It’s all in the froth,

so they say.

Yet there will be no whizzing,

buzzing and contraptual clicking,

from chrome sprouts to state of the art gadgets.

No melanchony skipping of jazz notes like in the ads,

where the young and trendy wake up to the mourning sun,

in New York or somewhere warm.

no Hitchcock thriller on the box,

with a signatory Cary Grant performance.

Sheep will be let loose, so that from one perspective it seems they jump over the hills and spread their bleats like  ‘i cannot believe it’s not butter’ over the moors.

The bleakish sun, sitting on the cone of trees whose leaves are scared of the winters wind that the take cover in a bed of brittle thatch.

Drearish the sky,  a grey blanket of solemn matter like the the earth will shed more tears.

Crisp is the wind, eager to gossip like the gypsy’s midsomer tale.

So that we realise that we plan our lives on the basis of an internet search engine.

Worst of all, there’s no creme,

What the matter,

a cup of coffee never made joe superman.

Wood work. Signs with vanishing arrows, cobbled alleys, dripping rebel paint, musical mosquito cathcers, dirty meat markets, fire dumpsters, buildings and bulldozed buildings, pebble beaches, fire engines, red cross engines, sirens !

 I’m a long way from home.

1.

  I have seen this day in my dreams,

  cleaer than the ray of the golden sun,

  than the rain drop that runs down leaves,

  than the most clear cut precious stone.

2.

 From the womb of the abyss,

to the rugged walls of old jerusalem.

For when the wise one held me to the light,

the soothsayers rattled with fever.

3.

Their song was bourne into the night air:

He who has ears should listen,

he with eyes should see.

For this one was gourged,

from the clay of  the earth.

4.

Shall no man have the might to fall him,

Shall no woman have the wile to seduce.

He is from curse a gift,

a begining of things that will end.

5.

‘O’ the days have come and gone,

by my sword iv’e conquered,

as it was written,

as i had seen it.

6.

I saw the night of your birth,

midwives…..

in the shadowy nooks of candlelight,

no one dared to speak.

7.

‘O’ Brother!

Can you walk the path of Brutus?

To the hanging noose of Icariot.

Would you have this as your  rhetoric?

9.

I knew this moment would ensue,

I had seen it in the visionary,

I knew not it would be,

to the hand of you chivalry

I gave up my dreams.

The mist encroached the fog.

the night was  silent

but for wind, string and percussion.

Shall we ever rest easy?

I rest my faith in a palm reader.

the bamboo whistled from the kinetic

I have become my worst fears.

The night can trickle the most mundane of thoughts into reality. Our man walked into the night in what could be a warm embrace or cold resolve.

At this time only the coin eyed chased the dragon.

His haori made passer by wonder

‘what man of this sort tramples this backstreet at such an hour’

His breadth reeked of sake.

His eyes had that look of  trance that most men have  when they have lost something.Most of the time the embrace of a youthful bossom.

The dark fabric of his kimono disguised the wounds of stealth seeping blood from his belly.

Like many other men of the same disposition,

Takeo had felt the wrath of a woman scorned!

Peek hole,

through hazel retribution.

Leave!

from memories disbelieved.

Look to tears,

witout compromise.

Sing a tune,

to my snooze.

Be affectionate,

like I am,

like I smile.

Be true.

Convince me,

under the sky,

that I be….

me!

the way,

that I am

The colour of jupiter,

tears errupt from within.

I am,

destined for cupids target.

fear utters words,

that emotions translate.

to catch erros mid-flight.

When something magical,

transluced ambience.

His hair line has receded.  The grey patch above his ear had turned white. Silky yet maintaining its kink. For all his years he didn’t look worn. His cheeks took the form of an ironic smile. For a while, the darker part of my subconscious was jealous of him.

I had called this man my brother for more years than I had cared to remember.

I put my ears into the air,

Was it too quiet?

Was it noisy?

Should our meeting from since a while be more amiable?

I ignore his company and disappear into my head but come back quickly as it seems selfish. Jolene leaves us. Years of trying to rekindle our friendship had resulted in cautious wrinkles whenever we met.

He tries to laugh off the awkwardness of the moment. I don’t find anything amusing but I smile.

I travel again.

