Glass ceilings.
Are made of glass.
The shards mere feathers.
His shiny suit strained with superhuman sass.
Savvy he spoke in his stolen smart phone.
Swaggering with the strength of the blag.
His accent lucid with quicksilver half truths.
Convincing in the extreme.
He could feel the caller succumb to smiling.
He'd won.
Looking through the glass he blessed his cheap shoes and lady luck.
Ceiling's were for keeping the rain out, not him.

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Life trickled through the fingers of time
To land in a dissolute pool.
A cycle of time gone and time beginning.
A hand to mouth existence.
With no pause.
No time for reflection.
Just movement inone endless direction.

A silver plastic bowl.
Full of glasses crusted with dried liquid.
From an end of office, office party.
White units, two sinks and an oven.
Perched in the glassy eaves of a city monolith.
A kitchen without love.
In the city of Judge Dredd.
The streets are dark.
Light has no room.
Where the high rise loom.
Even in blazing sunlight.
Strange outdoor, enclosed spaces.
And the sound of drilling.
Flowing with living streams.
Smart streams of human beings.
Her toned calves shone in black tights.
Tucked neat as a cat beneath her.
His red socked attempt at rebellion.
Snuck out from under his trousers.
The two sat a million miles apart in a tiny green patch between an old church and a bank.
Her high heels stuffed in a bag as she pounds the pavement in trainers.
His red, computer-shot eyes rubbed by the phone free hand.
The two ran from do to important do.
The washing up bowl abandoned by a bankrupt office.
The workers sent home, sacked by email.
Leaving just the glasses.

They wore white flowers in their hair.
The girls.
Tucked behind one ear.
On the first day of Spring.
They smiled at each other.
Young and unstung.
Just behind them the vivid green of high school playing fields and the smell of damp changing rooms.
And just in front were the plans.
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Earth

To anyone who's got an ear
To anyone who cares and can hear.
Care is not action.
Hearing's not listening.
To the world,
To all of you.
To everyone.
All the colours,
All the memories,
And all the dreams.
I bring you the honey bee.
She buzzes.
Fathers and mothers.
Adams and eves.
Forget the anger.
The hate and the pain.
For pleasure, hope and love.
I bring you the only one clear way.
The way of the honey bee.
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Shoulder to smokey grey shoulder.
Felted and tightly belted.
City slickers.
Wearing thin.
Shuttled from smoggy box to smoggy office block
Working scuttle.
Shuffle butts.
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Time is moving too fast.
Like a rabid pendulum.
It tick tick ticks.
Hit after hit.
Word on word.
It's quick quick quick.
On a parallel plane.
At the same time,
In a dark cave.
On a soft bed.
A lap for its head,
Lies a calm animal.

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Trance

Take me down.
I want to go.
All moments led to this.
The mind paused.
Imagination lit the way.
To the place of warm red days.
Little heads nestle in gentle arms.
It is the place where love lives.
Its walls are made of leaves.
Its floor a carpet of blue bells.
Its light sunlit.
It is just a place.
An imaginary space.
Where all my love sits.

Come on.
It's not far.
A few feet above the square mile.
Come with me.
I will show you the beginning of all days.
This time now.
Is the start of future days.

The past's lost in night.
Sirens slice heavy lorry rumbles.
And sweet dreams fade to a mumble.
Ear splitting, sleep splitting city sounds.
Slap the sleepy Sicilian.
Bulky behind in a too soft mattress.
Dreams of memories of a mindful sun.

Grease hangs on the silent air.
His black track suit's slung on a kitchen chair.
Oily-ily waiting for the owner to pull it on.
Comb his hair.
Slick the strands with damp hands.
And step into the day a new man.
Without a belly rounded by wine and meals for one.

Rigmorole

At my funeral I want flowers.
I want the buffet to be a spread.
A real pig out.
no expense spared.
I want people who don't know eachother to have things in common.
Apart from me.
I want the emotion to level out awkwardness.
I want music.
And I want everyone to look amazing.
I want people to smile and tell stories.
At my wedding I quite fancy the same.
Except they don't need to wear black.

