Mountains Of Stillness

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.


In a star-like silhouette



An Oil In A Frame

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


In silence on the surface of

Moonlight shadows and darkened


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.

Dream-Like Delicacy

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.

The pulse, the profession. The soft silk glow.

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.

Fill It With Comfort

Falling slowly

sinking in a green cotton mount

red in colour

warm with warning

the songs sing aloud

mind numb and

mind free from


quiet and alone in a heated mass

sleep arriving

you departing

dressing for dinner –

undressing in another sinking green

blonde mass and golden trees


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


like no one is watching

flying in tandem

the dream that takes flight