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Unspoken

It’s hot and sticky – a viscous, Mumbai sunset 
complete with Bombay’s colours 

I heard it said that those smiles are the best

but yours, dressed here now in glistening sweat

beams like the sky of high noon

You’re California

and I, aware of my own London grey

am content to reply with Irish eyes, instead

The Agricultural Engineer

I have a story in an old shoe box
and I leave it to spin out
all the time

A heart ache framed in that trusty old-schooled ink and it bleeds
like a bruise
on tattooed thighs

I’m stood with a blush of pink insincerity
and i find that I cannot tell a lie

You see, like a bird
like a falcon way up high
and you breathe like a new born
swimming child

You teach
with the wisdom of an ancient rested soul
and I want to be near you all the time

There’s a key in the garden where you fall asleep at night
there’s a lock hidden there under
the chime

But the wind is howling haunted
and it leaves you feeling blind
and you can’t
remember how to tell the time

It’s written in the kitchen, right there underneath the clock
There’s a sink full of truths I can’t deny

But you walk through the hall in those dirty, old work boots
leaving marks on my floor and on my life

A sidewards smile holds a cigarette, alight

The dirty, honest dishes
left behind

In Sanity

I’m not like them
Are you like me?

I like interesting people

The people that often dislike people

Problematic, to say the least

I like my own company – no pretense

My world, not a stage, nor I
an actress

Not then – not in solitude

Just me.

My head is busy – I like that, it keeps me nimble, save the fidgeting

Tapping, dancing feet

I keep my back straight – happy for folk to talk freely behind it

Improving posture

Weak-kneed at times, I’m double jointed

Bendy and hyper

Mobile heart and soul, northern beats

I’m not like them.
Are you like me?

Perhaps we will feel like them, spending time away from them

together.

Forward

I’m always writing myself

Creating something

Erasing the lines made in error

Concentrating on the definition

I like grey scale 

and colour combined

And perfume – perfume all over the page

One day

One day dude, I’ll be a fucking 

masterpiece 

Love, Bottled

  
Do you dance through the evening 

with a beauty in your arms?

Perhaps those arms are feeling 

that bit colder

I remember all those nights – the wine

glass after glass and all that

giggling

as we strolled way past tipsy

And I still visit tipsy more than

now and then

And I find I still have myself 

a grand, old time

But it is only when I wander way down 

past that post, that I find you again

As I curl up on that same old sofa 

we so often did frequent

And there are moments that I meet you

through my own drunken demise

Other times, I hear you and your 

northern beats

Whispering real warmth – 

blankets 

safely wrapped up in the dark

Tranquility. Contentment at its best

But when I wake and feel the sun

beating down on my hungover, bee stung 

eyes and remember

how you are somewhere now

Resting, without me

The feeling of the night before 

befits the feeling of right here

Without you 

Messy Handwriting = quick mind.

 
If your handwriting is a messy scrawl, like mine…we can all now take solace.

Right Hand Down

Posted on

I’ve broken the upper part of my humerus but let me tell you…there’s not much funny about it.

After falling down a flight of stairs, I am left sore and melancholic…missing the freedom of having all limbs fully functioning. Luckily I can type but my guitar is stuck on its stand and I have travel plans that this is going to hinder.

So this is me venting.

It’s raining, I’m feeling all sorry for myself and am thoroughly fed up.

Moral of the story, people – don’t rush down the stairs to answer your door, wearing cheapo socks.