I stare into your eyes for the first time, it was like being sucked into a whirl pool, but instead of drowning I did float.
As we held hands I remember the soft touch which echoed to my soul.
The waves that crashed as we walked a long the beach was like the rhythm of my flowing heart.
What happened that day was like a journey to heaven, where I seen the radiance of your inner world.
Though outside the world was Jealous, for us it was inner peace.
You are reason for life and your love is the air i breathe, the very need to exist.
The greatest feeling that there is, is being with you and nothing else can contend.
This is the the journey of love and I have never wanted more, you are my angel of light.

In Your Denial

In your denial I threw a line to you when I seen you were drowning.
In your denial I caught your fall when you were fell from grace.
In your denial I pulled you from the fire when you were burning.
In your denial yet still you would not believe.
In your denial you turn your back on me.
In your denial you thought you could get further than the son.
In your denial you slipped to the void into the life you shouldn’t know.
In your denial you test the hand of fate what have you done you don’t belong here.
In your denial your free will still remains.
In your denial you blamed me when all was lost and you inside when all the darkness took the light.
In your denial you say you are right but still it is wrong.
In your denial all I want was to set you free and bring you back to life.
In your denial don’t become lost. lost just ceases to be not carry on.
In your denial you fade to black and sail out on your own.
In your denial you justified in your deeds you waste away.
In your denial I severed the ties when you were bound by the void you made your self.
In your denial I hope there comes a day you fear is gone.
In your denial tell me how does it feel to live a lie.
In your denial you deny me once again.
In your denial carry on if you must go your way.
In your denial you will come to crawl back to me at the end.

On Her Last Days

Don’t you let go but still I don’t know. it beaks my heart but pain remains.
just one last thought before you spread you wings the moment will never slip away, I know that you tried but still you are gone.
Close your eyes hear me say one last word, there is so much left to say though I never got to say.
You were a wonderful woman my friend my love, the tears fall like rain you are someone I will never replace, I will miss you so.
Something in the silence beckons me I must carry on, what a wonderful life I wanted you to know I loved you so.
As the night calls it so hard letting go of the space that now remains empty, all that you are the memory will remain.
Though the days have come to an end the beautiful memories will live on for ever, because of you I believe.
I will always remember you now and for ever more, I remember the years but i will try to walk tall.
As Long as you have been at my side what a wonderful life we had.
I just feel lost but lost is cease to be not carry on, Into light may you fall and into the light may you follow, find you peace tonight and soon my day will come.


A dewy path,

bowed snowdrops,

footprints on the grass.

You are not here now;

the door is closed.

I see the tomatoes

at attention,

potatoes’ in the grey earth;

the hoe, leaning,

the little scoop,

shed door off its hinge.

Your seat is as it was,

pink and comfy,

the curtains drawn, just so.

The books are on the table.


They wait.

For your lovely eyes

Two More Poems About My Self

1. Dreso.

I was eager, proud, and resolute
and I had yet to recognise
only very little
of my Will
inhaled talking, filled
the breath
with words exhaled

like moths
or wasps or worse
the ear made
the dirty feet of flies.

I did a lot I guess
I thought it play
resolutely eager
on subjects made of aether

and behaved, like oneness
was undoing his zipper
behind your back.
You can remember

standing on a stool
while you changed
a light, bulb
in your mouth
standing on a chair
on a couch
to reach the fitting?

Such thoughts were I
found nudging on
their unstable platforms
thoughts which made you
grimace, I simply
did not realise
this branch of mankind bandaged
held together by an anguish
of monopolised protections
and the unsaid relied on by Denial

to condition, shape, craft,
mind superluminal
conditions I said mind-control
to low flying estimates
of Ambition great and detrimental.



2. Al-Fur Altitudes.

Small furies, nothing major,
in a way Society was a method
to achieve an altitude
in which the ‘I’ of all participants
could let in understanding of itself
relative the ‘yourself’ in others.

