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Isn't it strange
that one use to recall information
like a library being,
running fingers across the spines,
descending down a catalogue of corridors,
but as we put a foursome of minds together
sifting through the cobwebs
that decorated the stairs
in silken solitude, all was silent
as peaceful death.
So after some thorough chin-scratching,
declaring defeat,
the knowledge shootout
quickly outdrew memory,
and instantly were struck dumb,
excuses leapt form tips of tongues.
The town stirs
person by person appears
faces you've never seen
perhaps never to be captured again,
cars multiply diversely
evolving shapes and sizes,
personal and private beeswax
none of yours
dotted loitering on corners
then pottering about with intent.

Mister Litter Picker, I admire your work
though from where I sit
spouting middle-class shit
attempting to poetify my world
when there is no clue
as you ask the great confused,
they turn, blank mask stapled on hastily
pronouncing three words
tickling like the wind
trying to tempt you off the ledge
and embrace curiosity's* pull [or *Gravity]
But the coffee house is a haven
in the comfy armchair
observing the world like a television screen
all annoyances stick,
where's Mr Muscle's stain remover?
We want the wimp we remember,
not some CG modern refurb.

That's beside these points,
appeal away to the idiots you think exist.
Inhabit the lesser of evils
walk these paths alone for the umpteenth time,
curse the skyline
frown at the fantastic future fading
melt into the melodies
organise your memories
dispel despair
breathe in the morning air.
Such life bustles in the station,
each individual a pinnacle of civilisation,
the voice from the heavens
desperately wants to be real,
crying out for attention,
cutting you a break with information
hoping someone will take heed
and hold onto their belongings.

When I sat next to that girl
of familiar resemblance,
I expected an incidental conversation
yet she never turned to look,
catch my eyes when I emerged from the book,
I wasn't pretending to read,
imagining the worst situation
harbouring offence,
so weave an explanation.
She got up and left,
and I wondered whether I should call
say: "Excuse my impolititude
but, dear, I forget your name
as your grace remains
I cannot fathom an entrance
to engage in faux unpredicted

Pardon me.

I dreamt of delightful dialogue,
but watching you walk,
the coat emphasising your pale legs,
I beg for the opportunity again
yet I forget your name, friend.
These unpoeticisms, garbled
mind leaping through avenues,
the pen is a bystander
tapping its foot,
as an unclean man,
intoxicates the carriage with frowns,
the world is polluted by idiots, she said,
and I agree.

Dare I question my part?
Participating in the flushing down the draining
with the sleek, brown water,
dismissing the sunlight as fragile
and blue skies a burden of expectation.
Who is the flower?
White, middle-class, British male
seeks life-fulfilling moments
direct as the dawn, distinctive,
this luck won't go away like modern pronunciations,
if it shatters then let the world fall,
offering a true life
struggles to sit
with those who service themselves.

The planets must see us as dishonest,
swimming through space,
what other place is there for us to embrace?
What life stirs in the carriage,
gawping into the palm world,
making knots in numbers
creating blunders, hunching,
thunder unseen
sense of none
the honest human
gets off at his stop.
As I boarded the older train,
a thousand buzzing commuters surrounding,
a form was faded in the reflection
drawn by orbs
there was a momentary vice-like grip
that slipped when conscience tapped
averting my mind to a past time.

Return to the window
some uncatchable sense calls,
So I obey the magnet's pull
directly I avoid colouring the image
instead try longingly to mask a natural glance
with a poignant pose
(unsuccessful, I know)
everytime I look, there locks
something like refraction,
I notice for the first time
chatter has dropped a notch,
out of headphones faintly stuttering:
Bangladeshi dance pop.

With each hesitant second
a brighter tone reforms the clouds,
given time I'd ask your destination,
there is no frown in your brow
as I contemplate to steal another glance
or stare at these lines
expecting your essence to guide my rhymes,
another thing halts me
(besides the approaching conclusion)
an electronic world
seeds a different tale,
the longing landscapes of lust linger,
reflections seem no keener as I catch you glancing,
wonder if you're chancing.
Those pale purple layers sink into the sky,
misty early evening sun
shading the Northern view
left an outline of what lies ahead.
It emerges from the earth
limbs swinging around the room
manics screech the end
but it isn't,
nor is it shrouded I beckoning bayonets
all relentless war and public transport
cannot pull the pleasure of your company,
if it did
then allow echoing silence to ensue.
I shall chew through all embarrassing situations
like those before me,
give me the beat and the rhythm
I shall show you where epiphanies exist.
Were she made of iron
rain would have rotted those gears and cogs
displaying the determined veins
that -
now thinking about it -
resemble vines curling round an ancient temple.
For all sins forgive themselves
they have done their damage,
like foresters abandoning the clearing
only stumps remain,
too old to stretch to the heavens.

Glancing at the landscape,
recalling those walks in all weathers
kindling perserverance
like an on-time train
pulling in on the dot,
in the sweet shops we stopped,
those holidays weren't wastes
bearing daydreams and history,
riddling my mind with abstract knowledge
testing our patience with early foliage.

