In autumn do the leaves belong to the tree or the wind? The branches tousle and sway and the leaves cling and woosh and say one more day; hang on one more day.

A small pale golden maple leaf, half crumpled swishes through the open window and lands on the white porcelain sink. At least it should be white, but today is spotted with indigo streams where the paint magically splooshes and splashes, as uncertain as the autumn onto other surfaces.

White would have been cleaner, white doesn’t leave stains on white or if it does it is camouflage.

I hide, like the white on the white on the white, the porcelain, the tiles, the gloss and yet I feel like indigo.

A smear and a stain. I sploosh and flow and sploosh and flow and I colour you with stains that show, reveal, against my will. The trail of where I was of who I have been of all the magnificent madness I have seen.

Indigo. It’s called indigo, like the eternal cloudless night that imprints upon you an indelible mark. Indelible ink, whooshing through existence like a liquid shooting star in the paint pot spraying magic madness all over the room.

Indigo in the room.

All day everyday. Mind junk. The relevance of which I no longer even wish to fathom. Thought in, thought out and I ought maybe buy a statue. A Buddha, sitting in an uncomfortable position and I’ll delegate my mind junk to it, to its concrete brain and closed contoured eyes and see if its expression contorts as the meaning of my thoughts pass like urine through a conduit.

I sigh! A tired and lonely rebellious sigh. A sigh of resignation, I didn’t tempt him to adultery and still, I miss him, those thoughts of early morning murmurings as I press my body into his and we stir together before even the dawn of humankind.

And it’s only junk. Mind junk, passing through a mind in stone, over an expressionless face. No laughter line. No joke. No enlightened countenance from the waste products of its mind.

This too. This too. This too shall pass. The concrete shall be weathered and the junk will crumble, like an ancient Atlantean colloseum and then that too, as is mind junk, shall wear out in the irrelevance of time. And the hollow contour of you and I, will only shine in the light of an exploded sun.

My thoughts of you are mind junk. I clasp the Buddha’s stone head and say, I hope you have more success than I, in tempting temptation.

I got you

In the jaw
Right, left, right

I got you
On the nose

I got you
By the throat

I got you
In the groin

I got you
Clasp your heart

I got you.

Winter Sunrise

November day with overhung clouds, dismal grey on a diet of windswept trees, scant and scarce as winter begins. The icy lilaic pink sky peeks through sunrise, a kiss of the day ahead and at the bus stop, the branches sigh. Oh! What tales to tell.

A delayed bus is a delayed life. Broken down ambitions. Stalled and choked on the piston called life. A full circle race track and I am back, the tarmac eats its own tail.

The driver speeds full throttle or the equivalent, of an electric low emission bus. The chariot. Carrying those to the daily ritual and those who still chase the dream. The golden sun peeks through a slit between two clouds. The eye of Rah.

Foretold, I had my own pursuit of the philosophers stone, almost cracked my enigma code. Training to arrive at some destination, muddle through more like. Running through the threshold again, the uninvited guest. I neither jog, nor sprint, more of an involuntary propulsion. There is a strong case for stasis of the homeopathic kind. A steady study of what is, the bus timetable predicate, ordinary life astrology, head out of the stars and into a website, book, tablet of virtual stone.

The mason’s chisel upon 21st century materials. At the very least I am familiar here, in some scriptures the least is the most. This is what I know. This chapel of my familiar.

Winter, you are my sunrise, opaque and frozen. Cold as an exsanguinated heart. Even so, I keep you warm. The memory, the the idea, the ideal, because there are many years between us now, but still you haunt my thoughts, like unexpected faces in Halloween photographs.

I did very well not to drown whilst dunking for apples in that big river. I did very well to make it home, after asking for all those pennies. I didn’t give up, but my turnip face gave way to extraneous circumstances and a strange passive inability to assert my will.

Winter, you are my sunrise. I can make claim to this miracle upon miracle. All of what I know, I saw in your closed eyes, like a Stanley Kubrich scene. The blind vision of Halloween lanterns.

I shall find healing clay and press it on my wide open affliction and incant a prayer so you appear and say something like,

“Put the kettle on.”

