currently …

i’m sorry, i’ve had cold after cold and now another one .. eerrgghh! am exhausted, please forgive … anyhow try this … it may be rubbish, but i’ve always admired something about Leda and you have to admit, swans are gorgeous lol ….

Leda’s popping dreams and bubbles of restraint;
she’s close, by water’s choice, to the wild charisma,
how he makes her kick-and-scream alive,
feathers in her throaty groan
and god, the perfect catch, between pale thighs.

That old man would claim her later, unaware
of how the river’s thrash and foam
taunted willow, cloning sorrow’s
spineless grace – a net to snare more misery
then gloat about misfortune’s violation

of her nature, clutching, biting moss for more
of that, so deep inside the catacombs of sleep.


Dolly tempted waiter-boys in Marbella,
even after being swallowed by the
pavement yawning into sunny space
between her latest mark and broken bones.

Reeling in the compensation, she had learned
a trick or two in army camp where
Zyclon-B was not for her, no way; whatever
must – when girthed so beautifully desperate.

cliff hangin’

The clown of thorns and I made lofty peace;
sunblind quarrels tripped at first rock base,
fell flat in the sand below a dozen barefoot years.
We shared flowers, then, impossible and bright,
gleaned endurance from the rocks,
wondered at the spines of life and our tenacity.

Clearing space for the gulls to scream
was knife-edge easy, way up there.

The horizon’s salty line stayed silent though
we tried to make room for that too.
Perhaps I was distracted, pushed it away
for sweeping curve of wing and wave.
Perhaps I loved so gently in the trysty gorse
that time was saved for ours and now.

cabin talk

Let’s push time outside the rain,
it can play instead with that
howling cat who won’t
be silenced, give us chance
to dare this chaos, climbing walls.

It’s been dark all day and though
breathing’s harsh in fever,
passion’s got the upper hand
set on magic while the other traces
hip and brow with steamy earth.

Clock’s ticking, buried in the golden
leaves, let’s not hear it bleating
order, not just yet or ever,
there’s a ceiling to traverse leading
to the sky in wayward gasp.


Feral dreams blur moon at last;
zero, clinging to her dark
will say nothing now about these
hours, grinding slowly and
ungiven in the slide of gravity.

Night rattles dry-leaf bones and
foxes pick at unread love
songs tumbled in among cold
cuts, half-smoked cigarettes
and over cooked spaghetti.

“oh really and what now
………………… she-writhes


tonight i will             get very red
 spill your name                   like wine
on scented oil           moon-soaked
fingertips outline                  where
this time soon           another
 we’ll be dreaming              life
                                    is shining

the always

the always ^^ podcast by Shell

recorded for Cendrine, if she returns … i think she’ll like this …

i send you
than angels
to embrace
you, love, as you
cry and reach for me
in dreams

i give you
the always
that i promise
time and time again

in my palm a small ocean
is now home to tiny
silver dolphins
that dance your
of love upon
my cheek

and i am
the songs they sing
of you

Z …

Z … read (red?) by Shell

Your alphabet concludes with z while
mine is just beginning, taking off
into symbolic realm where there are
no fences, safety nets or comfort
cloned to tame and shame emotion’s rite.

No, I will not even try to breathe your
language grinding jealous fear and
ownership which may, at any time, be
sold or skinned from bone in battle.

Instead, i’ll fly beyond poor limits, you
will fail to find my open sky where
z is just a bat-snack in a quantum mist.

Bruises fade and when you pull that bitter
splinter from pale heart you’ll find no
scars to mourn, no trail of tears to show
i’d ever been there to disturb your night.


i don’t know if i’ve done this properly but it’s as right as i can fathom for now! down below is a link that seems to work; i’ve put all 3 recordings on there … i’ll use podcast for readings from now on if that’s ok .. still need to use right click for a separate window (or back) if you wish to comment … *baffled by all this techno stuff …

billet doux

billet doux read by Shell

You never read these kisses but keep them anyway;
unwrapped every now and then – to amuse
the passers-by and their dogs who chase my words
balled up in string – they unwind even in the dim
before disintegration vents wild succulence apart.

