and now

the voices of the old

poets

have gone their flickering

images on new york streets

long time ago

their

shirts

their cigarettes

their

        silent conversations with beautiful women

who have children

        asleep in pushchairs

all gone

ah

where was i?

 

 

 

got to flow
yr water
yr gas
eklectricity
cash

the ideas
colliding firing
and you keep on keeping on
but not keeping (too much)
to let it flow

For Marcus Morris i.m

Stella goes in by the gate
a couple of paces from the apple.
The subtle precise fingers of
a Monty Panesar about to bowl
passing yr silver orb in the dark bar.
These blossoms will come again
and again to be considered…

shirt off

up on top

(pinnacle)

ladybird on the rosebush

woodpecker down the hill

fire in the stars

other establishments tumbled
into my arms
the re-arrangement of all permanence
leant against me at the gate

leaves

the mind was like an empty box
where autumn leaves
fluttered about in the breeze
they say it is wiser not
to pursue them