Smith street

Where the men wear tats of sailing ships
and the women celtic runes 'pon  hips
and little girls lick sugary palms
and little boys have little qualms.

Beware grafitti and manure and plastic bottle portaloos
'tis a gorganganza of couture
a rich perversity of beauty true
and the trams jang a lang every stanza or two.

All the styles of all the pants
walk the road that lost its chance.
The grey clouds keep the carriage way cool
as I watch from my car like a broadway fool.

Dream of the silver greys.

I was walking along a street. It looked like the U.S.A.

I looked at each person walking by.

I realised I was dreaming and I felt excellent.

A long white cord stretched for miles from my chest to the sky.

I longed to follow the cord even though it was so long.

I was instantly above myself in my bed.

I forced myself to open my eyes. I didn't want to wake up.

I tried again to open my very sore and tired eyes.

I opened my eyes and saw my hands across my chest holding a bible.

I woke up. I was seventeen.

I don't have the exact details.

I don't think compassion needs an order.

Savour our Saviour across the border.

Shine on melancholic disorder.

Bring your passion and record her.

Resent and resent and resent some more.

Keep your keys and keep your door.

I can't walk and talk no more.

So I take my orders and watch the floor.

Trapped and contained with no liberation.

I've had a gutful of appreciation.

No escape and no end of frustration.

Take me away Dad to the sorry nation.

Why are the people of earth poor?

My answer is stop all military budgets, stop all manufacturers from producing defective disposable products, and reduce the obscene budgets spent on pet food, pet psychiatry and associated frippery. Stop the headlong rush to excess that never satisfies the people of this earth.

Turpentine on the Serpentine

What can you do for me?

How do I hear?

Are your ways above mine?

Asks the image of your eye.

Does love work upon my soul?

O self oval of shade and light.

The constant that no one exceeds.

The weather to be of life or not.

Yes my mother carried me.

So I thank her for my tea.

Now I make another life.

In the image of my eye.

River flows in time of night.

And I open gristle white.

Could you ache awhile with me?

Pulling South by North in three.

Are not the names of Arabian woman beautiful?

Beauty is a palette of many hues

I dance as I run, imbued by you.

The gorgeous dawn above your cheek,

glistens and falls from jaw line to speak.

A scurry of colours around time and panache,

burgundy worn and pistachio sash.

Derived from the sands of earth's oldest pain,

to drain and wash and wish again.

Creator if we had obeyed would you have shared

that knowledge of self and life prepared.

The answer is No and Maker knows best.

What's the point of obedience if there is no test.

I find myself remarkably buoyant

Exclaiming aloud and living defiant.

Blending the Nej'd and Nasrani like this

as we walk painting into the abyss.

Happy Birthday Patrick

Wonderful beautiful boy on a wonder filled be super day.

Keep your hands held high and your heart in your eyes.

And you will know destiny and more besides.

We love you.