New York sketch 1

Electric surges charge through streets

In lightning bolts of yellow cabs

                                    and nifty thieves,

Of dreamers serving milkshakes and fries

Each a climber on the Everest of time

From which they slip

For lubrication lines each crack

For a tip, for a scratch on the back,

And forward surge the brand tanks

Who rip the streets with glorified consumption

Till inhabitants limp from overdose

Of mental sugar like instant gas


Then burnt amass.

These grid streets hold you prisoner

For no-one leaves untouched, unscathed,

Unless Napoleanic will posses you

And you like me find stillness

In these electric flames.

Naked Muse

My fragrant words

Like a bouquet of you

Smell far sweeter

Than any earthly tale

Yet they only do so much 

  As tickle periphery of pale toes

For far few words

    If letters stretched on horizons bed

 Would spare to portrait

            A line of you

                   -naked muse

New York sketch 2

At dawn doors turn
The revolver of time
Begins its greasy rhyme,
Back creased in nights devil-dance Eyes bloodshot by noise
Beaten, I rise without thoughts

without poise,

Arrive at the opera
To cleanse my greasy soul Greeted by dreams of Chagall Then Toscas pain I absorb,

Across- central park invites with naked palms Into which like home I wonder
In bareness she waits for spring
Whilst I in her belly revolutions ponder,

The sky-scratching dreams Which by towers rise
But blink
these dreams demise, they die,

For the undercurrents
Who charge these streets
Were foreseen by wise-old Schopenhauer Opportunities in lightning come and go by the hour,

Take no chances
Rely on beastly will
That unleashes like thunder

from within till armed in magnetic force you bend towers of dreams and revolving doors of time

to lean to you
to hear your broken rhyme. 

A Day in Toxovo

In the midst of
A blanket of a million stars
On turf that croaks
Deep moans
Over fields of bare:
Frozen lakes,
Listless silence
With a filial whisper breeze
Where clocks tick far below
And still is life as death
Heart sits on her cliff
Her feet sway over
And earth-croak’s
Warm her toes

A State of Heart

So immensely fast
    Unreasonably intense
          Uncontrollably camellian
Skipping beats
          over stone creviced corners
untamed as a wet fragrant storm
childlike in desire:
        impatient as a Tristan chord
caught in a cluster of suspensions

each beaming forth rail tracks,
        a path
           the path
 an organic evolution
and back to mayhem;
as opening a can of coke,
in an unrestful flurry
all entanglements rise up
fizzing till all is dry
the corpus still,
and bubbles slowly wilt
like a final leaf-fall off an autumn tree
and           crunch!


Follow Me!

Bakers, immigrants, workers,
The day has come for you.
 like a ship emerged from rough waters
you will also hold the glory of the sky blue.

Go and dig for your sorrows
 for all they should feel is 6 feet of soil,
worms will consume them,

and you will breathe only that air;
that air which is fair,
fair in gesture and in act
in act that liberates your back from knots,
this air will hold the cure
no more dirty 6am’s to conjure!

So, come and sail for me this ship,
The rough waters will support us on this trip.

Heart Scar

Sudden as night
   Your whispers left me;
Thin velvet air
    That angry stains
           Envelop in
                 Unforgivable deeds

Sure as day
Light will peer
People will fill the streets
And walk right by
For no-one knows,

The air I got drunk
On last night.

Kent White

Find me
   Find me
White, Kent white
For in a meager cave
                   Do I lurk

Find me
    Find me
Dawn, early dawn
For I have in darkness
                lost sight

Find me
        Find me
Mundane work, physical mundane work
For my metaphors lack the grains
                                                Of earth

Find me
      Find me
Mother, woman
Bearer of life, for mine to bear

Forget me
     Forget me
Ocean, white waves
Lets meet afresh in a new dawn
                  Under Kent’s rays.



So clear the undulating
 waves of the Kline-blue Sky.
Crisp autumn chills with
     crackling wind and chimes
singing softly Chopin’s ballad
     as each dry leaf gracefully takes fall:
to the base
the ground which spurts tulips that soar
gently back into that autumn chime
      and blush in its presence
      of rich browns & still time:

Time that not like an industry ticks
 where autumns cool is protected by heaters
  and summers are dimmed
           by ceilings with halogen lights
and the common is conditioned to none other sights.

