My day,

My day is not young
my day is not old
my day is not buried beneath the soul.
One day you will find it
and it will speak out to you
"good morning, good noon, good night,"
then explode with flight
ecstatic you'll affix your sight,
whilst dusk brings tidings
and dear day will disapparate,
perhaps to a far corner of some parallel.

Messy fragments scattered
along your weeping smile,
lickable memories for a fond friend
upon distant isles
of the same galactic supermarket.
My day, some day.

Little

All I find are windows.
Little person, little life, see's little of everything.
There is no gold
just spun faerie tales.

Ideas vs knowledge

I'm going to drop
wearing nothing but a paper helmet
I made just now,
when I crash the water

I'll sail my hat
like a slumbering bat.

I'll grow deaf
and dehydrate from loving leeches,
my sponged sight
will drench in world.

Sweet Goodmorning's

Along your body's side
I lay in peace
and when the sun did arise
I merely pretended I had helped you to sleep.

Here's a very short, short for Bluebell Books this week, and a little poem for Dverse- hope you enjoy it :)

Little Riding

It niggles the gelatine bit,

tilted lids and slightly bit lower lip.
If I were to-
it would never end,
one moment delirium
is my larger,
the next I can't handle

a half.
Leave/ stay
I daren't.
So long distilled solitude
and your unrefined path,
I cannot care
but you pump the liquid so neatly
it's best to stick to the levelled cement,
ride out the wolfy.

The letter to Oz

Fear is love
and there is nothing more ferocious than the creature herself.
Listening quietly and glazing politely
wishing crooked smiles on the windowsill,
enraptured fingers hovering over your desolate skin.
You loose your mind
it'll never come back,
not without the rats and worms.
Living with new memory
speaking, running, understanding
loneliness and fear.
Fear the affair that casts your endless sleep,
how I wish the kitten would lick my wounds once more.
The empty pit of conciousness
forbidding.
I know that of wrong
but I wish it right anyway.

This is my poem for poetry picnic week 23 http://gooseberrygoespoetic.blogspot.com/2012/01/poetry-picnic-week-23-new-york-times.html

Able

When you are able
to own up to the pen
that bled that tear,
you wont be able to write
a single truth
to it.

Memorial for the black coat

And in any hour
she would tare aware my gaze
the scoured flacks
of cheekbone,
hungry for face.

Memorial for the black coat;

never really gone though,
are you?

Dear Quiet thing

Dear Quiet thing
your slumber is unblushed.

lithe and forbidden
my desires tousle my spines,
dear coffee, dear shower, dear bed
you're not quite as divine.

Breathe catches my tongue
mid-fight,
sober the sombre daylight,
with guilty mane without much to tell.

Dear Quiet thing
your slumber is unblushed,
lace snapped and gnarled
I am heaving mockery
and dust on your little soul.

Our forgetful ballet.

Oh Quiet thing,
oh my quiet things.

Analytic puddles

I will speak statistic,
interpret eyelashes,
look at walls which only invite
the collection of spacious nothings.

Peggles

Hello,

This is my poem for the The Gooseberry Garden Week 13. For me childhood, dreams, books and role models all fit in one, they float around in my inner child, and I don't think I'll ever grow up and out of their ingrained memory. I hope you enjoy it.

Peggles

I've never been special
but in my heart and yours.

Cave-scribing till I understood
whilst singing in the garden.

The last time my hair fell in my eyes,

I'd become grown.

Shoelaces binding stories
and my sketches
to memories that
can no longer breathe alone.

My clouded head
grazing on love,
I will try to avoid walking
with my hands in my pockets-
I promise.

Inside the ribcage

She's difficult-
interchangeable, indescribable.
Incoherent.

And until we're in agreement
my mind can't keep up.

Inside the ribcage

nest upon nests are made,

and maybe I am in there too.

Compass to masses:

stranded out here,
in your beautiful arms- outstretched
across the miles
that descend loneliness.

That ascend her clots.

