Consumed

The sweet treat
lies despoiled.
Now, the gaudy,
shiny wrappings
overflow the box.
Where once they fit so well.
I, who have become
the destroyer of worlds,
take my rest

Back and Forth

The beak-nosed mod,
is waiting and watches
me, in the car-park.
His camel hair coat
and knife-sharp suit
are perfect. His
scooter gleams in
the lowering light.
His smile mocks me
and the sneer that
accompanies it is
supremely dismissive.
I get into my car
and his smirk grows
as I drive past him.
And his look says:
"This is what it comes to?
Not me, man, not me."
But I know him
and what will happen.
I know and
can do nothing
for him.

Funfair for the Common Man.

A point to it
seems to be
too much to ask.
Which can get you down,
euphemistically.
because the feeling
is not merely down
but crushed to a point.
Which maybe is
all the reason
we are looking for.
How do you cope
with that, if it is?
Not much to look
forward to, misery, is it?
You're not going
to sort it out, here.
Are you? Surrounded
by the condition.
you would have
to get out of it.
Out to where?
Seems a reasonable
question.
And knowing the
answer for here
when you are there,
would not be helpful.
Assuming that the answers
are available,
and not hidden
as they are here.
We are asked to
accept the mystery,
make the leap of faith.
While the everyday
gets more and more real
in its desperation.
Prompting us to be
more involved in
finding solutions
to problems we can touch.
Which will save
the world from
annihilation.
When maybe that
is what is
meant to happen.
But if you believed that
it might lead you
to depression,
which must be avoided
because it is such
a wonderful world.
So, tell me,
are you feeling lucky?

Perceptions

You cannot explain to me
what it feels like,
to swim like you do.
And I cannot tell
you how it feels to write.
Yet we are in the same
sphere, the same wooden O;
each in their own cockpit.
If we could dissolve
the glass around us,
if we could merge
the perceptions'
experience it all,
from all angles.
Would that help?
Might we perhaps
see some different
shadows, highlights and
shadings from the ones we are used to?
Or would our
prejudices,
just use the view
to reinforce themselves?

Lasting Impression

I saw you crossing the road
wind whipping your coat
out behind you,
so that you were,
a sharp note.
Cell phone to ear as always,
and that damned smile flashing
in the rainy gloom.
I stood to go and talk to you,
but the wind stole my shout
and you were gone.
So when I got the call
I did not believe it.
I had seen you,
that afternoon
full of life but now
you are empty and I am cold.
Because I find that I
loved you like no other.
I have that picture
in my mind, of
that final sighting.
The last impression
which is a nail
to cling to
is also driven through
my heart.

Lie of the Land

I will not walk,
across those hills again.
There is nothing
to be seen from up there.
Just this town.
Laid out flat and
peaceful.
So much the lie,
The life down here
is not calm
or ordered.
There are clashes
and chaos in the streets.
When you talk to friends,
or workmates,
it's a knife fight.
Who to trust?
Who is right?
The keys to the levels,
are hidden from me,
and I cannot compete.
So the view from the hills,
is not mine.
I will stay down here
and watch the windmills,
frantic signalling.

Matched

I see them.
The two mismatched,
who are matched.
He, the shaggy,
craggy "man mountain"
or "gentle giant".
Now smiling at
the conversation
with the academic,
thin and pale.
Wielder of stiletto questions
"Who says?" and "So what?",
now actually laughing,
as though her
summer dress has
floated her to
some sunlit field.
Then I see that
his shirt is the same
green as the dress.
And their sandals are the same style,
and that when they laugh,
they look at each other.
So it is me who does
not belong and
I am the looker-on.
And this is good.