all the colours and you

In the blue hour I wake
just before the dawn.
In the grey hour i sleep
Six under the lawn.
+++++++++++++++++++

In-between

+++++++++++++++++++
i live,
With all the colours
And you

pater in absentia

where did our fathers go?
we do not know
but a space they left.

of which

we are unwittingly
bereft


but with each gasp taken
and every heart beat
we feel a little happier
stumbling to our feet.

at last we are fathers
both you
and i.

we make up for their loses

snowy crushes

like the first snow,
you are there,
a soft caress
on concrete sidewalks.

gentle and intricate
your handiwork
does build,
until,
it is stacked high.

- a mountain of young child delights.

your thoughts are:

snowmen,
sleds,
and slushy fights.

your eyes are the

reflection

of white, bright,
snowy nights.

like the crunch,
underfoot,
you are there
on all our hearts.

My friend Jeff

To anyone who can help:

I have a friend, Jeff. Jeffrey the Wolf to give him his full title.

Jeff doesn't like rain, telephones or toothpicks. He once had an accident with a toothpick while on the phone, discussing the rain. This left Jeff with only one eye. This eye, I can see at night, in the street. It shines like a new fifty pence piece. Bright and piercing.

I have never met Jeff but he comes into my house when I am at work and leaves me messages on my bathroom mirror. He likes to leave me interesting facts. Once, he wrote: "did you know, there is cyanide in apples?". I did not know that.

I also find hair on the floor of my bathroom. I guess Jeff likes to use the bathroom because the woods tend not to have this manner of amenities. I don't mind but he does steal my toothbrush everyday. I now hide my toothbrush but invariably i forget where i hid it so just use my finger and my plugs are constantly blocked with his coarse hairs. I have left a return message to Jeff on the mirror asking him: "Dear Jeff, please can you unblock the plugs after use." He wrote back: "Fuck you." and left a polished turd on my bathroom floor. It was literally a polished turd. I contemplate how Jeff polished this turd every night before bed. I have come to the conclusion that Jeff likes to drink Brasso or he has a sander in his rectum.

I'm not scared of Jeff. We are just like two ships in the night. I leave crackers and cheese on a plate for him in the front room but he never touches them. I think he doesn't venture into the front room because the telephone resides there. Poor Jeff. Maybe I will move it.

Last week I noticed a suit and tie missing from my wardrobe. Maybe Jeff had a job interview? I'm not sure and there has been no trace of Jeff since. I really liked that suit. Please, if you see a shining, fifty-pence one-eyed, suit wearing wolf answering to the name of Jeff can you ask him to call me, or well write? Or visit? I will leave the front door open.

I have crackers and cheese for your endeavours.

Many thanks.

Arctic Summer

the daylight
in night
blinks through
the blind.
my mind
awake
yet
the clock
slumbers
in the low
digits.
no darkness,
just the edge.
nature will
hide no one
in my
arctic summer.

Lord of the Fly

Fly on the window,
scurrying up,
where do you go?
Do you even know
it's a window?

I can see a brick wall,
can you see it too?
If you broke free
would you just crash
into that wall?

When i watch you,
diptera,
I swell up inside.
What cruel god
inked your blueprint?

How you are hated
by all and sundry.
No purpose but to be
eternally confused
by invisible barriers.

Are you a hidden
metaphor for love?
Have you ever been in love?
Did your compound eyes
meet over white dog shit?

I think you heard me,
you are flying around,
buzzing.
I am hung
over.

I want to hug you,
teach you English.
Take you by the arm,
well, leg, one of,
do you have six?

We'd go somewhere nice
but i can't
i'd squish you.

his face

He knows

those eyes.
They've seen it all.
Deep set.

I'm reading Bukowski.
The words

---- fell
--------- off
------------- the
------------------ page
to be now seated across
from me
on the tube.

Everything about him
is flawed perfection.
Stoic suffering is
etched
into every pore
until they are connected
b
_y______ n
__c____ o
___a__ y
____n
like wrinkles.