Mother no more she needs you like she never did before

The crem crew.
Black glam in cloud-cluttered sun.
A small red eyed clutch.
Shadowing death;
The grief crew.
The man in the black cap.
Read English and Hebrew.
In this cal de sac of last days
Lies a dinner party worthy of you.
Writers blank skulled next to dead wits.
That was your strong point - wasn't it?
Words, 'analytical intelligence' and looks.
That and the daughter you leave behind.
Raven haired.
Backbone bound in vulnerability.
If you can see her - look after her.
The vultures are circling in the valley of death.
Talk of ebay and bank accounts.
She sees your last look before you melted away.
Your final recognition of the end.
She needs you now.
She did you proud.
You owe it to her.
The sandwiches were good.
The tea served in real china.
Everyone looked good.
Quiet respect sat on the edge of the sofa.
Softened the napkin edge.
Sweetened cakes and salted gefilte fish.
She did this for you.
She needs you.

Sun bathing birds

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A small bird flies the same as a large one.
Higher with the wind.

First they cut away the skull.
Leaving just the brain.
Then they poked around.
Looking for the clot.
The ugly perfection of the disembodied mind.
Severed from the senses.
An island of thought and memories.
In a ward of physical entities.
The quintessence of metaphysics.
On a surgeon's plate.
Pumped full of pitch perfect oxygenated blood.
Thump, thump, thump.e
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On the 7th floor of 9.
In a tall, sombre building.
In a day-end lull.
Under a black sky.
A small group loll round an elliptical table.
One corporate construction worker.
Pensive and powerful.
One from a large charity.
A benevolent know all.
A couple of bankers.
One beyond charming and Dutch.
The other stringy and highly strung.
Two ex-army bods - bristling and non-combative,
listening for their cues amongst the chat.
Only two girls.
Both young and dark.
Both useful - in a hands on way.
Everyone is useful.
Each has something blinding to say.

Now.
Surreal and super-real.
Do you see?
Now will never be like this again.
It can’t be reborn.
Or reform.
It’s ripe for decline
This moment on the vine of time.
Gathering shadows.
Going, going, gone.

Smells

She smelt of sweat.
Not acrid sweat but:
Meaty, cheesy sweat.
He smelt fresh.
Bright shower, wet zeal.
Like a washing line.
She smelt of her tight black dress.
Cut as shiny close as skin on seal.
Oh and aromatherapy.
He smelt of unwashed denim.
No aftershave, no deodorant.
A little old fashioned soap.
It would tear him up to know.
She left a trail of perfume.
A tart, floral embrace.
I can smell my armpits.
They have as much appeal.
I never use deodorant.
Perfume is an expensive habit.
But it makes me feel aristocratic.

A converted pink rectory.
A pink, beshrubbed universe in the heart of Essex.
A new world with a compact, gravel car park
Cushioned from the road by yew trees and hedgerow.
Low ceilinged rooms wait for 30 guests.
It's wrong that the lights are on and nobody's home.
The breakfast room's welsh dresser shows cereal cartons and three brown spotted bananas.
Apart from us there's no one that knows.
We make a fire.
And cook extravagant meals for two.
We tip toe around.
Losing and finding each other in the closed rooms.
Filling the corridors with the sound of creaking boards.
After the rustle of morning papers.
And low moans.
After childlike pillow talk there's nothing except amazed silence.
Wandering how the other is now they're in their own zone.
Emotional stretch wound in to sit on the very tip.
Not ready, yet to slip.
A romantic walk amongst the motorways.
Under a cloud watered sun.
The first bluebells,
Burn blue in rain wet greens.
This'll be how I remember you.

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Particle zoo.
A half-baked collection.
Of hairy arsed, quirky quarks.
Pesky and primordial.
Zooming with stellar shiny sheens.
In human machines.

Particle physics' surprise alphabet party
Everyone's operating in the dark.
Bumping off each other.
In embarrassing little jolts.
And imaginative, genius like bolts.
'Cept the pesky blighters seem to revolt.

Physicists drinking the same punch with different cups
Dancing to the same tune in different shoes
One's theory, another's joke
Named and renamed.
Alphabetised shapeshifters
Reality's hardcore grifters.

For all you doubters and dissenters
The ones who think it will happen time and time again:
One long continuum of sore disappointment.
I say fie on you!

For all you cynics and cosy, arm-chair critics:
The ones who think that this is just a movie of emotion
Passing across perception's mirror-ocean.
I say fie on you!

For all you buttoned up and beaten down, broken heart-holders.
The ones who've had enough. And think they can't take anymore:
The ones who think love is just folklore.
I say fie on you!

Sun split splendour.
A searing, haze-locked, thermal graze.
Shimmering heat-packed staccato days.
In sun split splendour.

We think we have control.
Of many things it is pretty certain we don't.

We blindly fall in.
See the pictures and do it anyway.
Hear the news and do it anyway.
Read the history books and journals and do it anyway.
Blindly falling in.

Risks?
We take them all the time.
Beliefs?
We hold so many.

