High on haze.
He looked like a distant pop poster.
Military jacket and ripped sneakers.
Loitering outside Sainsbury's waiting for his Luckys.
Pocket snug cider bottles warming at his side.
Eyes rolling with the highs, mediums and lows.
Following the line of his girlfriend's nervous tightlined thighs.
And the bums of girls wiggling by.
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The modern princess.
Dressed like an old fashioned fairytale.
Dark mirror eyes flicker with turning emotion.
Unbelieving she looks at the roof.
Confident she holds her jaw, unsmiling.
Taking on the air of a Queen.
The expression of a prince.
And the ring of a King.
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Onward christian soldier..Marching another man's vision
Wearing holes in dusty boots
Motion, never stilled
Waiting for the next unhappy kill
Onward christian solider...
Bargain for soul and souls
Battle for minds and money
Onward christian solider...
Time is a losing battle
Onward Christian soldier
Making right wrongs their wrongs Onward christian solider
Your man has god on his side
This man has another
Onward christian soldierBuilding bridges in an ancient fermentSweating bricks for one man's decision
Onward christian soldier

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Sepia days started with
a hasty morning's glance in a dressing table's mirror.
The dark wood stained with creams and oil.
Tiny bottles and pots peopling a fragrant army.
Bridge the years.
Capturing pasts from nowhere.
A Parisian mirror reflects in foxed amber the soul's gold.
A secret smile between her lips and her reflection.
A nod and determining gaze.
Control daily trepidations.
Her ghostly face powder pale hangs lost in a faint perfumed remembrance.
Someone knows that smell.

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A bundle of starchy linen
Huddled hot over her typewriter.
Dripped beads of sweat onto the clacking keys
Her worried fingers swept across sunburnt cheeks
Through her head streamed thoughts of cold fjords
And tiger striped dreams.
She married her 2nd cousin
Borrowed money to buy bits of a faraway land.
Then settled to write as planned.
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A tangle of thick black hair.
And a tangy musk.
A springy mat.
Hovering over muscle.
One brown mole below a long nipple.

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A crew.
You, me and you.
Beloved.
Coveted.
Living.
To be loved.
If only it were ever only me and you, and you.
Thank you. For coming.
I wouldn't have it differently.
So lucky to be thirty two.
With you and you and you x
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If I was asked 'what day would you give all others to live?'.
I'd say this.
If this is living
'Then I'll give all I've got to give.'
What a world?
A world that can build minds geared to this happiness.
Minds that cartwheel in the sand,
'This is what'll make you happy....this....this....and this'
And it did.
My heart did what it was told at one day old.

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Crumpled black silk.
Well, nylon actually.
Inert on a fake pine floor.
A puddle of ordinary knickers.
Leg holes uneven circles of fake pine.
Like two wooden footprints in black snow.
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Today is like no other.
The sun is hot and high.
A red ball frosted in heat heavy smog.
A day high on hope.
Words here and there.
Spell out futures.
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Growing older each day.
Heading into the fray.
They say:
Live long and prosper.
Gran would say:
Prosper and live long.
A swan song.
In unsung golden futures.
And the singing.

On one earth there are many worlds.
The back entrance was manned by a uniformed guard.
A concrete courtyard littered with plastic sheeting and palettes.
The mean mainstay of an elite.
The front entrance a hermetically sealed monolith of cooling stone.
Mesmirising white marble.
Purring with money.
Ladies in LK Bennett and shiny make up.
Men tall and perfectly formed.
Perfect movie star clones.
Blow dried, buffed and polished, squeezed into monochrome.
The only anomoly the woman's ezcema and the man who looks as though he's not slept for a week.
They have brought a world.
A world so powerful it owns the rest.
Over the years that world and this have tricked us to think that this is it.
That this is the ultimate existence.
The goal.
The icing on the cake.
I love it but am not convinced.

A flurry of faces.
Skin masks.
The eyes tell tall tales on the soul.