His purple cords came to mind first. He was going off on one of his rants. His can of beer hit the table, his chair screeched as he pulled his body forward.

‘Watching him play is a religious experience’

This child watched bemused at his madness.

‘These kids these days know nothing about honour, commitment…..nothing!’

Jolene is dusting furniture in the next room. She is nervous. How could we fall out at a time like this?

For the miles on the clock she was a bargain. She stood confidently on the driveway as though dirt should be beneath her feet.

His eyes ran across her sheen.

‘Is this the cost of hard work or your soul?’

He was unimpressed.

The dog chases some inanimate object in the yard. The silence echoes through the room. It is cold. Like being in a museum after hours. But the room is small. This mans legacy stands here. The wardrobe slants in the corner. The purple quilt worn from many beatings is sullen. The white blind tanned. The bed? A used to be sturdy expression of age.

They say the human body reduces in mass at the point of death. Religious groups say it is the point at which the soul leaves the body.

This man that was never my brother retracts into his bowels and for all the wrong reasons I am still mad at him.

It happens,

sparks,

explode,

ignite.

Bubbles,

ferment,

then,

sizzle,

to

where burns

are,

her

new essence.

Deja vu?

In the thistle,

of Arcadia.

In the Wisp,

of Avalon.

Across the purple hills,

of Armageddon.

Lips,

so sweet.

I hummed,

by the grain;

Trail me,

take my breadth,

give it to the wind,

but only in dreams.

‘Hello’

With the autumn bud, i have run my eyes across your being. The lines in your forehead, your worrying eyes, your moulded nose, your brown lips and your scraggy beard.

In December it was your bald head, your brown skin.

My popular stranger, more friendly than not.

And while i have to admit that there is nothing more weird than writing to you, I am at a loss of media to express myself.

What is this change and where does it come from?

In months of close reflection, I noticed you stood in front of windows for God awful long periods. Distant, analysing the world from that limited outlet of pane. You said you were in thought, but I know that you cried. Because you are of such proud composition that you would not let the tears drop.

What are your thoughts?

But there you go, smiling and cheering up your peers.

Because you once said:

‘No matter the condition one should always afford a smile’

I thought that was sad.  As it is the mechanism you use to shield yourself from all our love.

In latter years I noticed that you wanted the best for all of us and there was no one more caring than you.

But in the harsh months around when the flood hit, the times reflected your mood.  Without regard you conducted your manners and your friends suffered. Your cruelty had no bounds and no one heard from you for months. Only in these passed few weeks have i come to realise that your heart was ill.

And because your face never gave away your fears those actions appeared extra cruel.

And you are a hypocrite, for how in times of worry do you say:

‘Everything will be alright’

When you don’t believe in it.

In all this i realise that you are a human being, faulty like the rest of us.

In the early hours of this mourning i had to reach out to you.

‘Hello stranger’

‘And no matter how far it is you go in whatever, don’t go too far’

‘We are here’

With that i wipe the mirror as the steam from hot showers clouds the vision.

If midnight would come,

I might have a friend.

January might come,
December without snow.

If the rains come
I should try,

If sunny days come
I should smile.

maybe I was falling apart,

because i wanted to

Maybe, maybe’s,

are what we do.

Ends of your hairs stuck to your cheek,
we sat back and watched,
I analysed your details,
your scars.

You enjoy pain,

I deposit your suffering.

The pleasure is not taste,
innoccent eyes never shift their gaze.
I sat back a few minutes,
little hairs stuck to your face.
 

Buildings go up like lego,

im inrigued by the exo skeletons.

The world is changing,

evolving.

Are we in fast forward,

or rewind?

Call it as you see it,

ideologies come tumbling.

Crimes against humanity,

Sadly.

threats of nuclear doom.

In this age of retro cool.

At night,

we’ll sleep on sheets of fair trade,

hippies will get stoned at live aid,

and things will get said at the G8.

‘demons’

‘nightmares’

That voice,

that lifeless voice.

drama,

symbols,

props,

mime

the viewers?

No empathy.

Voice continues,

bang!

tears,

gasp!

Voice pauses,

the violin shrieks

the cello strangles

and the orchestra fails.

If you find your way home,

A fortnight to this,
you danced with a chicken head,

savouring,
the dark art.

