walking without tracks
I moved

beneath a torn sky
lame of light

passing the lacquered skull
bonded to its talisman’s
forgery

finding shamans
with blunt knives
eating the blame

watching
each sacred breath
tarnish bodies
aging fates

gaunt thieves hover
keyless
before nirvana

I enter
through the single crack
where
paradox explodes

unveiling

The Hidden way

These are a few things that I love
a rainbow arching high above
the fresh smell of new cut grass
a flight of wild geese as they pass
first peanut butter from a jar
thunder rumbling from afar
fresh potato chips are great
on unposted unlocked pasture gate
the chorus from an evening fen
watching squirrels exit their den
fishing in the warmth of spring
hearing dove and whippoorwills both sing
the harmony of hunting beagles
defiant screech of lonely eagles
the smell of rain on hot asphalt

my house where I was born
is in shambles
I can’t demolish it any way
as some day they will want to know

all about my birth
place of birth

and

final death…
where I was exhumed
to amass such wealth of knowledge
none gave merit to
when I lived….

now they all want to earn a dollar
a bit of pounds
and have many rounds
to find where the parents
made good of their conception
which evolved around

an unsung hero….

till today…

saturation ghost
there are flicker visions
resting in neon

pallid like a shelter of dust
clinging
viscosity of being

I am hungry
and finding the trail
tasteful
and lingering

starvation meaning
brilliant
in its dream

tall on its legs
limber on the frame

backlit and steady
you lead me
deeper
beneath the eclipse of
stars
flaming and caustic

words of caution
like the flare in a votive
prayer

we step together
into the territory

He works,
a dialogue of tide ebbs and flows.
He works,
a paradigm of clouds tantalise triumphantly in procession.

He engages with the polemics of a ceiling's defects of character,
beauty happens.
He finds the line and talks with a wall's memories,
beauty happens

The door shuts behind,
key turns, footsteps
stravege after
a tedious shift;

eyes lift up
then revert back
to telly, magazine,
PS3 and tablet.

The dining table
is empty yet cluttered--
inhabited by non-edible,
non-essential stuff.

"There should be
something or other
in the fridge,"
a mouth points.

"Got that, thanks."
Footsteps stravege back,
that's what it feels like
to be a meal-ticket.

The door slams shut.

Cold as water, the escalator cascades.
Floating away, channelled by glass,
I'm out of this shiny mall
and home, via more machines,
to my shuttered room.

The bed is tender, the lamp touch sensitive.
(hands splintered by age,
mottled skin a colour blind test)

I'm hollowed out to a small moment pinched tight.
Within the light is bluish
like the sun shining through ice,
or snow.

Politicula

cold and crumbling circles take us
breathed by broods of basilisks make us

blinding minds to yawning flaws, metal shards

the dead man's cards

basilisk bards

despair

The words of prophets nourish

the curds of profits flourish

political genome linked

watch the planet decay, we blinked

the obvious is there

oppressive games pick their

players like FBI or MI6, KGB, or CIA

corporatic incomes pay

rise rise rise, a bully's knuckle

See the old man creep around
slowly through his empty house.
His slippers hardly make a sound,
he's quiet as a mouse.

He shuffles 'round from wall to wall
peering at pictures hanging there.
'Ere night is through he'll look at all
each one checked with anxious stare.

Next to come, all closets opened
clothes and contents, all, he'll search
resulting in puzzlement deepened.
By now his tired old legs lurch.

The First of May.

Pink dawn
Blackbird
The first of May
*****************

Newer ones:-

Pink satin
Black impresario
Spring

((Cliché's:-

Pink sky at night
Shepherd's delight
Pink sky in the morning
Shepherd's warning.

March winds and April showers.))

Lost in the colours 
Of the sky 
The blackbird's voice

In the pink mist
The blackbird's song
Spring morning

Pink mist
Midday moods
Grey rain