You cannot, will not, see my kisses smile away
their weight and wasted time – but hush,
the dogs are happy, that’s enough for now,
their tongues and tails are wagging for the moon.

icarese …

Behind a screen, ultraviolet
penetrated only pale exposure,

could not reach her world beyond
dark glass where destruction
retained meaning
and secrets did not spider
across wall or ceiling.
Still, she would not talk of them,

how their brush-tip regularity
repelled sleep, made waking cruel.

Days crawled, rest-less, marked
only by feint sun-blind myths
less brutal than real life.
Beyond shivers no-one penetrated
hers, where love retains shy meaning.
Still, she cannot speak of this.

unnameable …

unnameable read by Shell

in a deliciously strange way this poem was inspired by gingatao’s post on art and passion. you can find it here …

So come on, Lord, give it to me
tempest style, hips ’n’ ravens
flying fast and furious.
I know you like bravado style,
full-on performance art,
flames and magic twirling
wheat ‘n’ chaff all-ways;
still, it took us all to shaft
that one, didn’t it?

Not so easy meat that one,
there are problems with duality
and gifts like that, well,
let’s just say it’s lucky that all
artists crave extinction.
So come on, Lord, give it to me.

What are you thinking now,
right this haloed moment?
Maybe we could do it over latte?


this body’s vein-laced
pressure rises, fails
to hold rebellious breath
in protective custody,
snaps vain gravity

this time’s a-conscious
waiting stage in-venting,
you know, all that
done it, scene it stuff

humour’s vital drum
ribs pliant form,
nerveraw thrills intensify

then touch



stab in the dark

claw spreads flaw, bound reason’s wide,
considered wisdom’s primal choice
is still to burn, despise her will.

you didn’t understand the “no”
or care “what else” – flicked aside
soft words unheard,
poured acid on “it’s up to her
displaced your tone with fake-it awe

that Mars has water still but old;
worn out, yes, but dark-age metal
is your way to fire her up.

a possible edit of this poem:

Despising will, blind metal offers
dark-age fire to burn bad earth,
torch my zero, start again.

Soft “no, what else” is put aside;
condescending acid drips
on non-compliance bound and wide.

So what if Mars has water still?
Your fake-it awe suggests he learned
what i will not about your way.

nothings #7

On the wall a shimmer hints of motion, teases still. Scarlet woman then but sanguine now, i splice acquiescent moon – to hang your shadow, maybe, in the empty space. All those missing moments, shades that clouded night, they are suspended now – aimless and immobile. In epicentric heave a lightning snap delivers life from death. Motion soothes an ache of time so my back is still against the wall.

fate (triolet-ed)

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

*sigh … have been too tired to hear muse clearly so, nudged (boot in backside style) by dear J, i turned this into an almost bearable triolet

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

‘tis nothing but an echo of a kiss
limned in dusty bone and shade
barely intimate – while this,
‘tis nothing, but an echo of a kiss.
Cold end touch remembers the abyss,
cage of subtle rib in splintered fade,
‘tis nothing – but an echo of a kiss
limned in dusty bone – and shade.


… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

it’s taken an hour to get the hang of pre-formatting text and now i can’t get font size sorted – please bear with this as is!

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

gulls flock                         white and grey slow motion focus
keen sights locked on                                silver shadowed
shards of life                          gathered close in ocean skin
cold depth softened                              in the sun and calm

seized and hauled aloft                    in flight they die amazed
so much death                                      to feed gull need
flesh and blood                            so clean the beauty hurts

                     too much to be alive

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

vessels (edited)

Time beats pulse on hollow vessels,
hovers over sterile tomb.
Inches from our hearts each path
wraps bone in aching streak of vein.

sometimes in your arms
i was almost loved

Waxy skull leaves yellow stain,
dull grain on vivid empty palm.
Life’s echo paints a fading line
in heavy silence, aches and lies.

sometimes in my arms
you felt almost loved


new version of an older poem … fits with easystreet prompt #175



The pact flesh makes to disappear
frees wyrd from rib,
sweet curve of subtle cage
craves nothing
but its own destruction.

