Humming on the edge of
Perfection balanced, nerves
Singing the high-pitched squeal
Of delightful excess, keeping
Me awake, evenly pitched
Between heavenly rest and
Fitful restlessness, I see the beauty
Of living right out there on
The edge, forever ghost-leg muscles
Tensed, waiting for that pitch too far,
Listing ever so slightly, far from skew,
Thoughts keep me awake, of life,
Of her, of you, yet still my mind,
Far from calmness, wanders the breadth
And depth of finder’s way, today
Just another, drop in the bucket,
One more seesaw flash
Of inspiration lost, time burned
Away, like so much cheap coal
Burnt black with the deadness of
Foiled minutes and drowned dreams,
A new dawn of self arises,
Awakening the real rolly-poly me,
Another persona to fuel the movement,
Just another onion layer to see.

It’s not halfway down the stairs,
Nothing so toe-curlingly cute and quaint,
But a road travelled all too often.

it all begins with the norm,
Decisions made, thoughts played out,
Long and short balls caught and thrown
Back to where they flew out from.

Somewhere in the distant past,
From where my own arc light fell
And broke, down to scorched earth,
That when the mirage of sadness lifted,
Was seen to be not scorched but same.

This leads us back to where we sit,
Distant planes’ flight thunder
Mocking true rain clouds hanging
Pregnant in the near-blue sky.

Trees whispering tall unheard secrets,
Sussuration of wind blown leaves,
Teasing memories of nightmare-held
Frozen self not yet lost, but long forgotten.

So this is where we sit,
Me, myself and I, arguing
Constantly aware of the ludicrous phrase
To try, an excuse for pre-attempt failure
And yet all that we can wish for
On hope’s daydream gaze.

This is not the end, merely a new beginning,
Somewhere to start fresh today, this moment,
Lost again in rhetoric’s evil trapping
Word play binding stronger than cast iron,
No movement without percussion,
Another day gone, but not forgotten.

Every day, reminded by
Emotional knick-knacks,
Learned skills haunting me
With my past, a cow speckled
Single shot espresso maker
Abilities to cook schnitzel
With my eyes closed, a photo
Glimpsed in passing, one more
Of a million waltzes across
My living room floor, all tearing
Me to shreds, my heart constantly
Remade, like clockwork put together
Like a spring unsprung again at the end of the cycle,
Tears unshed for lives not lived,
Or those who have passed on
Having lived their lives full,
If not fulfilled, this is just another echo,
One more drop in the bucket
Of despair, I have none, for life
Is good, full of love and loss
Happiness and pain in
Equal measure, just as it
Is meant to be, this is life
This is me, another echo of love lost,
Brings me crashing back to heaven’s cushioned earth,
One more reminder, of life lived
As yet to be fulfilled, all is good life,
A promise better, never whispered.

tired,
a word I no longer
Wish to hear, whispered
sinuously,
from within my ear,
two syllables
rhythmically
rapping my drum
drained, I’m almost too tired
to come, to this
final restful state,
still dressed, as
I am, coat and shoes
still on, leg draped with
aching tender comfort
across the old leathered puff
breathing shallow from
between sleep-dried lips
moistened momentarily
shallow breath quickening the pulse
that sends waves of bestilled calm
down tired legs, blood beating
in the back of my skull,
momentarily lifting my head forward
from its final days rest, tiny pulse
felt through too tense neck muscles
as I sit skewed, bent forward at
an awkward angle, but this is just so
the most still I have been
all day, run from bed
and to bed I return,
soon,
tired,
as the moment I woke.

I did notice something suspicious,
As I traipsed up the stairs at Ealing Broadway,
The announcers words still ringing loose in my ears,
“If you notice anything suspicious,”
And I did, she was 5 foot 5 with dark brown hair,
Liquid blue eyes, blue jeans, trainers, t-shirt (I’ve
Already forgotten the colour), but
She did make eye contact, more than
Once, on the train from White City, and so I smiled
Because the announcer’s metallically repeatable voice,
Hemming us in to the dull painless fear
Of being blown up by disgruntled lonely militant men
And women while we travel to and from work,
Watching the ebb and flow of our lives,
In the ever-increasingly empty threats of the angrily despondent
Self-righteous few, though forever disputed,
That same metallic voice repeats its message of canned fear,
Like some sad Circus barker gone robot,
Tin man rusted in lost days and mindless repetition,
Meaning gone, until that thought echoes
Across the vast empty life-drained space between my ears,
Drawing one mischevious cartoon-like cheek-curving wicked grin
Across my face, “If you notice anything suspicious,” stated the not
So lively not-live voice, “ly cute”, finishes my overworked brain
As she disappears off through the gates to The Broadway,
And I break off up the steps to platform 3, smiling to myself and
Feeling ever so slightly flattered,
She was cute, I’m still smiling
Now.