Lemons in bright yellow slices.
Dewy amongst alcohol enthused ice cubes.
Gin and tonic season.
The air is muggy and hands clammy.
The day decompresses in a frosted glass.
And makes haste to the last of the sun.

The witching hour when all men stand distilled through the prism of one.
One man gives meaning to the others.
They are but counterfoils.
Mirrors and lakes for his follies and fortune.
When all the world is but a stage and the actors actors on it.
Hamlet's Laertes and Horatio.
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A bolt.
Drawn from the past.
Slung at the present.
Bulleting powerful and prescient.
Her craziness pollutes the loveliness.
Teetering decline buoyed by living energy.
Needy.
And devastatingly worthy.
Gentle steps and a little deflect.
Keep it circumspect.
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Delicate crimson curls.

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A neat, bent body.
Like a hair pin.
Thin and trim.
Once straight with youth and full of babies.
Now sparkles with aging glitter on plum polyester.
I saw the way you looked at your husband in Bavaria.
Soft love-eyes based on marriage-long rapport.
You stretched your arm around him and beamed.
Then when he kissed you, you pulled away and I thought of all the times he'd have liked you to stay.

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Time will tell.
Sleep on it.
Let time tease out the wheat from the chat, chat, chat.
Turn your mind from this to that.
Allow for the dust to settle.
This extravagance of thought is free.
Deep as the unvisited reaches of infinite oceans.
Allows this to become less hit or miss.
Invests in the wisdom of the hours and all unknown powers.
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An exact Elizabethan madrigal wafted on deaf ears.
The courtiers were full of hoppy beers and fatty duck.
And fell about laughing through drunk tears.
A party boat floating on river stink.
Twinkling with silver threads and pearls.
Their powdered heads mocked the river side crowd.
Who looked back at the Royal charade.

Smiling Cyclist

Today her sticky thighs pistoned bristol fashion on her pedals.
Her knickers rode her behind pushing flesh into neat lycra tight mounds.
She tugged at them self consciously.
And brushed away blonde hair stucking in an oily fringe
Her face was filmed in sweat and cream.
And searched through her shades the brilliance of the day.

Life is never as you see it.
The double slit.
Slip.
Has scientists licked.

Sun reddened white is pink.
Sweet blossoms blush
At the kid running in circles.
Two magpies.
And a simple touch.
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Beethoven's only opera.
Stepping from dinner in a glass box of mirrors and light.
To the opera's lush red lashed in gold.
An image unseen.
A mirage of the self.
Flickering, swan-like and serene.
Floating on a mixture of fineness and forgetfulness.
Poise of a dancer.
And the confidence of a beloved Queen.

Strange happenings.
Coincidential concurrences.
Disconcerting and confirmed.
In a wild weekend East end pub.
A collection of three sheets to the wind.
Friends from yesteryear, today.
We hadn't arranged to meet yet there you all were.
A chance joining of our stars.
Complicated fans of a crazy haze.
A million miles from calm.
Ready to disarm.
Scary random racing.
Rapidly followed by the bearded man from Scotland
A regular passer by ready to introduce himself.
How many times had we passed and smiled?
I knew all along where you came from.
And with another ready smile you confirmed.
Recoiling when you found what you'd stepped into.
And all of this at the end of words and faces full of future forms.
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Gun grey sky
Rain slung bleak sheets
A sudden gap fills with
Sunny spears
Grey turns to gold
Atomic bright.
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Come and visit Ms Wei.
Up the stairs past the sleeping Sicilian.
She lives at number 2.
She arrived with just two bags.
All she could fit in one plane trip.
Not much to carry up the stairs but enough.
She learns twice what her fellows take in.
She learns the nuances of a new tongue
One she thought she knew.
Something she didn't expect.
The Economist's delivered monthly.
It arrives plump with news.
Reminding her to ring home.

Through the lens broken lands extend to wire and shrub.
Broken by tents and empty spaces.
Full of long tensions and baby dreams.
Their divisions are made into art
The heart in someone's eyes becomes the picture we love or despise.
It's only someone's life, not art.
Art was when he pressed the shutter start and put it in a frame.

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