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.

Untitled

There is no way out, the
Present is everywhere I go;
In every state I stop or start
The only EXIT is sleep;
Unless death is a dream.

Rain-Drenched Night

Bogus rogue

The rain broke the

Window out in blisters

Bursting loudly on

The glass, punctuating

The house’s every step

With pangs of water

Driven through the

Thunder-frenzied

Cloud.

Tin hat

The roof pounded

Hounded to the

Sound of cat

Chasing dog and

Dog chasing cat

Catching string balls

Of silence and

Screaming them

Flat.

Stolen mother

The wet curdled wind

Whistling chinks in

The bricks , tickling

Cans and bottles while kicking

Polystyrene and papers

Up to trees bristling over over-

Grown washing sneezing

Socks to the

Breeze.

Lamp-lit quarter

Roller coasts her

Back to ground where

Sleep occurs and

Rest resounds out

Of Darkness and of

Quiet, when sharp

Noises slice unseen

Through ripe

Dream.

　

Before the milkman comes..

Take a tube node

in a nude robe,

make a rail stack

in a base rack,

sing a game toad

through a jail song,

breach a round fist

with a top hat.

Play a safe card

on a dud horse,

race a small car

down a kind alley,

case a large joint

with a ham held

to a stock pot of

cruelling liquorish rum.

Wish a roast catch

from a soft patch

taken to far, time

backed when cradle

scratched the timber

drawn silver in the

dust of crime hatched

warm in the sabre’s den.

Clam a tenth hole

with a skin flack

near a petal pen

written soft on a clothes

vine to make it

read cool through the

breeze of toasting wine.

Leave a mean coin fifty for

a pint of frozen, delivered

promptly at the smack of

dawn to the raw step cold

of the door, ready to wield

the whinge and make people

within soft with calf-juice,

woken up from this dream.

Night Ramble

Take a dream step

From the house,                  

Pin it back fast

Over Time.

Take a road stun

Out of mist

To the train tracking

Past.

Make an in-rail over

Muddy waters where

The wind blows crude

Circles through the

Window’s timber

Lanes, bowling pins

Over heads clean

Through the dark.

 

[24^th September 2009]