You counted the days,

The number of weeks spent.

Distanced and apart,

Nothing realises the natural

Progression: Dawn merges with

Midday and then into night.

Seasons lapse by

As skin flakes fall

To nourish the soil.

There is no passion in

Isotropic landscapes.

Baron flatness overwhelms

Even the smallest point,

And this is just the

Beginning: Dark architects

Etch foundations and leave.

The thick black lines, scratched,

Which mark the horizon,

Are permanent. They will

Never falter.

One day, bewildered,

A traveler might notice them,

Settle and seem content.

But still that barren flatness

Surrounds this hermitage.

It will  never truly be

A world in which to belong;

Just an inexhaustible,

Limp existence; featureless

And dull grey.

Distanced and apart,

I count the days.

And yes it’s another one of those situations
When I look through a book of various occupations
None of which seem to be
the things that would really suit me.
My parents think I’m lazy
The sister calls me crazy;
“Act your age, get a job
And don’t be such a contrived slob.”
A scream in my ear
After a night on the beer
Wakes me up to no prospects
Or wealth. A down to earth concept
That wealth equals profit
Is a dream that rarely comes true.
But is believed by so many
In a country with plenty
It’s surprising the rich are so few.

Danny lead the way. The drunk girl next, blonde hair blowing in the gale, lugged a black bin bag larger than my own. I offered to swap but she preferred to keep her load and moan every few seconds about its  weight.

 Walk,

reduce the distance

between your present hang over smog

and future uncertainty.

Ching, clink,

ching, clink,

black plastic bag wrapped

evidence of the previous night

combined

with tomorrow concern.

Shattered and enhanced,

Your balance is perfect.

The lad’s mind; blank. He couldn’t remember
Anything for stoned death possessed his soul
On a Saturday morning when wedding bells toll
To mark the first night
Exited couples
Enthusiastically copulate
For what should be
Their premier performance.
Parents know or can guess
All but the seedy reality, the condom’s brand;
Safe sex foiled with a safety pin
By the younger brother’s hand.
And, yes, o little one
A new life to abort
To permit the old to continue
Flushing more rubber down numerous loos
Of more exotic foreign hotels
Long after that heavy clatter of bells
And practice at tying those slippery knots
Untampered by boyfactured pinprick dots.
Meanwhile,
He still sees in black
And white,
That sexless youth who sleeps in the day
To watch T.V. at night
So the jungle of colour
Worsens his hang-over.

Distanced, tear distorted
Pictures; the middle
Of your eyes,
Passion holes,
Frustrate my retina,
Sick
despair chokes
Those memories.

Ducts long since dried,
Toe nails grow,
and I can laugh-
- sometimes,
Drive me still though,
I yearn to impress, to
Make waves that gently
Disturb you.

No, feelings fooled;
Even looks lie,
Physical? Or was
that all; two
Separate findings, ours
At each others’ expense?
I should never know, I
A am a stranger.

The parallel events of interweaving lines

Blunt the pictures, invisible and mute.

An internal array of secret eyes

View the solitary cinema and shoot

Back feelings felt to feel again

Without a trace of physical pain.