Cold end touch of wordless bone,
so barely intimate,
is nothing
but an echo of this kiss.
Sun’s dust embraces wind.

inspired by easystreet prompt #161

only just (a sonnet)

In cloudy dreams night-nevers torment most,
inspire a lightning rush of heart to skin.
This earthy pressure sighs too much for lost
night-crow, tearing sleep apart. Stars spin

me close to you, whole-blooded. Take my flight
then, from this dark, sweet only-ever. Speak
in rainy morning tones. Dare keenest light
and make a move on one who dares to seek.

Your cigarette weeps heat and hazes thought,
blush paints a faint horizon in my eye.
Lover, morn me well. See spark rise uncaught
yet only, always, just within your sky.

Smoke teases cloudy sleep but leaves no trace
on earthen dream, no scar in flesh. Just grace.

junk male


you have made it
to the final round
of men who
think no
must be paid for

any way

your commitment
to this cause
is noted though
it cost you

every yes
that truly matters.


Moon’s eye gazes, surface-still,
reflections’ sheen on slow-cold;
water guards your deep so well.

Silence bears deer tension,
wild cat scent is just another
hunt without a start-line.

A stone falls in the lake and
caution circles, intuition’s
pale light glances filmy glaze.

No one dares to stay, see you
stare-down fear, illusion’s pose,
see you move all ways at once.

This so needs an edit!! Ario?*grin


fever burned strange dream
on lead-weight cloth, impression
torn in half – it should be art
but for the dark – and you:

mistress of so many dying names
tangled in beautific smile,
unaware the shaken monolith of
bones behind awaits your own.


he looked a bit like you;
studying red wine,
concentration undeterred by
friday’s rush to feed
unruly hordes.

his gaze interrogated every
sigh of colour
in advance of later when

she might look a bit like me;
a blushing haze, spilled
wine in your lake.


His bohemian trail’s a shadow
courting early hours.
Elegant in frost and freedom,
moon’s wise-dog is lingering
insight, testing scent.
He knows I watch him circle
starlit thoughts between us,
that I glean his wake
for echoes of another world
beyond this hide in space.


and then this ~ beloved friend J reworked and out-fox’d me *smiles*

His bohemian shadow
courts the early morning
frost, my elegant freedom.

A mongrel moon lingers
in sight of testing scent,
alert to crescent starlight
thought between us.

I glean his waking echo
for other worldly space,
for us to hide.


breeze (in curtain)

Dim blur pools to form the shape
of wind this time, spills
weightless shadow on mind’s veil.
Reason’s dogma must
dissolve in space and distant lie.

Otherwise, between perception,
intuition and all things,
you’ll stare at the wall, unmoved.
More still in flesh than
undeveloped photographic

elements discarded, turned away,
frightened of exposure.
We are both pools of shapely
vision, weightless veils
and shadow stones, turning time.

ageing well

Mud turns slow to stone
around heel-heavy imprints,
earthbone’s marked for life
with sunken hieroglyphics,
fossilized at vanish point.

Dreams are signed on skin.
Barely legible, their tracks
are staggered, silly patterns
tripping over crow’s feet
nimble with oblivion.


Solitary grey man dances
with a red umbrella,
feigning freedom outside
Edwards’ wine bar.

Summer dresses cling and
blur through rainy glass.
The scathing edge of rejection’s
glancing blow bleeds
flirtation to a bitter end.

after/words (triolet?)

Afterwards, there is more than silence.
Words pulse in phantom fingertips,
mapping skin-dreams, trailing wild-sense.
Afterwards there is more. Then silence.

Tenderly, thought moves mere absence,
over-arching mind to find eclipse.
Afterwards, there is more-than silence.
Words pulse. In phantom, finger tips.

reading you

Moon’s eye gazes, surface-still,
reflections’ sheen on slow-cold;
water guards your deep so well.

Silence bears deer tension,
wild cat scent is just another
hunt without a start-line.

A stone falls in the lake and
caution circles, intuition’s
pale light glances filmy glaze.

No-one dares to stay or see
you stare down fear and all
illusion’s poise, to see you
move all ways at once.