A towering tornado tears
through rain-ripped trees
And flattened grasses,
Stripping leveled streets.
The devil has been unleashed.

Our giant- in- waiting.
Yes, you sunny jim.
I see you beaming down.
Pumping your heat.
Wouldn't have it any other way.
In this milky way.
Seriously uplifting rays.
Burn bright you crazily big star.
Loving your thermal gaze.

Innocuous faux-book box.
Red and plasticy.
Tacky guardian of old legends.
It holds a waxy tan tablet.
On it is written 'they went in two by two'
In text comprehensible to few.
Sun god text.
Sumarian legends.
Handed down from them to you.
The story of two.
In one love.

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His first book was War and Peace.
No mean feat.
It took him four months.
But he said each sentence was gold.
Words reached in and kissed the very heart of his young soul.
The careful words had control.
Whole paragraphs described faraway rooms.
Where monstrous parlour plants grew.
Silks rustled.
And long life changing letters were written with ink in pots.
Ladies drank tea from somavars.
Men had moustaches and stern faces.
They cried when ladies withheld their graces.
His love of books grew and grew.
Learning to think in other men's shoes.

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The night was taken up by memories
Til it was turned round to now
When God rewrote the story line
Turning round the mistakes of yesterday
Just another day
Today's here to stay
Now I am dreaming in the present tense.
X
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She loves it in the car boot
Her home from home.
Rug, water bowl and lead.
It's much better out here in the Ford shaped domain.
Away from pesky cats.
It's a dog's life.
With a hot water bottle.
The boot is heaven.
Especially when mum's head looms at the back window offering a walk.

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The saddest times I remember
Are sitting on a rickety, paint smattered chair.
In a scrub of tall Spring-green grass.
I wanted to cry but could only try.
I'd just got off the phone.
And in one sentence I realised that people really do die.
Even if they're young and know they'll live for ever.
I don't think it was as sad though as the time I looked through a box of your things.
It was all you'd left.
After clothes and shoes.
And some books.
What was so sad was that your diary looked embarrassed.
It too couldn't fathom you'd died.
What was almost even sadder.
Was your mum saying we had the same colour eyes.
We did.
But yours had a patch of hazel, a speck of brown gold.
I saw those eyes lots.
I remember them full of a weekend high, creased with forgetting laughter; with love, pride, fear and tears.
But nothing was as sad as when.
When your mum looked in at me, asleep in your room.
I was there, it was a couple days after you died, we were trying to see if the pain went.
Nothing was as sad as when your mum pretended I was you.
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She grew up.
Strong, beautiful and true.
A hothouse flower within marble walls and high windowed rooms.
She grew up in Brazil.
Where the streets are hot.
And sometimes wet.
She fell in love with a boy.
He broke her heart.
She met a man.
And he seemed to suit a plan.
Safe, secure and soulless.
They got married anyway.
20 years, 3 kids and a multi million pound business later, they're divorcing.
It's only right since she played away.
She says she thought she loved him, the husband that is.
And she rightly did.
Towards the end she heard her skin shrieking when she lay next to him.
She's beaten him.
His ego lies in tatters next to ripped photos lining the office bin.
The office he's now reduced to living in.
His wrath has been measured out in legal letters, court rooms, and the outrageous lies he told to their off spring.
She is reed thin.
The original scottish widow.
You know, the dark caped, lady from the pension adverts?
40ish, dark eyed, a face made for living.
She wore black today.
The tight stitching on her cowboy boots as tight as the tired looking tightened eyes.
She leaves.
Weaving down the path to pick up her daughter.
Less strong. More beautiful.
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Spring wedding

Playmates of gritted yards
Pleasure and stains: a Coca-Cola ring pull marriage.

Friends, crowd and sun.
Flash-white rays: a thermal graze,
fractures and fills.
I sense,
freckles and fresh, wet sweat,
snatches of golden down.

All picked out and shot through by light,
compassed by sprays of:
white,
gold,
and blue.

Harnessed black,
edges renewed.
Making black,
blacker still.

Warming to spring,
light-licked leaves
bristle in a dusty breeze.

The all night party started at noon.
Wedding weary guests slinked under a waning moon.
Inkily winking to the last loony tune

Positive speaking
Motivates,
Activates,
Thrown head long where the mouth began.
Lightens dark ways
Misleading
Positive speaking
Fools the hopeless
Positive speaking is:
Inspirational
Life shifting
Lies to unquiet minds
Positive speaking:
Gives hope the confidence to move along.
Belies dreams.

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