Late in the Knight

the FUZZFUZZFUZZ of white noise
whispers through my head
a train of thought
taught
taut
tort

the TICKTICKTICK of time
rushes me by
a clock of pain
rain
rein
reign

the BAMBAMBAM of my head
in the evening
a hit once more
sore
soar
saw

awe
oar
ore

or

Tracing Paper

I stroll a street of grey disdain.

Translucent like tracing paper.

Crumpled and soggy from the rain.

I see not what passers by trace.

They trace their own facades.

Representing their worldview.

They do not know or care for/of mine.

Through me, they can practically see through.

I stroll unnoticed a desert of grey disdain.

Translucent like tracing paper. Catching some rays.

Somebody tries to draw on me with magic marker.

What is this magic? I ask.

"This magic", (s)he* answered, "Is the magic of subject-oriented perception."

Resentfully, I look confused.

I do not understand this person's sentiment.

Him/her*, I can not see through.

Maybe you too are like tracing paper,

Or, should I say, tracing paper like you.

*I am a firm believer in gender blindness. If we were all blind, the world would be a safer place.

Daydream

Destiny rolls over and lights a cigarette
Lips purse, inhale
Hold
and Breathe

the slow, soft buzzing of a thursday afternoon
echoes gently through the chamber of this moment

A thin sheen of sweat
As if bathed in celluloid
Gold
and Keeps me safe.

where once i was tumbling through the currents of emotion
now i feel and know and touch each second as it passes

Sheets crumpled, the remnants
Of a night's embraces
Cold
and Now know no shadow

turning back to me and gazing deep with those glassy blues
i need no further invitation and exhale twice, deeply

His fingers, tenatively seeking mine
Almost touching tip to tip
Old
and Yet I die again

November 2nd, in a Haiku

Unwelcome light sears

you, untangible yearning.

Chainsaw massacre.

"It's Just Time"

Hi, Gary here. Well, not a lot to say about me really. I'm just a simple boy with a wonder at the word. I wrote this poem. Just let my essence bleed on the page (NotePad) in an intense frenzy of language. The piece is entitled, ""It's Just Time"".

The future is a mist in which I cannot see.

Hazy grey days, play away and eat hay: like a ghost

horse eats hay (ghost hay), every day. Somehow.

Remorse for (most of) the dead and unborn

will run its course.

The future, when you think you about it, is nothing more than me

or you, or any of us, and what we can do is reguarly take a

bus to the past. The journey will last through the present

and tear through the fabric of any tense left untorn.

Wait, I missed the bus. Shit.*

The future I missed (i.e. did not see)

weighs a great deal of pounds (and pence) on shoulders.

Shoulders you and me could not even concieve of

if we tried, and try we do. Hence;

One day a horse will be run over by a bus,**

and time will at last reach an end that is just.

A bit of hay will fall from the horse's mouth,

in a slow, solemn breeze of atmospheric grace.

Fin.

*I was actually at the stop on time, but didn't have the right change, and they wouldn't take a note.

** The bus will be going well fast.

You Are

You Are
an utterance

voices speak volumes
silence made absolute

a twig cracks

in the forest of solitude

Manchester to Leeds, 3.15pm, October 19th

as rust coloured houses
squat as urns
blend into autumn's ochre foliage,
I Pass Through

this cleft of steel and stone
running fast twixt fold and ridge

less the clank and scream of years gone by,

carries me (The Visitor)
from red rose to white

Old Mills, Now Houses

the chill grey clouds settle high above the bricks.
Green Fields, supporting Grey Pylons, supporting Black Cables

Over canal and under bridge, we pass
(faces long seen but not remembered)
Out Of a Tunnel
We Stumble
Suddenly Amid these modern temples
of glass and grey

New Mills, Now Home