Picnic on the marrow,
she beats a thousand drums;
land, home, hereafter.
Tomorrow it will be plain,
and tonight in vain.

Atlantis

Sweet heart you lay me,
And I can't hear the streets,
Every specter dissolves to
Blue nectar
beats.

I am foreverly canal knots
To timid for the bow.
If I open my eyes
Will the skies
Be sour?

I am in debt
For taking the sapphire
Flames to admire
Atlantis beckons in sweet hearts.

Diversity

Here's some spoken word for http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/ I hope you enjoy it :)

Okay, this is my first attempt at this poem out loud and at filming so forgive me if you will if it's a bit off :) I will be performing tomorrow at Liverpool Poetry Slam, if I don't freeze up of course ;)

You can see the written poem on this post http://strangemouth.blogspot.com/2011/10/diversity.html

Old Nelly

Old Nelly so blue
hasn't the notes to do

some say she's a one hit wonder
but she knows she's made of thunder
singing those sad chord days,
she plays her jazz in new ways.

Old Nelly play the nose,
ring out the sax
and soak the audience with your hose,
stamp them with the facts,
Old Nelly's back!

Diversity

I was born out of a number,
Faces defining my world,
and I've always been inclined to cumber
the distress I witness at this berth
against the figure.

Yes, the figure that is and is not,
because I have no culture, no heart, nor home.
I am something light tricks to be, an illusion of diversity,
the colour of your teething bone,
the greatest profanity
being humanity,
I am much less-the unfortunate- the unknown.

Words are nothing without your lips,
and spite can't see without some tongue.
So being human cannot reason
without some puncture to the lung.

If there is a God he is not here,
the reliance of invisibility
is one to me
an unintelligibly cowardliness of fear.

You want the air, to take care of what you said was your own will.

You want new souls to suffer for an ancient bill.

You want me to stand and say I am sorry for something I haven't done,

when you're the one,
who is ticking the times tables incorrectly.

Today will be tomorrow and soon after the great past,

If you don't want history
to be seeded in misery
then you should stand out and make it last.

I was born out of a number,
mathematically spiralled into life,
and so far I still find it a struggle
to understand the joy of waking.

To be born is to be alone,
To live is to be surrounded,
To die is to be free,
but for that you must work first.

And I don't barter with this curse,

if there is nothing- I may as well exist a little first.

But what I can't compose is how I see these faces,

where others separate by numbers, words and races,
I only see one in the mirror:

human.

This is my entry for the DVerse Poets Open Link Night (http://dversepoets.com/) Hope you enjoyed reading it if you stumbled upon me, check out some of the other poetry by following this link http://www.blenza.com/linkies/links.php?owner=dversepoets&postid=09Oct2011

The Musics On

Like the common thread we sew

of the ink running through my torso

like the common waves rise

to make the cliff crashing demise

that laps them back to the sea,

You and me,

the worlds biggest profanity

whispering shell oceans

and paint splattered commotions

the artist plays

on the canvas ways

humanity.

KiddieKat Crawl

Pitter Patter kitty's natter,

meow on the wall
eight to go after the fall-
what a whisker risk-er!

And such a minxy tinker!

The paws at the door
straight to the cupboard crumb
sneaky biscuits for the tum,
and into the hall a cry "Mum!-
What's for dinner?"

As I walk amongst you all

I have a confession.

It's about time and what it meant,
it's about memories and how they are spent,
it's the truth and the truth is
that I am clueless.

And for all these things
tumbling away,
I didn't secure my own mask first...

I don't vaguely remember if either or any of us
were saved,

or if I am here
or if I am there,

I opened the book
and fell defeat
a little oozing animal,
gasping
breathing
living

So sweetly delicate
cast upon me-
this disarray.

An atom

The pockets of the lab coat
spread out the walls
to that one laid
fault,
The room is cream
and the bed brown,
the hair red
as the eyes green.
As far as opposites
the machine's in my heart.

I brought it
to tie it
to creep the darks
and shut the solitude
into one evolutionary
surviving anatomy,
but maybe the fittest fall
for a finer tune.