Absolutely Miles Away …too many clouds, too little time…

tell…

Such a fortuitous word makes its way to the waking mind often; but never in such bold and brash and completely Helvetican way.

Font-love aside… this rather plain vista, which you see before you now, lies unkempt, a tombstone angularly protruding from tufted earth, scuttled over by eons of insectual colonies and left for dead, in search of pastures new.

Time will come.  The haughty Spring will root its essence in all, and new shoots will rise.  But for now, I must leave you here like an ageing book.  Spines are twisted, pages swathed in the perspiration of a hundred lovers.  And time must pass, with no memory, save for a creaky and aching past.

Open me.  Breathe me.

kept

down Hogarth’s winding vale
to past the dark, and further in

the crossroads upon us carried hackensack
roads borne of guilt
your hefty burden

to a silent place where qualms meet quench
and all words
tripped over lax of a floorboard
tripped off tonguelicks

somehow make sense

and your breath
your scream

kept

a hand, only apparent
from the corner to which
these thoughts must now lie.

and one day all will pass, swiftly by.  like the times we sink confusedly into sleep and surface seconds later in the shallows.  breathe, and release.  repeat, risk, rise cresting chest sharply and…

it is still possible to detect the sense, your distilled essence, in cells merged with cottons.  and breathing deeply in, replaying over and over.  this is what happens when.  when the edges between our clouds start to blur, and halves confuse over the side to which they belong.

a stranger’s strange stare, looped into infinite repeat.

why do we tear at our souls so; but only whence pickled in the briny blue?

might

screeching.
sun scries through the windows and people step in.
tourists in their own city
ask if this way marks the way to the centre.
this route, ne’er trodden,
we do not know.

feeeet clatter slower today
and with
less stressed steps.

we have
come to revel in the week’s end,
celebrating its coming with whoops, cheers
and dizzying biers
and mourning its passing
late of a sore sunday eve,
laying in wait of what
the next five might bring.

and today’s serving,
bugged, pilled and spilled
out under the wrong name
of a seated sat day, at the table,
eating into hours
under a scared glance at the date.

needs must.

the reflection in wispy
grey melts at the edges.
succumbs a little.
and hides.

lashes flicker to flutter
bright eyes close against the sun
suffering screen burn.

bright eyes still wonder, still dream.
still wonder
if
the words might ever surface again.