the language is failing
High –
The eagle takes flight
Skeletons of sky.
White monuments of stillness
Cushioned islands praying for a landing
Hawk the eye
Grey mass sheets,
Heavy and a burden
Appearing like the fall
Thunderous shadows
And black sunlight.
Low level and degree of frequency
And light swarms upon down
Until it will pass.
Green shadows dance and
Blanket removes the heat
Closing in deeper, darker.
Repeat.
In a star-like silhouette
Float.
Tired of the thoughts of ones
Loathing and regret
Regretting the consumed and
At least not forget
Every single intake
Eagle takes flight
Circulating the sky
The black bird on the wire
You stand in the doorway
An oil in a frame you glow
Tactile but miles away
Ink dipped text
Side view
In line
Fronting all of you
Red sphere floating
Ghostly
In silence on the surface of
Moonlight shadows and darkened
Kaleidoscopic
Waves of night fall temperatures
Electronic humming generating the cool
System begins when the draught is shut,
Tightly, sliding across the picturesque
Evening to lay
Still in darkness
Solar powered blue bells,
Scattered nets and
Long distant yelling
Sleep is on the horizon
As the moon is approaching.
Sitting in a dream like delicacy, late night dining and tired eyes, so quiet and erased. The cold evening chill and the dark skies upon, I see you through the glass.
The naked orange, what one says so, or the naked yellow – what is the latter when you greet with hello?
Dear London you love him. Dear London he adored you, he still does. The great escape of a dream tendency forever coming true. Smart and beautifully presented, holding a stare and smiling.
Hipster shapes and waist coated warmth is the time, the theme, as the radio fulfils the air of the dynamic bird garden. Eastern warmth and herbal glass jars, tea and sweet leaves dressing the room with a promise to never break.
Its a lonely place for one, but for two I would say fine. Night busses in an attempt to get home feels like a million miles. The fear and the thought through teared eyes result to a blurred yellow vision of the number 35 bus. There’s a chill in the air.
A place to work, a place to live or a place to feel the warmth. The juniper berries are growing, sprouting at an instant yet I’m running behind the vastly moving vehicle. So close but still out of reach I cant stop now. The city is calling and the smoke is filling the lungs. The fresh air on the other side. Sitting at the table with a tea for two. I know you’ve never adapted to the quaint taste of roasted arabica.
I’ve written, reversed and been spat out. Re-chewed like a tatted ended bit of meat that situates itself in the reduced isle of the supermarket, owning that large flamboyant yellow sticker. The critically acclaimed piece. Not yet rotted on the shelf but still no body purchased. Instead, disintegrated into tiny speckles of dust that was far more excellent than the tit bit. Like a bitten tit. Or a blue tit – the bird that took flight.
When we take on someone else’s pain we need to be reminded of a true sense of self. Who are we? Where are we going? Where have we gone? What are we doing?
Ladies and gentlemen, can we please keep together.
The Doctor calls your name in the waiting room, loudly enough for all to here. Everyone looks at him suddenly and all those pivoting heads search for the vulnerable one.
You stand alone in the room when all that is heard is the aftermath; the embarrassing silence and fluttering worlds, and words of your inner self that only escape all of the time, a reoccurring nightmare – ones elves unconsciousness in the publics domain. This is me and mine. Yours and your own fuelled by the self – undertaken and underestimated but yet overworked. You’re about to enter the unknown.
Thank you for being there when I needed you most, now everyone can applaud, I hear a faint snare and Soul Eyes tunes in with the unexpected yet apparent legato piano arpeggios. Conltraines contagious efforts to ease the one with the fizz. The melody takes over.
Until the next name is called. And the winner is … congratulations you did it. The trumpet can now solo. You are the future of the industry but what am I with my commitment?
The Ocean View Hotel looks nice as the eyes begin to close as Gordon enters, Stairway to the what? Theres no ocean view, I guess its all in the name. But it looks pretty.
I see darkness as the floor trembles. The butt of the cigarette glows its golden glow as Dexter draws in near.Theres a party in my something percent capacity. I guess its higher than 20. Twisted and turning she stands alone and needing of more. Alone she stares into the smoke-like a bird of the night, caught by the wings inside the smog of the city; cosmopolitan colours and uncanny colleagues. The emptiness burdening upon me like a ton of steel falling from great height. She’s cold but dives in. Invisible but leaves, a bold trace of herself. Floating on the surface she’s calling for help although does not speak. Gordon leaves.
Feed yourself but clean your mess–those sheets must stay white. I cannot hear anything anymore. The beat is back yet drowning in three four time. It’s black and white.
Falling slowly
sinking in a green cotton mount
red in colour
warm with warning
the songs sing aloud
mind numb and
mind free from
abundance
quiet and alone in a heated mass
sleep arriving
you departing
dressing for dinner –
undressing in another sinking green
blonde mass and golden trees
mountains
They move with ease.
Here now
is a place for two
your body –
your stone next to me
feel you, see you
Touch of a heartened wound
you fill it with comfort
Steadily
like no one is watching
flying in tandem
the dream that takes flight
a quiet 