Nowadays, where to begin?
All logic sapped,
scraps of Shakespeare remain
along with the occasional song.
(how long is string?)
that lifeline to her time shall wither,
snapping like a dry twig.
Where was her turning point?
Were there bombs, crowded trains,
the taste of bananas or chocolate,
it says Church of England here
but Mother Bear said it was clear,
guessing blindness lures faith;
to see is to disbelieve.

She battles the blinding light
and suffocating darkness,
who are we to say
her gravity is outside reality,
the balance is beyond upset,
possibly alcohol and cigarettes,
but questioning cause
only affects the ailments.

We shall make the best
of her stained-glass enchantments.
Under city lights
exchanging word fights,
a quiet revolution
brings some revulsion
yet the compulsion
is a scum back-up.
The fruits you cannot nourish,
instead pondering the fluorescent controversy
unlike old times when feelings flourished like the spring
but the lines stare, sparing a fill
to put it into words, luv,
it dun't 'arf kill.

Grant me a minute,
in it I could spin it,
whip some sinful lust
create an aesthetic brush
caressing the canvas softly,
you believe it's a dream
to be bled philosophy
but the cooling towers and aching hours
dim the flame and shun the spark,
yet becoming the stark contrast
I yearn for your heart,
keep those thoughts til we are lay in the dark
when only outlines of our shadows make the mark,
unwinding the universe,
fracturing the stars.
Grey clouds offer no solace
honest reality is lumped
dimming the evening
in the early horror of the month.

Within dreams the echo beckons
a call to face the phase
of the unknown result
I would happily pluck away the seconds.

Listen to the rainfall
tonight's ambient audio
recalling the smiling minutes
All this pointless pontificating
sat with my hands clasping
the only warmth and courage
the morning's third coffee provides.
Where is the urgency,
the action that could not distract us,
that English grit and determination
seemingly unwound from our bones?

So be it, the dusty hands clap
providing a light waterfall
reflecting your momentum,
has this become a game of stress and submission,
seemingly your wisdom
did a three-point turn
when it came to the T-junction
but who am I to declare your policies pathetic?
A heckler from the stalls
who left their temper at the cloakroom,
with a smile and a nod,
before cracking her knuckles
at the thought of bureaucratic.

Shrug at the shirking of those frightened to work
they who are allowed the benefits of negligence,
returning to obese houses,
glittering with the rarest materials,
after spending much of the day arguing
waving their papers as their crests.

Yet I do not describe those who roll their tees into vests
or show off a pale-white bare chest,
they will have their own epic verse
when it is time for them to jump in the hearse
led down the road to the tinny lament on mobile phones.

No, it is those in bespoke suits
doing nothing 'cept bicker and loot,
what purpose do you provide
distanced from the pride
hyenas of the house
the advantage predator,
preaching your faith for Cornish pasties
but when seated in the dining room
you may quaff there is no hope
for those who cannot use a grape spoon.

"Decisions, decisions"
Old Fawkes must've thought
before they smashed him senseless
his autograph distraught.
Cruel notions must pester their minds
when we watch grown humans squabble
in their parliamentary rhymes.

I have neither the time and have sifted through patience
to grow an extra limb out of complacence,
either get it done or get out
before you're suffocated in brewing shouts.
Evening again
the purple clouds pulsate
imprisoning the sunset
in angelic tubes of light,
does it paste the pastoral scene
in a pastel soft portrait?

Dear, were you aware of such simplicity?
I wonder how anatomical complexities
sketch your seconds,
those textbooks dry as a bone
more use as a doorstep
or kindling.
The only one on the train,
after the burst of rain
beams punctured the clouds
the bluebells cluster by the wire fence,
in the undergrowth, there's nothing new,
the carriage groans offer no insight,
that sunlight upon the Ethiad
is the rack stretching the spine to snap
but all the diggers and trucks
(Who stops at Ardwick?)
are not the shadowy cut outs
of anything significant in this rhyme.

The platform appears,
into the golden haze of the station
I tread.
Through the window, swinging branches signal a restriction
in their flow,
as a breeze strokes the leaves like fingers parting hair,
we are neither here nor there.
Decisive delight, what dreams charter your night?
Do rippling waters recede like the parting moment,
inhaling quickly, draining the sand.
Are the midnight hours dotted withdoubt,
or does subconscience stretch out its flowers?
It is glorious to behold this English setting,
a still sunny day which I will not be forgetting,
across the canal a magpie struts
gracing the grass for some loot,
there is barely a quiver in the trees
whose leaves now blare with colour,
smooth ripples in the water reflect the scene
that murky water shades the mirror image so well
as a helicopter growls in a droning tone,
across a blue blanket only faint clouds drift.
Solitary and clustered seeds
have taken the open-air highway,
relocating to newer soils
where the undergrowth grants life
not even the truck that turned the corner like a hulk
distorts the moment,
but now a stroll to the grindstone
through the elite estate
paves over this muse of a portrait.
With the melodies of birdsong
sprouting from the trees,
midday sun settles
with a calm and gentle breeze.