His gaunt face.
Thin,
pressing,
knowing.

Elastic band weaved
around his
wedding finger.
Wrapped tight,
the tip is scarlet.
A constant reminder.

This small hunk of
granite. I feel sorry
for him. But he craves
no pity.

Lady eating an apple

Will she eat that
whole apple?
The pips, the
core, the stalk?
No!

She stuffs it
down the side of
her seat and starts
on a mint.
This she eats all.

Using the folded wrapper
she picks her teeth.

London Stories

If what we wrote
looked like what
we are
then London would
be many sad, tired
stories.

freckle

freckles are
the plottings of
life,
idiosyncratically
strewn
over the chaos
which is
face.

The Fox

You look so young,
you are so young.
Singing your song,
a fragile bird,
crying for food
alfot in your nest.

Until yet only you rest,
no flight have your
wings produced.
And all the while
mother feeds you
worms.

Hunger yearns,
for I the fox -
the devious enchanter -
invites you to fly.
Let's wait a while,
fatten your naivety.

Then introducing gravity.
A tastier meal you
will be.
And the chase,
What a chase!
You are supper.

The Road to Keflavík

wind howling across rock.
scathing, burning and alive,
it once was but
now, now
quiet.

clouds rush,
charging like buffalo
along the flat plains.
once peaceful
now, now
enraged.

wild lands,
until,
a break in the sky -
crepuscular ray.
down floats a bird.
now, now
calm

graceful flight,
swooping low
close to my heart
a feather is bestowed
from her brow
into my hand
now, now
love

I squeeze

I will destroy it.
Plunge my hand in
the volcano and
rip out the heart.
Watching life pulsate,
coursing over
my thin, weary fingers.

And there will be
brief quiet
as the land inhales around me;
for i will squeeze.
And the fjords will quake,
and the glaciers will crack
and all shall perish.

While the once mighty whimper,
as it cries out unheard
for its heart.
But i wont let go.
Even as the geyser screams
and the waterfalls whither.
Until an overture of torment riddles this land
and i will squeeze

until

iceland is no more

untitled

my will is shallow
and my logic deep
each day they battle
until i sleep

Goteborg Vending Machine

I booked a flight to
Goteborg to see you
but the salad on my
plate was soggy.

My mind isn't clear
and it never was,
as the fat man sits
at the bar laughing.

Old photo on the wall,
looks past me;
out,
out to sea!

No smoking
here.
Vending machine sums
it all up:

mints,
condoms,
paracetamol,
despair - pack of four.

Emperor of Solitude

I want to destroy society.
Cast off its shadow and
rebel.
Be alone, be free,
unshackle this recklessness.

A hazy head of responsibilities
linger.
Rules and regulations.
Defined by little more
than a thin line.

Banish the prejudices,
strangle the predispositions,
lead me astray.
And, if you decline,
destruction forebodes.

All the ills, the mental
depravities, dissipate.
Now I stand mighty,
a Kingdom of One -
Emperor of Solitude

Fridge Note

I am
fridge magnet
.
With note
display
"toilet paper"
slid under.

He who dares Rodney, he who dares

when i say bad things
i didn't mean it.
when i say good things
i didn't mean it.

the only time i say
the right thing
is when
i didn't mean it.

The Box

After stopping
I was sealed
in a box.
Wearing slippers
out the back door
you left to the

abyss.
In pitch black,
skirting alleyways,
past the cornershop
and down the lane.
A silhouette of

loss.
Fox cries, stop
dead.
Pausing,
steam rises with
collecting midnight

mist.
Main road, barren
of cars,
over the style,
into the fields.
The orange beams

behind.
Owl scream at
your mad
jaunt.
The beaten track,
the long, thick

grass.
Your feet,
the overgrowth,
sodden with
sadness.
The moon appearing,

dim.
On your knees
scratching away.
Fragile fingernails.
An intrusion, a hole,
my shallow

grave.
One last look,
spit with rage,
cast me in -
kisses of mud,
clumps of heartfelt

dirt.
A vow to despise,
you traipse away,
wearing slippers,
without the box,
without me.

bugger.

bienvenue

a new friend i did meet
although not how you'd think
no pleasantry or handshake
but a bienvenue in our way

Rational & Spontaneous - Their Weekend Away

Rational,
a self-confessed Norwegian,
(true name Monotone)
talks Werner Herzog.
0802 train to Paris.

