Flashes of childhood,
Spent in play, fields and trees,
Or a white window sill,
Gazing at my mother on the street below.

Slivers of water on an urban pond,
Fishing or boating, quiet laughter,
Night embraces the tiled cafe,
And egg yolk runs slowly to touch  toast.

My friend's brown shoes, as he bowls in jeans,
The hush of a friendly audience
Gathered lazily on the lawn,
As the lights go down.

Different schools,
With different wise men and fools,
Walking to the first day of work,
After a bus and train ride, sweaty and unexpecting inside.

Eyeing apples at reception,
Always at the window looking out, looking in,
Love in its surreptitious forms,
Obsessive loyalty that obliterates norms.

Held down by an unexplained weight of sadness,
Help up by instants of laughter and madness,
Held to the dream that will not be crushed,
Held to account by time that will not be rushed.

An age I never dreamt of,
A place I never expected,
A body I never respected,
A mind that hasn't reflected.

Waiting on the shores for the wave to crash,
And for the light on the horizon,
I feel old and new,
Borrowed and used,
Broken, yet fused,
Nice, gentle and naughty,
30 days till 40.

No lightbulb flares,
No alarm bells jangle,
No telephone rings,
No Damocles' thingie dangles.

No parrot squawks,
No caged bird sings,
No kit of pigeons fly,
No death knell rings.

No glass shatters,
No thunder strikes,
No policeman whistles,
No smoke turns white.

Nothing is obvious,
Nothing is declared,
A small moment passes,
Passes, passes.....
And your heart is dismembered,
Filleted,
By the sweet engulfing
Nothingness of that moment.

Rambles After 

Same old place,
Same old face,
New people making small talk,
New forces making me walk,
The end of the old road,
Understand, I tell you, the new code.

I can see but not hear you  talk to me,
Leave me alone, I'd rather be,
Sitting on my balcony,
Reading the history of the Shawnee.
Or anything but drinking with you,
Watching fools of different hues,
Shake their bodies as if they felt it,
Faking sincerely, as if they meant it.

The time is now,
But what, who, how,
Remain mysterious, serious,
Possibly deleterious,
This endangered species,
Is worth a few theses,
So tell me what you feel,
As the orange gets peeled,
And the layers get revealed,
And the wounds are left to heal.

Just out of reach

I thought I had it,
Felt it, smelt it,
Put my finger in its blood,
Heard the noise, felt the thud,
Ran through the powdery foam,
Climbed into the mourning gloom,
Saw the streaking shafts of a strange new day, Saw the dark-haired child with the dolls of clay.

The new is old, the old is retro,
Retro is how the youth will know,
About birth and death that define us,
Refine us, defile and deride us,
Mock us till the setting sun,
Til optimism is spent and emphatically done.

I thought I had it,
Felt it jingle in my head,
Like a needle pulling thread,
Through the labyrinths of my defeats,
Into the white steel resting the sheath.
I raise my sword and wander listless,
As my face grows its bristles,
The new day sulks into view,
And I still don't have the eagle's view.

On a pilgrimage

A few miles up the road
From the city glinting in the setting sun,
I drive slowly in this practical car,
Upon my impractical mission,
With my friends who will not fathom
Why this drive, at random,
But I am waiting for a glimpse that will suffice
Of the calm, composed, unforgotten one

These gentle roads she's travelled, often fast
These roads the master painted in my head
Once she drummed her fingers on a pillow
Making etchings in my heart
Adolescent longing didn't play a part,
Strangely sexless, like an admired photograph
Unattainable yet always the One.

Shhhhhhhhh whisper the tyres,
Along the silent roads where no one creeps,
And the city lights up beneath,
The road holds her secret, close and still.

I meander for an hour,
I get lost on purpose, searching to find my peace,
My friend spotted flowers and rubbish on the road,
I wonder if that's the fateful place,
And I still have no closure.

Rest, my memory,
Rest in peace,
There shall be no lese-majeste
As I hear the cruise ships far below
Their horns signal it's time to go
The medieval village is all aglow
The journey is not in vain
Better than finding her slain
By some ordinary rock or stone
In my head she's alive,
Smiling, laughing,
Smoothing her dress and getting ready to drive...

A line of lights in my mirror
A darkening coastline with unmindful evening diners
We descend gently to the beach
And my memory sings itself to sleep

Good night Angel,
Good night, the road,
Grace is preserved.
I have been here,
I have paid my respects,
She sleeps somewhere,
Protected by her rocky kingdom,
The bluest of blue seas,
And gulls skimming quietly.

Sank, Roo Doe Noo

Sank, Roo Doe Noo

I walk in through the swinging doors
To the dimness of 1920
Pennants of American Football teams litter the high walls

Woody narrow space,
The office folks are rolling up their shirt-sleeves,
Ready for the serious business of the weekending drinking

There's a space by the brass beer taps
Where I stand to survey the well-preserved memory
Different and yet similar

This is where Jake met Lady Brett
Haunted by demons of regret
Hemingway in a framed photo kicks a football (American)
Posing macho, while the bartenders come and go

In their serious glasses and spotless white jackets,
Like doctors curing aching souls,
With original Bloody Marys and peanuts

This well-travelled old wood
Envelopes my soul calmly
Mary tastes good and wholesomely spicy

"Are you an IBF?", says a fly to another,
Etched primitive on the mirror,
Papa was one, an International Bar Fly,
Like flies the conversations bzzz past me


For those present the past is an irrelevance,
I smile happily,
Harry's abides.
Low light defeats me,
And I resolve to not take pictures,
I have been here before in my head,
The memory is deeper than the fiction,
And that has lasted me 19 years,
This most significant trivial moment,
Shall suffice.

This is my coda:

You remember the pictures you didn't take
More than the ones you do
And you remember the places that don't exist
More than the ones that do
And yet if you are blessed
You might arrive at the meeting of the two.

(with respect, for Harry's New York Bar, 5 Rue Daunou, Paris)

Upon hearing of REM's demise

Bonne nuit, old chaps,
Thanks for supplying the sound-track,
Wistful, faraway sad even when celebrating,
Smiling wryly while hearts were breaking,
Through the shiny confusion of those years,
You stood by with your out-of-reach flavour,
Your name scrawled on my Camel geometry box,
Scribbled lyrics during classes as I searched for meaning,
And while I slowly outgrew the confusion,
I never quite found the answers,
Got lost in life's trivia,
You brought the disruptive gift of melancholia,
Delighted me with piano and electrolites,
Made it legit to be surreal,
To be inscrutable,
Yet melodic.
You inspired, in music, in videos,
So that soon I missed,
More aching beauty than I had wished.
See you in heaven if we make the list.