Rushing water of old industry,
mimics the world on its surface,
yet the strolling couple with tattooed limbs
distort messages and make it subversive.
As the dandelion seeds stream across the trees,
momentums to memory grant the eyes a relief,
from swivel chairs and pixels and too many hot drinks,
the day is barged away with little time to think.
The magpies scour the walls and embankment,
in some natural unison, the myth carries enchantment.

Stood with its arms in a welcoming form
Lock Number Seven guards the route home,
like a staple of time, adamant to shift,
a train and a plane growl and howl by
leaving me wondering of things gone amiss.
Here it comes in all its grandeur,
awaiting its descent through number seven
but the pace is quaint
'til the cogs clink and squeak into life
and the roaring water awakens this old way of life.
No patience for the man bound to the office regime,
as the lock arms signal onward,
the barge enters the scene,
confident as a captain,
the witnesses silently conclude it's pristine.

Again these blue skies persist,
a congregation of mallards bicker,
Sunday morning sounds surreal,
a struggling barge trying to turn around.
Swallows dive and a Wren clutches the loose barbed wire,
shadows recede and something impales the flow of words.


One of those days where I stare
into spaces that grant no resonance,
between the fences
where nettles tag passersby in a sting
with no Dock leaves in sight,
it seems an incident beyond repair.
A couple reflect themselves
in the wind-tempered water.
The sky above
is lined with pastel white skyways.


As a man slowly jogs
the summer settles in the purposeful longboat
whose voyaged has a manned bar
or the aisles stockpiled with the offers of this week's age,
cyclists file past,
a small family dawdle
their dog is using the canal for a few lengths,
the wind is out of breath,
blossoms idly sunbathe.


You know you crave the confusion
to perch on the edge of sense
that dormant thrill
frightening, yet urgent to dispel sin
in the tree-shattered sunlight
warmth binds itself to bone
off-stage a lawn-mower clear the silence with a churning growl
the Icy gives us a short sample of its song.


In reflection, like an idle monitor
that automatic thought process kicks in,
straying around the pole,
yet I can't put my finger on it.
Why the want?
Why the need?
What is it that draws me to her?
In the ounces of worth,
is there a secret element
beyond any table of recognition.


Questions and complexities
trying to weave together the niceties,
in an evening so pleasant
I shan't torture the mind to miss this.
In the made up mind
bodies permanently entwined
like seeking branches
weaving through the trellis,
lapping me on some track
ghosts appear on the paths
no answer forward, none back.
In the innocent curtain
flickers a malicious movement,
Mystic Meg can't predict this shit
some lottery that I fear to play again,
side-stepping the stream of subject,
excuses build their own foundations
before the blueprint stage has been approved.

Flowing sunset threw its cool fire on the evening,
desires thrived in the juvenile summer air
one more thing for which to care.
Walking through the park
observing how the hills shrugged
weak rain and fading clouds,
embracing the strengthening sunlight,
to couple adjectives and nouns
interspersed with the determining prepositions.

Piccadilly station takes its fill
in the expensive commute,
considering why they all accept a fine mode
transporting silent shifters,
abandoning orphans at the edge of society,
stepping inwards, the bubble consumes their hours
and mine.

That selfish belief: all are exempt,
when all is the individual,
their beauties, desires, and requirements
bred into blood, flooding with a personal goal.

As we all queue with our foam cups,
bagels and overpriced pastries,
wondering (possibly) why our coins
and conscience are wasted.

Sat in terminals, the day beckons.
Trying to plug the overflowing outlets,
victory seems distant
but the resilient regiment
marches with the rainwater as shinguards,
unperturbed by daydream's melodies.
Yet as a caterpillar weaves its future tapestry,
gazes are drawn
following the careful stitching,
a mind-made monument shoots out
carrying all the intricacies of reality
turning golden colours in the spotlight
bewitched by fantasy.
A littering of unconnected sentences
with no shared meaning,
in a grumble they sail,
quivering at the whim-led wind,
cradled by things considered monuments by citizens,
hatched desires,
quick to neglect material conquests
botched and lamented by the native wild,
defiled in an unfair trial of pointing fingers
that make 30p worthwhile,
smile for the confidence you wish to construct,
trouble shook the morning brook,
flailing gusts that muster a cusp
brought us to transcend above,
and the booming pathway of slow time,
stares waiting to swallow you
laying all the frames ahead,
walking past them to a slow string movement.
Imagine delicate digits,
the sweet sounds of certain syllables
and openness to mimic mystery,
light skims the side
like a trap door in the ceiling,
if only there were ladders to ascend
to be among the cobweb gods
of older feelings we thought were new,
stumbling upon discarded gems.
I think why and when
then dismiss those agitated nuances
reliving the end of the act.