Across the table
a self-confessed Frenchie,
Spontaneous
(true name middle-class despair).
They just met.

Rational & Spontaneous
their weekend away.

Spontaneous starts loudest,
- a shrill fanfare. Rational
is slower, hesitant. Each brought
baggage. Two bags of clichés.
They unpack.

Syllable vêtements, cast off.
By the end only
socks of "que sera sera" and
g-strings of "reap what you sow"
remain.

All is gone, now just the clothes
on their backs. Despair
takes control. Panic
stricken faces
"is this really us?"

Rational starts. Oh, he's
"romantic", as he drops his
pants. He goes quiet, stares
out of the window
bollock naked.

Spontaneous follows suit,
whips of her bra in her new
formative logic manner.
They both look
chilly.

Rational & Spontaneous
their weekend away.

Solitude, Quiet and Reflection - Part 1

After you left
I couldn't be alone, even
in my own head.
Silence destroyed me.

Twenty-four hours
a day I bathed in noise
and distraction. I rinsed
with human stimulation.

In every scene Solitude
stood behind a door
that was slightly ajar and
he, peeping in.

Sometimes tapping on
windows or sliding
from under the dinner table,
yanking on my laces.

Solitude brought Quiet
and together they danced
on our graves to
a tuneless rhythm.

I dreaded the Abyss
where Solitude and Quiet
patiently drank tea,
waiting for my arrival.

In that place Reflection
also lived and she
was a mirror,
the image of you.

All the time i wretched
to think of Solitude, Quiet
and Reflection,
reminding me.

Sparrow

In my dreams
there is a rendezvous
with a sparrow.
We meet between
a cinema
and candy store.

Sparrow your nose
I behold
a parallel piquant.

In my dreams
there is a rendezvous
with a sparrow.
We sip tea,
steam rises,
with softly spoken words.

Sparrow your eyes
I chew
a sticky soul toffee.

In my dreams
there is a rendezvous
with a sparrow.
We part between
a cinema
and candy store.

Sparrow your cheek
I kiss
- I, awake?

Her and Him

Her: “We will speak later?”
Him: “Maybe...”

Her looks shocked.
Things might happen
between now and later.
Him could run away,
Meet a fiery Italian,
Move to Rimini
Marry,
Eat olives.
Live to a 103 years-old.

Before later comes
a disaster could strike.
Him's bus explodes -
hit by a falling satellite.
Europe loses MTV
for an hour.
Her? Him forever.
“Him said 'maybe',”
Her tells the press.

Perhaps Him sits, staring
Out the steamed up
Rail-replacement bus window
watching Her walking off.
Thinking,
“Her bestowed a forced kiss
on me.”
It cuts Him deep.
Now was too much - no later.

Her: “We will speak later?”
Him: Silence

Soggy Toes

A continuous flow of
industrialised explorers
in a white sheet of slips
and soggy toes.

Pencil thin grey line
bisecting through.
They equipped with
tan briefcases

March of the pension fund,
a 9:30 with Hans -
fiscal report -
and soggy toes.

Entropy

if i was a scientist
and i read patterns then
this is one i see. We all die,
one day,
time means absolutely nothing
and
will eventually mean nothing.

Time can go in any direction
you want it to.
Scientifically there is no reason
it should always go in one
- entropy -
maybe one day maybe
time will be released.

This strange barrier will shift,
paradigm.
Cracked eggs will be reformed
crying over unspilt milk.
Take back the shit
we flushed away.
No more regret,