Poetry & Prose

And the world flipped and the words flipped
and sense and meaning grew new
legs and walked off.

The birds are probably talking about
the clouds too, and the gliding,
and the worms.

You put half and a quarter soul,
Fires, a weighty chunk of ice;

She looks forward to the evening wine
Red stained glass of liquid leisure time

Portable call, portable call: I declare bankruptcy of all the networks. LANs: gone. WANs: crashed. Network operators: unoperative.

What will I find this morning
Opening my curtains, I wonder?

I saw this morning in a field
A crow, a roe deer and a magpie.

The night in kindness yawned and gave way to blue sky
Leaving but a piece of itself, shaped like a bird.

Ventilated data farms for naive electro-sheep is what's in store. Not me, no more.

Bodies immaculate for the cyber
Punks of yonder; the great ejaculate
Consumed the rebel base.

The heart however is a more porous
Matter. All that fluid fleshy gurgling
Of metronomic proportions aside.

Je m'réveille d'une vie que j'croyais contemporaine
À l'abri dans la grande enclave métropolitaine,

Take it for granted, then, the sun. Right now
What else is there to do? Lie on the beach
And believe in mercy

Crooked bearded men in dusty old hats
Dreaming the tavern of a thousand dung,
Where in a corner alone with her cats

Then there's the one by the skip, deemed unfit,
Left for dead. It has hinges to hang on,
And a handle, and hopes. So long, they said.

The water is cold and you go elsewhere
For showers. The neighbours politely snob
Your skipped cauliflowers. Summer moves in.

It's Friday night,
Children of France, and a line of red lights
Is slicing the slow downs of Brittany.

Why are you crying by the green waters
Of the Thames? Was it the weeping willows
That inspired you so? The blue-grey skies?

First a mouth, curious eyes and a little nose;
Watch it now, how keenly it grows!

It was a sunny day and it jarred with her mood; but that was preferable to the cynicism of the network.

As I start to drift away again, someone knocks at my door. I hesitate and the knocking comes again, more insistent. My legs start on their own.

November is like being 15 - it's too late to turn back, and you just sit on a stool, mistaking emotions and performance with reality

Live in the moment - and if the moment is day dreaming, if the moment is autumn's mischief of beauty and splendour, live that as if there was no other.

Fame is a hungry machine, and the mind laughs at loosing it's individuality for another's ; the hypocrisy of democratised branding.

But it's spring,
I know it's spring,
And my step is light,
And my heart is playful.

Adventures finish somewhere, always, and we're on the moon, battling with swords, bright as clarity, deadly.

The vessel, the dream keeps me happy and safe. It hapens that I look overboard to see where reality is.

Instead ? We just waste all our time running around because we are being chased by zombies.

The blade of her sword finished it's long arc right where he landed, cracking, creating a fountain of blood, bright red mixing with the pale, sun-bleached earths.

I stand here, years later, as the world, perpetual, immobile, cries it's endless tears, tragic and lifeless. All I have left are memories I can't mourn.