Simon Hasn't Tweeted

'Simon hasn't tweeted,' the bald egg said.
No words at all
from the poet's head.

Serial killers and batman have been put to bed,
slipped under the covers
tired from being read.

Simon hasn't tweeted; he's as silent
as
the
dead.

When will the words fall
out of his head?

Demanding

'Send me your email address too', he said.

Invitation

I have been invited for an evening of fun next Thursday, by Blue. I know, if I accept, I will not be able to walk the next day and I will ache.
And ache.
But it's been so long.
So very long since I felt anything of lust of desire.

Last August.

It's a very long time since last August.

It's been A While

'Yes, it has indeed,' she murmured.
A while since she was held.
Consumed.

It's been a while since her legs ached.
Since her arms were wrapped
around...

It's been a while.

She still feels
the need.

She will wait.
Want
and
wait.

Resuming

...where I left off.

Yet it's a calmer life.
A life without.
A life in need.

A life I enjoy, yet despise.

The memories are distant
...grey
So many miles away.

I will resume.
Connect the sentence,
link the ink.

Silent in Wonderland

Silence is golden...
ah yes...
but not for those with golden hair
and golden smiles
and eighteen years of golden naivity.

He is silent in the train,
the moment,the phone,
the words,
the message...

Yet, for the girl with golden hair...
he is...somewhat, louder.

I smile
at my own naivity,
stupidity..

misplaced loyalty.
How I wish

Alice
grew out of her dress,
vomited her cake
and drowned
in
her
drink.

May the pages strangle him
in ink.

Redacted

So disturbing.

This is artistic yet based on true stuff and I shudder to think the American army has not evolved since the Vietnam experience.

Clever filming.
Powerful.

It needs to be in the training manual.

So How Much Can you Rely on Your Top Soldiers?

Top team...let's face it, the equivalent of the SAS or US SEALS...drop onto a vessel...with night vision...to be met by metal bars and chairs and sticks and anger....from non-soldiers....civilians. Angry civilians, but civilians...

And they shoot ten dead.

And they reckon the rest of the world is mistaken and we don't understand them...and we should realise that sending aid and food to people they hate is wrong...so it's okay to shoot dead at least ten volunteer aid workers...(no doubt transformed into Arab terrorists by Benjy's friends as we speak).

Is there something we are not getting? (Apart from using forged British passports...ooohhh...all of a couple of months ago...to shoot some more dead...?)

If the UK and Northern Ireland can do it and move forward...then you bloody well can.
If the IRA and the British Government can halt the bloodshed, you bloody well can.
If Sinn Fein can be tolerated and accepted (even though many find this hard and difficult) in UK Government, then you bloody well can.

Chip...shoulder....speak volumes here.
When is Israel going to realise it just can't rule the world?
No matter what happened in Roman times...
no matter what happened in The Merchant of Venice...
and no matter what happened in the dreadful, despicable Holocaust...pre and post...

You can't build on the land of the world in the same way you build on the land you call yours...but actually isn't right now.

Wake up,sit up, smarten up,
How can we respect you when you behave like this?

You are behaving as badly now as your oppressors of Nazi Germany.

Be as dignified as your forefathers; that is why they are respected, famous and admired.

The Train Journey

There is a man, who sometimes talks to me on the train,as he travels home. He has been silent for a while and I suspect the following...(please feel free to choose),

1. He is abroad, work related.

2. He is abroad, personal satisfaction and personal time in remote deserts and remote jungles.

3. He has decided to date the very pretty girl on the train.

4. He is drowning in work and the need to save people.

5. He has decided not to be in touch.

No matter what...I miss him and I can remember every moment and every fragment of our time.

The Concrete Wall

Towering over the consumed land,
Its shadow falls.
Crushes.

Hard and tall.
No face.
No skin.
All seeing
Eyes.

Hard and brittle
Crumbling retina.
Detached.
Blind.

Hope upon the water.
Walking upon the water...

The Promised Land
Drowned
Her.

Where is David?
To take the Israeli Goliath
Down?

Meander

Let us meander.
Creatively.
Let us meander with words.
Let us merge the pictures
and thoughts.
Let us meander slowly
through the chapters
of the previous time.

Let us do
just
that.

A weaving of words.
A slender blend of slumber.

Mood and time...

Time...
tick and tock...
spaces on the white face as the sharp pointers
move
closer.

Underground

Jones: In underground

Me: Underground. Below and dark.
Cocooned, enclosed, tunnelled.....
tunnel vision,
wetness seeping down the walls
and the racing of the noise.

Have you reached daylight yet? Have you?

He shielded his eyes in the brightness.

Childhood Terrors

At night.
Terrors of childhood..in words
actions
darkness.
Fear and the futility.

He walked in.
Pulled the duvet off the 7 year old girl.
Dragged her out of the bed.
Dragged her out of the room.

And.
Made her sit.
In the darkness
on a high stool
at
the
end
of
the dark hall.

No words at all.
she was frightened.
she was confused.

'You are not asleep,'

Her mother said nothing at all.

Her parents,
(her parents who should have protected her),
loved her?

close the door on their room
leaving their little girl behind,
in the dark.
In the cold.

Some time later,
the little girl crept back into her bed.

She cried alone in the dark.

She held her duvet tight
making her fingers and thumbs ache
for weeks after...

A futile attempt to protect herself.

She never slept well.
Especially after that.

An Avatar Overview

Last of the Mohicans is blended slowly with a drop of The Magic Faraway Tree....
Sprinkle a spoonful of Alien....
Then add a teaspoon of Tarzan...
Mixed with the beauty of an earthly Abyss.
Without the ocean.

It's not at all bad Mr Cameron.

Prepositional Mind.

My mind is with him.
Near.
Over.
Under.

Next to him.
Beneath,
Below
And above

Never
Distant.

Spilling

Falling, smooth and warm,
Indelible inky thoughts
Ribbon and swathe
Her blank page.
Embedding,
Seeping,
Drying.

Spillage.
An alphabet
Leaking oily secrets
Slipping and spilling
Into black sticky glass.

Reflecting
nothing.

Ghost Writer

There is a ghost who writes
for her...when she lets the words fall
Onto the fluttering page.

There is a ghost who plays
for her... when she swoops over the letters
Across the glimmering screen.

There is a ghost who opens her eyes,
Who makes her wonder,
Who makes her try -
to remember
how...
those words
were born.

Late and Later

Hot....

warm actually,
- the water on your face when you cry.


Letting go.


Slow stream.
Subtle.

Warms the skin.

The skin I am in.

The skin I use as sin
as I brim -

...over.

Please -
catch
what
falls.

Bears and Beauty

'He does not feel the same,' she thought.
'He has beautiful women attached to him...an attachment.'

Beautiful.
Really beautiful.

'I feel a little silly,' she thought.
'I wonder what he thinks,' she wondered.

Wondered some more.
A silly girl.
Over rated.
Over emotional.

Over.
Over.
Over.

She wonders over the moments and then sees his attachments.
Beautiful.
Just there.
Beneath him.
She even sees the dates...

Beautiful eyes in beautiful poses....

'Empty women never did it for me,' he said.

'So curvy women do?' she mused.

They are so blindingly beautiful... she chokes.

She is looking out of her window.
Heavy drapes are drawn.
Hiding. She hides behind the curtain.
Again.

Spirals and swirls of confusion smoke into her air

of her

of her.

Naive and still her.

Empty

No words at all.
The space is empty.
The mind is empty.

I feel empty.

Hollow.
Naked.
Fragile.
Brittle.

I need to feel the moment.
The touch.
The silence.

Touch me,
please.

Invisibly.