So for until seasons keep changing
   Chopin’s ballad rises from within,
 Frost bites will be my braces
 and scars of the soul
will surface my skin.


Lavender Fingers

And so she grows
Like roses from my eyes

Youth she knows
 Her smile does not beguile

Such slender curves
      Only rivers crevice
Yet she flows as calm as night

In her eyes
No debts reserve
 They are fearless as clear skies

Yet what took me still
Was not torso nor eyes
But lavender fingers
That from pale fields grew
And in them, lived a poet;
An old friend I knew.


Strong stubborn hands massage
thoughts: of nothing,
miserable nothing
that lurks like city traffic:
uniformed focus
uniformed sight
uniformed rage
on a roundabout in-sanity,

Squeezing knots pressing through
opening roads to sweeter tears
that cascade free onto wider roads
through highways and rush forth:
like the night after day,

Rubbing through more tender thoughts
bare skin, bare touch,
pulling naked into desire,
perspiring, breathing deep into the fire,

And as hands release
roads wind
roundabouts return
all to knots
thoughts of nothing
and dance to raging horns.


Nice, France

Sun kissed head to toe
Placid turquoise waters sway
A nest of Joy glistens to and fro.

Straight punk-haired palms
Stand in corners eye
Whilst I sink into suns embrace
White sails, Blue stripes reflects my face.

Baroque trills
Grace buildings century’s old
Each seated in his own happy way
Back slouched Negresco stands beacon of the bay;
Bay lined in liberal stones
Though they be brothers
They dance as spontaneous jazz
As the azur waters retract,
Toes stand silent still
As sun gently curls
In her bay-lined bed

This Nice-scented glow
Resonates quietly
To and fro.


Night with Master

One need not try
   when success is the bubbling starting point
One need not speak
   when in silence stories like magnolias unfold
One need not toast
   when hearts glass isn’t broken
One need not praise
   when like-eyes meet, their beams like chains connect

One need only sit and silently respire
for in these moments do we feel the presence of …


                                      for my special friends D.S & F.S

Russian Country

On this barren land,
Majestic broad-shouldered fields,
Sharp straight-spined pines
Rivers & lakes of ice
Where lavender nor roses peep out,
Where the furthest snowflake
Rubs shoulders with the musk horizon
Where no grapes nor any other
Dare to grow
A familiar breeze sometimes passes
And each step earth moans,
For deep below is the heart
This barren land,
So humble and silent
Listless under a thick
Blanket of snow

Skyward Walk

I walk
Heart clenched by yellow teeth

In my left fist
gripping final grains of joy
in right
liberty sits tight

anticipation ticks in clustered silence
and I walk
    skyward on.


Stand Down

I’m not going to write
For with you am I free,
You let me soar in heights
Those I choose to see.

So comforting words,
You scribbled code
My yearning and inspiration
I ramble and decode.

So stand forth my soldiers
The brighter day hath come,
Drop that heavy armour
And lets dance under humming stars.

Tick tick

Tick, tick,
she knocks at our door

tick, tick,
with wise eyes and wrinkled for

tick, tick,
I pack my bags
ready to run

tick, tick,
she is patient and poised
as a fairytale sun

tick, tick,
round thoughts run

tick, tick,
I forgot to say

tick, tick,
round my world
in a blink
of an eye

tick, tick,

To Write

Ink I warm
with the soft thunder
that conducts the heart
and allows a flow,
a guided dance,
of physical nudity,
soulful mystery,

drumbeats pulsing
pendulum swaying
and I on my white fantasy
gallop gallant into the moment:

One with mirrors and windows
where the ink turns
conducts the heart
leaping, swaying introspectrum
kaleidoscope, symmetric
as the drumbeat
and freefall

so near the base
that will cuddle me in
silent stillness
and in a mothers voice
sing dreamy lullaby’s

of drums commanding ink.



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