and, as the eye measures height
relative to the ground, and males
take their bearings on horizons
of ‘women’ relative experience,
in this instance, on the occasion
of the poem, and only for the transverse
way a Poem lays across the page
relative the actual occurrence, the ‘feminine’
here is represented…or hairless,
as the memory takes it, in Males, bodiborn,
dancerlean, altered forms of men
in divisive, sad mathematics,
that, if used to your advantage,
you will better comprehend
the femiNine, the oddness of it
has the mystery of a number
which returns an individual to itself:
I was the one less hurt, a type
of zero multiplied by nought,
so I gave them rounded Hermes
health, so I thought,…well, stamina, at least,
taking her into these hands
to do the math, to smooth the mended fur of foxes
who had fought amongst each other
for the Cock. I filled their pantries,
picked their locks, I trimmed their tails—
it will mean more than it should
once it is written out, and dismantled,
wholly many crimes full of strut,
but I didn’t give a toss, or else
I was a mutt, arriving unannounced,
in me gel, blotto, ditto stolen flowers,
who sniffs you through your pants,
leaving that distracting imposition
of impression in your field
of thought, they were Taxis at a Club
where androgyny was the norm.,
all stiffs, and butts, the dotted eyes
and cuts, and nothing was recorded,
and with all kinds reported, on the side,
saddle, ride the males, cried coming
to the femi-nine, a schemer, things…
to know ya baby, born to sooth this wound
of gender, it will leave a lot unsolved,
a lot of extra pudding, padding pushing in your crotch,
leaving raised the one I had to carry;
the single bone…gawd, cd u imagine
if they married? other strays pawed away as well
at what you had us bury in your backyard, you widget,
you MeaTapp, you weigh us palm to palm; you run
engraved forearms between the buttocks,
crevice to the novice, I’d entice you visit
me, to slip you one alone, and, in a way, Society,
to slip you one as well, I’d say I showed you all
my scars; one to one, I had my wavelength—
who doesn’t, I ran things, at least I thought myself
the boss of smallness hurt, you could loan
me to your friends, I knew just when to leave,
shame would take years to recognise, now
it’s only there as something happened, a
curio-college to my insight
development; I came right, eventually,
over-ratio to begin with, so I circled
like the hound of thirty three
lines ago, unsure of where the trail led,
poet/looter, after pure emotion,
hungry for your feelings, the ones
distort our thinking,
like cluster galaxies bending
with their gravity combined the light
of other stars, the awesome natural self
emoting, but in groups, and the interfering
intellect messing up the transcript
like massive aggregates of institutional
conditioning, entrainment, keeping us
all a-taxi-ing, refuelling on their runways,
changing your mind without you, and that
was where the stool-kicking happened—
which is not to imply, not to admit I knew,
and took a pick and mallet to the cornerstones
of light cemented usable as ‘true’
thoughts, composite usually, alloy
-dented foundations Balance depends on—
but so many, so often, everywhere, resulting
in my solitude at parties
celebrating that very ratio
of expectation and reward, for now
sniffing around the room alone, a small radio
will do, tuned to the furry edges
on a spice rack playing obscure quartets.
And as one Age kneels down, dying
—& forget the little plane a moment,
and forget the shemen, the femi-nines, it is you,
in your own time, making touch
at the feral point of being yourself,
alloys of bone and photon, I can see this
Society as she had seen it, & I wish it more
than a common taking, a thing
to want to live up to, but I’m cool
with it now, today, and tomorrow.

Difference of Opinion

Black hood down over a screaming face

he left the ward and weaved into the day,

his trousers in threads; his mind, too,

searching for sense – anything – in the spring sun.

He crushed a tin and whistled, angry and happy

in the same incoherent sentence; fists up

to hit the enemy within his wild eyes.

The receptionist shook her head

her hand reaching for the panic button

It was too much for her; too much for him.

The nurses looked out, too, and they knew

he would be back: a body full of poison

he thought was good for his health.

There was, on that, a difference of opinion

How To Love

I have said to people
of our small town
It is a knowing place
it is aware of itself.

History is a blanket
thrown over a rock
-garden with boulder
shapes ill-described.

On weekends of a film
-shoot, a photo competition,
this knowing charms
Cloud deliver Snow.

The stars—& all their wavelengths
are threads between embroideries;
‘Love’ is a survival sheet,
reflective, that it catches heat.

Your own. This knowing, see
it in all events
which must repeat,
wet Grey and purple Black

dissolve and blue reveals
the day on mountains
lowered glowing white
across the ocean basin

timed perfectly for viewing
from the Lookout or the shore.
How to Love? Begin
with the newborn,

or if you haven’t got one
handy, that book
called, ‘optic-mystically’
‘His [sic] Word’. Take

in the beginning, the first
letter. Only. Not the word,
and not the sentence:
First letter only.
There is who is responsible.





September In New York


An Inside Job Description

My girlfriend woke on the 12th,
a bee-busy warm southern morning
in Spring, and turned on the television—
way out of character for her,
and she screamed, which woke me,
although she screamed often, squealed
actually, and she called my name
and we watched the two September
buildings’ twin collapse.

Again. And again. Such drama,
such tiny human figures
diving out of windows
to die on their own terms
at the emptied bottom
of Greenwich St. And soon
Conrad’s: The Secret Agent
went into a new print run…

The smoke
did look old. There wasn’t
fresh about



…the push for drones,
for chipped constabulary,
a little singing time
alone, between the world’s protective services,

this one
percent rule over 99,
pre Summer-time, pre-puberty,
pre actual, just-in-case,
as when the wild mass

down to the last blind
cul-de-sac, pre Babylon,
pre Market Traction: a.i.d & eh.

Post Folly, pre Prediction,
slap-hazard spilling & waste,
the taps left on for no reason,
the waste and disrespect
will take the sore, soft vandalism

over compewta clean controlled…
the under-fertilisation—
absurd preemptive strikes,
a Potus can, an a.i. sealed
upper atmosFear,

i.e. A,B, C.0nsc10usness
pro mass emotion engineered,
pre: triggers weird, re: acupuncture,
reflex-testing happy, est.,

molecular commands, the chemistry
vibrationally advanced.






children of the moon

          children of the moon
                                              for Keikei

we run
from night
to night to
find that secret
place where the moon
beds down the
silver grows
around us
links our hearts in
dream like a tide
abreast the shell
and full of each
other we sleep
in each other
around each
of the moon

june 2016