And I will say something like,

“Of course, anything for the winter sunrise.”



Tea leaves
She presses,
with the back of her
Silver plated spoon.
Could even be stainless
But I doubt it.
The reproduction retro cloth tells of nostalgia, for an uncomplicated truth,

The ones that can be stolen from overpriced vintage stores.

Fakes and faking it, the tea leaf wet patch.

Strainer tarnished.
Not coming clean,
And the mystery of the leaves,
Rustled and hustled and brittle.

Tell me
Why we all leave,
Only shapes and inferences.

Oh! Crumbs!

“Cake?” She enquires.

Baking it.
Looking for signs.
The clue.
Stirring the cauldron.
The brew.
Signs in the the tea cup

“I care not for the filling.”

I say with my mouth full of lies.

Paper doilie patterns of the who we once knew and the where we once were.

(Not here).

Tannin trickles the spout.
Silently spreads in slomo
Over the faded and jaded
No, I never made it.

Only served,

The unpoured profanity,
that I wipe from my serviette lips.
I doubt very much if that will ever come out,
The strain of the stain of the tattle and tittle.

Tea stewed.
Leaves hanging
On that raised finger.

The stains

And we linger
A little.

October Rose

Please stay.

Please want to be with me.

Please come back.

That is.

Come back.

Truth is I don’t even know if you were ever really with me and

I wanted to txt you and say,

“No. I will keep seeing you regardless. I will lower my expectation of myself even further to keep this hallucination of a relationship real. I will accept whatever demeaning conditions you apply to stay part of your life, however small, however insignificant and meaningless.”

But I didn’t, only because I have the experience to know that ultimately our disused railway track of a relationship would have ended anyway, parallel lines, not destined to cross and meet, not even at the abandoned coal mine. The end of the lines, the parallel lines.

Nothing but an optical illusion.

For you and I,

I am grateful that we never reached that destination. That loud and painful screeching derailment. That particular kind of rail crash, because I kept a semblance of dignity by saying,

“Leave me to get on with my life and find somebody who wants to be in a relationship with me.”

And so I trawl the streets taking photographs of dying roses as symbolism for the love we never had and the relationship neither of us could believe in and I take comfort for the loss I should not even be feeling, as a result of the thoroughly hip non-relationship that just didn’t end. How could it end if it didn’t exist in the first place.

And I miss you and the thought of you and the fraction of a life I had in your arms. I liked it there, in your arms. I was too scared to tell you. Afraid, I would say too much, only to know there were no words I could ever say that would be powerful enough to keep you.

Deep within my soul I know that you mustn’t have felt for me, the way you should feel when in the presence of a woman you love.

There was never any mention of love.


The final taboo.

As the rose petals wither.

The October rose dies.

Surrender of the Storm

As if I had been taken by the current of your magnetic pull, I moved with the fatalistic knowing of an inevitability of galactical and interstellar proportions and even though I knew there were other options, still I moved with only the compelling certainty of a sand storm in a deserted desert, a storm that rendered me blind and buried me in a dune so high and magnificent it could be seen for many light years.

Such is the magnetism of my body towards yours, such is the understated and underestimated force of divine wisdom.

I give up the glory to the divine, partly because it is best to be humble in such matters, but mainly because I did not plan this and I take comfort that my perfect incompetence may actually have been only turbulence in the grand design of the universe.

(It wasn’t my will).

And against all gravity defying logic, I am here, as was always and  eternally predicted.

‘Don’t you worry, don’t you worry child. Heaven’s got a plan for you.”

A summer song from a summer playlist echoes in my head. Good. Well that’s that sorted then. Phew! I can carry on now happily making a mess.

What a mess.

I am no longer certain, (if indeed ever I was), at which specific moment the synapses in my brain exploded. I only know that they did.

What a mess.

All over various countries and counties. All over an array of innocent bystanders. All over a vast variety of room decor.  All over myself, inside-out.

What a mess.

Here I am. Against the prevailing wind.

Space punk.

Gypsy antagonist.

Overwhelm junkie.

Surrendered storm.


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