Three levels

There is the level of total abstraction.

Where people bet half way through the race.

Where because Black and Schloes said it could be factored

The backers dismissed cautious detractors.

There is the second level of total actuary

So because an invoice has been raised, something must be spent.

The see saw of profit and loss must be balanced.

Nevermind that that invoice hasn’t been paid.

That the figures are mostly academic.

Then there is two apples plus two pears equals four pieces of fruit.

Less fruitless.

Less figures on a screen and something you really can have with ice cream.

 

Finance Assistant:

Soft toed

Fragrant haired

And gentle.

She breathes the life of a distant breeze

The sweet smile of ‘stay awhile’

And then she bares her financial teeth and bites through spreadsheets.

Meadow sweet

River rushed

Sun snatched

Light enhaloed

Hallowed life giving

Loveliness

Is the

Is-ness of a radiant

Spring stunned

Soul shift.

 

 

 

 

 

Inner clean.

The soul is bright.

It is full of an uplifting light.

The decorators came in and painted the soul gold.

They scattered duck down cushions and stoked open fires.

Like a stone had rolled through and rolled up and away with stagnant growth.

Replacing it with free waters and open meadows.

Last Fifty

The fridge's frosty burrrr thrums

The final click of clattering day is the lamp's switch.

And finally the red lights of the eletricals twinkle off to black

And finally the only sounds are the buses and breathing.

First fifty

The last whispers of the waking dream.
Before the alarm's ring screams.
The puck of the exiting ear plug.
And then just morning buses and breathing.

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He was better then most.

Maybe he just wanted to sell his cheese.

Never had a man seemed more eager to please.

His small movements made him seem gentle.

His averted gaze made him seem shy.

His lank blanket of hair dripped over milk bottom glasses

His dirty fingers and their jagged nails pick, pick, picked

Hovering he stood waiting for his customer to buy his back of the lorry goods.

It looked like life had chucked him a frayed line.

Had put him at the back of the queue, then stepped on him.

It seemed he had only ever known unfair.

If anyone deserved a break he did.

Or seemed to at least.

Maybe he just wanted to sell his cheese.

And thought that this was the way to please.

Sometimes it is best to do nothing at all.
When in doubt do nothing.
The man who stands with no motivation watching all the world in event flotation
Neither woe betiding or gladifying
But sobbing at the new born child.
The man who, in doubt, withstood it all.
He so stupid, with no way with all, he was the clever one.
The one left standing at the end of it all.
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Look up there.

A sneaky spider spun a web.

In 80s sculpture.

The gallery cleaner couldn't reach that far and left the spider to nest.

The spider had never known such comfort.

Or web like ease.

The fine, taut wires were made for his insect trapeze.

The snow white gleamed.

Its millionth flake a moonlit heightened blue.

The Princess awoke from her years' long dream.

Her father had always been a tyrant.

Now he was dead she acted on her own will, informed by what she thought would be his.

Now he was dead she thought on her own two feet.

Listening to her heart beat.

She heard him say 'dear...est'

As he forgave her for always being dutiful and keen,

Always being there when he most needed her.

And felt most irritated by her.

She forgave him.

As he forgave her.

Some would have thought it too late.

But if it had come sooner neither one would have known how it became them.

Tulips marched from the head of the table to the foot.

When we arrived their purple petals were clasped shut.

They sat in a ruler straight row on crisp linen.

The sunshine bleached the white linen and stainless steel to a spotless dazzle.

And the warmth of wine and food filled the room.

Two hours later the tulip heads had burst.

And my heart joined them and my stomach in joy.

No one event happens because of one man or one moment.
An event is the meeting of a series of moments stretching as far as the eye of time.

The end of a long road and the beginning of another.

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Waking

Agitated.
Weave and un weave
Unravel and reel
Itching like fresh skin under an old scab.
When was the last time it pick pick picked?

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Only young once

If you don't get me now
You never will
The years pass
But I am still here
Still the same
But different
In small ways
Get me now
While the goings good

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An Angel.

A mind like Plato's many-roomed dream,

A soul: true as tales of antiquity,

And sex: a core-blown, fire-honed delicacy.

If you were Adam and I Eve we'd live in Eden

in lovers' freedom.

Flowers, make me sneeze.

Red wine, gives me a headache.

Chocolates, make me fat.

Cards are worthless.

Love now that's what I like.

Knives cut you.
Buses brain you.
All the world's a trap
Full of dangers.
Its vice your inner diatripe
Its snare, paranoia's glare.
But if you pretend.
Effecting a serene air.
May all become the imitation of christ?
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One time champion.

A one off.

Living for one moment in time.

The moment of gold.

The moment when 28 years pay off in less seconds.

The crowd roared.

And your heart soared.

He saw how the man commanded the room.

And imitated him.

It wasn’t hard, glasses off and hanging intelligently between his lips.

He looked on.

He heard the arguments.

Saw the cerebral fray.

That had no sway.

Men of action talked of strategy and men of strategy talked of action.

Wars aren’t won like this.

They are won by a man’s courage in the face of fire.

She saw the small blue flowers on her mother’s white dress.

She remembered the apron that tied around her middle.

The backs of her legs rubbed against the worn wood of their kitchen chairs,

And her hands itched to make trouble.

Her teachers told her mum that she was special.

That she would go far.

That there was something in her that the other kids didn’t have.

Now she looks for that in hers.

 

Can the bungling duo pull it off.
The man with deep velvet, holey pockets.
And the bird with a ratty rabbit fur coat.
They try at least.
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Courage.

Chin up.

Best foot forward.

It isn’t over yet.

Who knows what will occur in the next few hours even.

The next second.

It is a very thin line.

The finest of balances.

The total insecurity of it all.

So vulnerable and yet so strong.

So old and yet so unknown.

Please if this is the one thing you do make it true.

Don’t give with one hand.

And then take with the other.

I would rather you’d said nothing at all.

It would have been easier that way.

Rather than the bloom of hope.

Turning to a stain.

As it was before but harder.

For one brief moment there was the sweet knowledge that all would be well.

Now again I see it won’t.

 

Urn

Naked men.
Straight and gold as sporting arrows.
Galivant across granite black.
Studies in sturdiness.
Pitted against snarling myths.
Arms pulled back in attack, their best foot forward.
Sitting quiet on a wooden plinth.
Amongst taciturn men with saggy arses and proud, cheek slapping flatulance.
Amongst all the powdered ladies and fine china.
The roars of their heroic deeds replaced by turning pages and loud opinion.
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Lego people

Sticks of coats, carrying bags.
Some dark, some light.
Some fat, others thin.
Milling in the tunnel.
Berated by the tanoy.
And the bitter, train rushed wind.
Echoing from here to Hampstead.
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Her wheelchair got stuck in the revolving door.
Behind her stood a man with his baby, waiting.
Her bandage caught in the wheel.
Yellow pus seeped through and dripped onto her ankle boot.
She used to be the one people turned to.
The one who had dinner on the table.
Woke the household.
and had never ending chores.
Now she's stuck in hospital doors.
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Big black swishy swish

Of the bouncer's shell suit.

Looming large and Russian.

Hatton Garden heavy.

Huddled and hushed.

Gruff.

Meaty foreheads and Beslan haircuts.

I wonder if they are really as tough as their upper cuts?

She’s only little.

Slim as a reed.

She’s tough though.

She sees things clearly.

She knows her own mind.

Can she really be a cousin of mine?