expecting nothing
when something turned up
winging it as usually so pleased
I was
when it did
and I ordered pizza
cheap wine
and the world was wonderful
though cake would have been nice
and Elvis had left the building
it was like a dream
there was a taxi from Africa
and an answer blowing in the wind
as cars passed by my window
headlights swimming
then nothing
 
  

at a table strewn with necessities
whiskey paper ashtray
an old man
with battles lost and won
with eyes that hold brutalities
of prison and of priests 
trying to write a love poem
to convince himself
and everyone
that many moons and years ago
things were soft
philosophy and friendship
simple

people suffer easily
the whiskey mused
while painting love as savage
and so the poem remains
in imagination beautiful
brave
in reality unwritten
 
  

always the past
demanding recognition
a timeless torment beyond
the turning wheel which is forever 
still

clearing the sky
the stones
of blood

purging the self 
of impure motivation

doing right
for the wrong reason

it is the choice not made
that matters
as the common sewer
takes you from
distinction

brings you
to me

  

so many dead empires
fragments

sleeping flies
on crumbled walls

heroes
unremembered

now ruled
by probability based theories

gods
of entertainment

children worshipping
avatars

and with you
nowhere to be seen
contemplation is inevitable 

the now is gone
leave just the frozen wind
to wrestle

  

simple as a kiss this sullen dawn
begins to tumble
down along this strange cold road
of slated roofs and places dark

and when the perils untangle 
weary like a dream
a lullaby
there is no quarrel with the world 

  

to sense death in a discarded 
cigarette

smell terror in the
rose

or guilt in an un-swept
corner

is to understand
Picasso
or Nietzsche 

as flames of
ice
consume
 
  

philosophy theology psychology
and death
museums and libraries
birth
pool halls and pubs and collateral damage
hunters gatherers shamans
pantheons

monsters of myth and of city states
villains and vagabonds
vagina dreams

in a ceremony of solitude
old men procure liquid legends
reinvent all the gods and demons
to quietly soothe the political brutalities 
of childhood
life
and love 

  

cranes climb a London sky
windswept and cold
taller than cathedral spires
huge tower blocks and corporate structures
a view surreal in the glow of dawn
impressionist hues enchanting

squealing views along suburban streets
as the underground rumbles
and a dog barks

lighting a cigarette
constructing the first coffee
thoughts ramble to places and people
a world away
and in circumstances which altered forever
everything

on mornings like this it is the shoes of other men
those which trod paths less confrontational
that both inspire and haunt 
  

I believe I would make 
a very good 
tree

bending and swaying 
with all of it

not breaking
simply enduring 

I believe I would make 
a very good 
stone 

allowing the weather to be 

and I think I would make 
a splendid fire 

consuming all that
we don’t need 

I believe I would make 
a different world 

one
nicer 
if I could
  

so many stood 
with secrets in their eyes 
as the cityscape spiralled behind
and the sky a deeply bruised recipient 
of smoke and screams 
frightened souls 
brooded ghoulish above the flickering famished flames 
which clawed the tower 
the cladding
as many stood in abject disbelief 
unable to assist as the pyrotechnic bedlam 
spat and chewed 
to a pathos of blue flashing lights and sirens 
adding to the surreal flux 
apocalyptic frenzy 
and the death toll crept to 72 
so many of them children 
their easy dreams and innocence lost forever 
and many prayed to many gods 
built shrines and looked for answers 
in this unreal city 
where one year on the politicians bicker still 
refuse responsibility while picking bones
institutional indifference 
tyranny 
and to think we thought this time 
might be different 
as silently in green we marched beneath the gutted monolith.