Light of Amber Nectar

In my right ear the sound of water

Almost a stream, into nearly a pool

All the rest we imagine

On the beach, tiptoe cold water

Shared lonesome interrogations

“You seem unsettled

Can you not look at me”

I turn to see your smile:

Red lips; all the words say 

I love you

It takes a while

But I settle

Here among the simple folk

Drinking the Moonshine pale ale

Where arrangements are made

To meet a week on Tuesday

By when apparently all will be sorted

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Sandilands in May

This is how we feel. Alive on the beach, in the breeze, with hands over our eyes to create the vibrant, purple, geodesic domes that Buckminster Fuller spoke of so lovingly. Out towards the vague horizon, the waves roll over onto the podiatrist’s feet; she moves the camera blindly from one frame to the next, past the horses and the waves of water

The chasm beneath Edinburgh’s streets sure struck a chord; the author sincere with her research, whatever the year, whatever the festival, whatever the danger she was later to speak of. We all need some space; the brown and white hoofs splash their exited riders into the tides surprises, the dogs that barked have left the sand sunk pools, left the faraway roar of motor cycles

We all need some space, also to talk to the stranger dressed in white muslin, he moves away, steps up a gear, jogs along, and levitates to the next breakwater. We all need some space, he checks his pulse and pedometer; with my blurred vision I can easily make him out to be two, turn his outfit to become ever more flight bound and exotic

The sands become a desert, the sound of waves are thanks to the ever present wind noise; winds that stir the particles into a massed morass, for all in which to sink. Better then to wear my spectacles, or look for the shorter, more distinctive view, see what can be seen; reign in my over active imagination, once more caught unseen on film

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One for the road

Suspended inanimate

Blood and bones helplessly hang

Under less than supple skin

No voice at home to articulate

Push buttoned purred engine 

Depress the clutch, pull away

The body falls in for the ride, held

At a safe distance, safely levitated

Tick-tock, tick-tock; slower, but

Still a pulse of circulation

A station to move through

A moment more awake than last

Stretches with unsugared tea

Tea and meditation

The engines inclinations ingested

The fuel kicks in; hot ear lobes listen

To soft rock played on the radio

The sun is up, in the cloudless sky

Hung over

The seventeen fields of rapeseed

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All dressed up and…

At the early morning bus stop

First cigarette of the day

Think on - of lovers left in bed

Think on, of lovers 

If only you had said

Baby can I walk you home

Roam around those thoughts

Alive, twirled fast inside your head

At the early morning bus stop

Baby, for certain you could have said

Can I share your life forever

Can I wake inside your head

Instead, you think on: 

Too much make up

Too dreary perm set hair

Too tight the crimplene trousers

Too late the finals of the beauty cup…

Can I share your life forever

Can I wake inside your head

Instead you stare

Beyond the early morning

Beyond the bust stop and the flair

You think on – of lovers left in bed

You think on, lover, if only you had said

Baby can I walk you home

Can I share your life forever

Can I wake one day beside you

In your silk laced, soft skin, bed

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Glass Houses

Noise
Surrounded by inadequate lives
Black and white noise
Counselled out of expectations

I saw it on the news
Kids out of control
In Time magazine
Young people
Without direction
Youthfulness
Without correction

Noise
Picked on by the big boys
Black and white noise
Torn apart, by media mogul dedications

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