Forgone,

distant,

accompanied by scoffers,
marauding the seedy columns.

How would they know?

when no one cared to ask,

that you were nothing,

but a mordern day prodigal tale.

Tarred road dirt,
By men with arduous contribution.

Resilience,
perspiring grit.

The caution glow,
Underneath the suns beam.

To that man that worked on possibility,
Through shifts in black collars.

I’m currently in the process of spring cleaning.

Dusting, washing, hoovering.

As a result, I’m putting forward old material, dusty and crumpled from nooks and corners of old writing pads in a bid to de-junk. Also to create space for renewed inspiration.

You will notice varying styles sometimes the plight of a writer trying to find his voice.

Santini and my soul.

The infinity of the darkness of space,
Nature abhors vacuum, but still the screams in my heart cannot be heard.
The earth is a mere speck when placed in the foreground of the universe
how much smaller, this train carriage,
even more minute then, me, Claire,
little ol’ Claire.
Not much more than a statistic.
I think that’s an accurate description of how he made me feel.
You’d think the daily 10 to 20 requests for my phone number would make me feel special.
You’d probably also think the 100 or so envious looks from all kinds of girls and women would invoke some sense of superiority in me.
Does my 500 pound purse equal contentment?
Do my trendy designer clothes equal confidence?
You know what, there might have been elements of truth in all the above if Santini didn’t grip my soul so tightly.
The time we spent together was great; his touch, his stares, his kiss.
He’d caress me with his words, have me wide open, but I could never seem to get into him,
it was like he knew my all, but I only saw his surface.
The sex was amazing, he made me laugh,
he was real with me, he gave the best advice.
My friends said they really liked him, and always asked why we weren’t official,
I always gave excuses, till I ran out and lied we were.
He moved with certain calm, cool, which i recall the most from the numerous times i lay on my bed and watched him leave my room.
He never let me walk him to the door.
The heartache would begin a few hours after his departure
the realisation that he didn’t fully belong to me would creep up on me slowly
my mind would be flash flooded with thoughts of the other women he might be with, what he tells his friends about me, if I’ll ever see him again.
You see he answers everything i ask him about himself, but yet he seems like a stranger to me in someway.
Maybe Santini is some southern American word for Satan!
A bit similar aren’t they?
I never see him when I want to, which to be honest, is all the time,
but I offer no resistance when I get that call or text saying ‘I’m coming over…’
I want to let him go, I think that will be best for me, but I fear the hole it’ll leave in me
I fear I’ll never meet another that lives up to him.
But he hurts me so much without trying

Santini has a soul.

I laugh in response to the words. I’m under the influence of her scent. She smiles with her eyelashes. I wait a few moments before sitting upright. Her Lavender blouse blends in well with this jazz bar.

Black and white pictures of famous musicians hang from the walls. The room from my view spreads out like an artsy French movie.

We chat, laugh and so on.

I am in love…..

The sad truth is that it’s not with this woman.

In reality, I meet a woman that blows my mind every other day.

Two days before

I’m looking out the window when she walks in. Black locks, dark skin, red lips.

It’s hard not to watch her.

She sits next to me and my heart almost stops. I have the confliction every man has. Should I? Should I not? Should I say something?

Today,

I trail in the music. She talks, I smile.

Usually she doesn’t talk this much, I can tell. After a few more drinks we elatedly walk out into the street.

I flag a taxi. She looks at me nervously.

This is the crucial moment 

‘Fancy a coffee at mine?’

Head lights glimmer. Drunken comrades jump over puddles. Horns thump. The world ambles on. Like a camera shot it focuses on me, I begin to battle with my conscience.

I have only done the deed of the bastardly. Given her a plain canvas and allowed her to paint in her own colors.

Forty five minutes into her flat, we lie next to each other smoking. She draws impressions on my belly.

‘I’ll tell you a secret’ she says

‘This is the first time I’ve done that’

.

My heart dips and I get a horrible feeling in stomach. I play it cool.

Under different circumstances, i would have left by now. But I can’t do that to this girl. A few weeks from now, she’ll ask if I’m serious about her. Then phone calls with her crying. Eventually I’ll be pressing the silent button when she rings. I look into her eyes and she has no idea these things will happen. Her childish happiness, her blissful contentment.