Miscellaneous

Not too many details, he's a gentleman, after all...

Inspiration Point (sort of)

Hmmm... I hope I'm not putting anyone off, this is just one version of Fuengirola.

... and the great sadness that sent a generation to war, and now wonder why they come home talking dirty. The old lie – Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.

The room looks different - The flecked wallpaper looks like dried blood.
I keep thinking it is a room to die in, but not to live in. The bed in the corner, a naked light bulb hanging ...

Yes, i remember it like it was just yesterday. Donavon and i were walking along the salt flats in the taverna valley. The locals were a frightful lot.

Moan, moan, moan!

It’s the same story every day...

She comes home from work,

throwing her weight around.

So what if the litter tray is full?

So what if the water bowl has run dry?

I look from the outside
Through careless windows
Left uncurtained
And note that life goes on.

A different kind of life
Behind each window.
A new created world
Behind each clear pane.

In retrospect, the sweater was a poor choice.

In the morning she woke, body a sun-baked stone
only her lips alive.
Light streamed through the window
touching her body, dissolving its’ white dust
to gold

“A beautiful world,” Joyce murmured, “but going on too long.” Every branch on every tree had a neat layer of snow and the sun shone from a hard, blue sky.

There was a good atmosphere in the house, but that was only because there had been bad atmosphere for four days on the trot.

Surrounded by my past,
I have discovered a lot.
I have discovered at last
The anguish of loss in my chest.
This anguish is all that I've got.

Surrounded by this gloom,

Gerry had just retired when his wife, Hilda, died of a night-time stroke. They’d been married for forty-one years.

short poem

Many years ago, I found myself working on a building project in London.
I was a young apprentice back then: Silly as a box of frogs and selfish with it.

There may be some truth to up and down.
The ground, impartial to existential notions, allows the town to perch atop its skin,

from a rappers point of you.

I wade through heavy sand,
to get to the waters edge,
I gaze out to the open sea,
& horizon, give up my head.

I throw down the stolen shells,
drop the multi-coloured stones.