Who are we?

As many ripples and visions

Of blueness as there are
Waves breaking

All loves,
Ever felt in this life
And the past and the next, 

A distillation
Of moments that flip
The guts into a vortex of

Deepness never seen,
Never heard; only known,
Only now,  no choice.

The force.

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Claustrophobia

What do we do when there
Is no space to breathe?
When our lungs can’t hold 

The water in our eyes
And it comes rushing

Out amongst these
Crocodiles that bite

Us. There’s no such thing
As love, our limbs think, 

As our blood cracks back,
Retreats into our heart,

For home, but the door
Is locked and the ventricles

Glare back, blank
Windows harbouring the

Eternity of Death
That lurks behind

Every breath. Ready
To pounce out like

a cat released to go
Hunting in the bird-

Filled night that
Quacks around us in

A cacophony of quarks
We can’t decipher as

Our hands go numb
With stress and our 

Hips contract around
Our basal strength

As it pours out
Uncontrollably and

Meanwhile where is
The chair? We haven’t 

Sat down for so long
We can’t remember

What rest means.
Be still, remember

It is always there
However far away

It seems, if we
Just stop to reclaim

The space around each breath.

Approaching Yuletide

The season of shimmering bliss when

Earth rusks die down and the 

Skies weep their burden and the 

Roads sing with winds that break

The torments of the dark into tatters

Of thunder that lighten the lid

Of winter marching on towards the 

Final days of the year, where intentions

Meet reality and greet and light 

The darkness for a short strip of 

Life, the grey large silence, wider

Than the horizon, at the rise of new year

Night of dream storming

And so the rain beats comfy in the gut

Snuggled up in itself and rounded
Out like a loud joint creaking in the

Wind that feeds the curls of wayward hair
And births the life of thoughts that
Migrate like enterprising robins through

The ruts of energy that cool the livers over heated blood cells in a maze of

Wicked swirling craves that pace up and down the corners of the cell that sits in the final of the labyrinth seat of real truth

The collection of eaves that make up me that could at any minute exchange space with you or it or they that make up

You or someone and something else into a string of nothingness that is as true, although intangible like the feeing of a

Prayer soaked up on a day when pennies were raining, pitter patter, patter pitter, on the window pane.

Reality is not what it seems

Am I my body? Am I my pain?

Look back at a feint siesta

With nostalgia for a time
On the past that is living now but

Inaccessible to me

That is not a ghost but
A living thing as real as

The past was real at the time

Is now somehow breathed in the air of a
Future unsent but unsealed

That breathes back to me stranded here 

Constantly in the now that knows no limit
But can never be found as it 

Spins me round its vortex in

A hundred overlapping ways that cancel
Each other out in a loud crash as 

Silent as the big bang must be all these 

Years ago again in my mind eye.

What is it when we play the cello?

What is it when we light that candle in every digit of our left hand that knew no difference between the fingers before we stretched every one with that first song book, those first song-lines, 
A spider’s web stretched out along the page with flies caught on some of the rungs, some with their wings still in tact, some twinned up, some alone with a little speck of dust to confuse us. Twang

Twang they go as we see them in our fingers as we make them bold again in our brush strokes, strong, gentle strong as we throng together the little creatures on the page, back to the music whence they came.

Down and out

‚ÄčI was eating pizza on the steps when

A beggar asked me for money, I had
None but offered him the other half
With artichokes still hot, but he said
No it wouldn’t feel right, and walked on.

And the next bites were sweeter and
Clearer in the context of his pain, the
Mozzarella soothed my heart as a velvet
Curtain richly slices off the ache of frost.
Lucky me to eat and eat outside out of

Choice, not at home, a home to choose to not be in, not to have to find a nook every night to hook my sleeping soul on, not to
Have to sleep on stone a sleep closer to the night than is comfortable, a public

Closure of my body, a performance to the
City of my freezing lung, not enough heat to snore, just enough to breathe in before the next dreaded dram of coffin-cold air.