You are all the colours in my rainbow

You can't see me

(I can't see you)

I'm flying.

Farewell

It's like a staple when all I'd like is

a hug...

...and you can't cuddle angles.



Trying to turn it off in the ceefaxed bit of my head

, green, red, those lines like ropes of fuzz,

...it isn't working.



So of my Golden City
which part will I find?

Outside Saatchi 2

If my Art is here
Why is yours mis-matched leg-
warmers, honey?

These --- are my words

Words on bone owning that bone that bone is my own, words of bone words as stone, stoney bones stoned bones are my words.

You,
are the clouds
when passions rage and I see mist in
my
fall

You are reflections, waving from
non-existent windows
and I break for you.

Neither within nor without;
neither breathless nor heady;

there the dance is,
not still or even skipping.

Try not to fix it,
to where the heartbeats are counting.
Except for that tangent, the perfect solace of stillness

There might be no dance. Oh! But,
there is only the dance.

While The Expressionism floats

Clutching for the one that can steady
Your wobbling.
You are frozen a bit, with each beat of your blackened honesty
making the churns come.

So you do it;

you pop the bubbles and recreate your tundra
to find the letters that show how your heart feels, what those worried eyes
are trying to say.
And then you're not sure
sure
not sure if you want it to go
but you Man Up and do it;
and while your expressionism floats, you're left thinking
"Oh Shit", until the reply comes.

Though all I could see was he,
Not fresh and straight,
but dirty in the foam; and she,
Love, who'd pulled you from
There, and into the running.

lost-in-a-bit-of-Russian-translation
I was asked
What do you mean about This Music?

with a smile then

What do you mean about This Music?

with a raise
and a crackle of flash
(think sparks here)
she'd caught that slightly
confused
I-am-European-too, but glazed,
face,
forever amused on her camera lens

Pirate writing

she said to me
"when it's plain sailing,
you can't write"
so does this mean
it's gone choppy?
and am I able to
pinpoint the rough,
like pirates
like trawlers,
stealing and dredging
for the things that might make them whoop in gratitude
because now it's plain sailing for them?

when you Look at me I wonder
what it Is that you are thinking
through your Eyes and through your breath.

are you Happy saying nothing
lying wistful in your thinking
dancing In that time we met?

or are you Cooking little pots
of thought
that We might be the best?

If there can be
If there is
A Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy: And Other Stories
are there
is there
A Despondent Loss of Lobster Girl: (And Other Stories too, obv.)

Or if we could be
A Medieval Master of Love, like Ovid,
why should we turn our subjects of admiration, pet,
into cheap translations of the Silver Age
when all he wants is some future hope for his eternal devotion?
Poor guy.

Maybe he should've written some Other Stories!
Y'know, like, spread himself out a bit...

we'd have to imagine everything
perfectly so that it's snap.

you can sit on your cloud,
me on my bean bag
and if you like
I'll remember You
and if you like
i'll let you remember me.

I'd prefer it if you could tingle
down and sit here too,
but as long as your cloud is
silver and lined for you, sweetheart,
I don't mind that you've gone.

she gave me this book...
I never thought I'd write!
or maybe that lovely girl knew
best,
that the pen would run away
(like the dish with the spoon)
and little lights would come out
onto my page

the noughts and crosses stayed.
they were etched there, smudged there so that
we could all see
how their roads were spent

it made me smile.
are we there yet

My head is Open
on Sundays
(12 - 4pm, browsing from 11)

so
there are times when
they just come on
anywhere
and I have to catch my breath
just a little bit because
Immediately I'm somewhere else

I'm on that boat with you
and we're singing together,
and we are
so
happy! Or
i'm jumping or i'm sad
but I like it because
Immediately I'm hoping that
when you hear it
you're thinking of me too.

It's like a pretty music when they speak
I'm so lost in it
that i can close my inner doors
to everything that isn't their
magic
and i listen; I pretend to
drink coffee, but I'm listening
to the prettiness of them

i wonder
what it would be like if
i were to fall asleep to it

with him stroking my hair
and whispering
to me like that every night, you know
I think my dreams would be made of gold.

a gin without tonic

You are
missing a single thread

if you look close, into the
boxes
you might see it lying there
beckoning
to patch up that part of you
that makes your lashes twinkle
with cry

my heart smiles
to think that you, lovely,

can
be
with
me.

Rhia, sheer
Genius.

that girl is Light when all around her, stars are dimmed by town cloud.