The tingle of the ill fitted skin
Rattles of roughened blood
Always at the junction
By the flat stood toes
The battle of
Does it matter anymore
Or
Fearful of misrepresentation
The footsteps on the shore
The blue sky with shiny
Silver cloud
Morning
Of sweet separation
Of what I could not know
The loud exhaust
And skin tight muffler
Laid, by who knows atop the radiator
Always at the window
As by the fast flood goes
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A chink of southern sky
Scattered oranges
I slowly pass on passing by
Still leaves
Hang without a dream
Here with the daybreak
Before the whirlwind’s uprising
Flickers or ever truly starts
A chink of the me oh my
Matters not; the drink
Or the potted jelly
With the dishes
In the sink
Wilful light
Downcasts on the shapes
I mean here and as we wake
Before the collection
Or the inspection of moving parts
A chink of happy sighs
Flattered lemons
Near on and almost nigh
It’s been a game up to now
A walk in the park
A breeze
Your letter changes all that
The new nights in the dark
With flared bare trees tall and stark
Am I up to this
Have I got the mettle
Will I stay, say, may I even settle
You said I would not be here
Otherwise
No, let’s not go there
The words of good
They should come from everywhere
That first Christmas football
All of life is for fun for me
Quite happy, quiet, loud
Unconditionally free
Your handbook changes all of that
The new reality wanders in, she dawns
With scared dare knees she spawns
Can I make it
Shall I forge and fettle
Will I stay, say, I may even settle
The ginnel, the tunnel, the pit prop
Fairgrounds laid down for the focus
The stasis stayed with me; amplified in my memory
By being chosen both here, as well as from way across the water
From the pictures and the words it is such a small step
There to here, to hear now, it is the brass band playing
And to smell the cobbles, fresh with mist fallen rain
With the footprints of the bakers dozen early in the morning
Easy then, as now, not to pick up a brush
Or some other suitable vocation, to stay steady
Going nowhere, being nowhere until procreation
Put its head around your open door
You take her to the kitchen, you take each other on the floor
The two of you with your sudden rush of blood
While being indulgent in the shortest softest moment
Sets yourselves up for the hardest lines of your life
Photographs; nearer now than any of the present
Times they speak of
The face, the finger, the wavy hair; fairgrounds remembered
Stood around, only for the loci, or for the locomotion
A well thumbed book
A collection of beautiful stories
A wee thumbed crutch for you
Hope lays somewhere there
Hidden away behind the glory
Good will triumph
If then to win is good
Evil will be defeated
Unless that is if I or you
Or they instead
Have misunderstood
Or been once more misled
You did see the sunshine
You told me that you felt its warmth
But that it was not enough
Or maybe it was more than enough
For you to thank your god
And the virgin birth
For your certainty of deliverance
Prayed for with and for all your worth
My words are seen by very few people
But they do hold me free
In deep they are the inward
And outward beauty for me
They speak of the gift of breath
Without the need of steeples
They wreck the wrath of death
My freedom is frail
Perhaps you might say even feeble
These though are my words
Intrinsically a part of me; my way
I hope you are so fortunate
For now I have to go, so I say good day