A Close Shave

A close shave.

This week I didn't win the Lotto again
Well, phew, that was a close thing.
I don't have to work on buying and moving
Don't have to choose which cruise to use
Or ring up my ex and go ha ha ha ha ha...

That Omaze house in Devon went to another
I'd have been lost there and far from all friends
Cider with Rosie is all very well
But hey I'm a bitter man myself...
In fact i remember my ex saying just that .


Not going to the monthly meeting of the West Surrey cynical negativists and ping-pong society tonight
I mean - really - why bother?
Anyway - I'm rubbish at ping-pong.
And their table is broken. Life, eh?

Remembering Mrs. Gray

Sometimes one thing triggers a memory 

A thin tripwire that triggers an explosion 

A baguette, or red wine, Boston... 

And Black 

Black will never be funerals and death .

Black is a midriff held sleekly tight 

Lace ending on pale chest or thigh 

An exotic bird that unfurls black wings 

To swoop and soar and dive 

Exhilarating and wonderful. 

But I don't have space for the bird to fly 

I need to shut it away 

In the cage of memory, wings folded 

Black becomes just a colour again 

And reality is... Gray. 

The season

Lost lovers

Missing friends

That slow ache

That never ends

To you this season

A glass - a toast

To you, good health

Beloved ghost.

Did I Say That?

For all the promises never kept

Because they were never made

For all the lovers I betrayed

Because I never met them
Roads never followed
As I stood still
And songs not sung
As I just talked

For all I never knew

I know not what

For all this
Yet nothing
I sit alone

And weep.

Cameron Diaz ate my hamster

Cameron Diaz ate my hamster
Such a softly glowing face
And bright light blue eyes
Like windows to an early spring sky
A slight easy twist to smiling lips
That says I'm human, and funny
And still open to the world's wonders.
Hey - we all get hungry sometimes.
I can easily get another hamster.

The 63 Is Running Late

The 63 is running late.

The station is a portal to Purgatory, a grim concrete and reinforced glass lean-to as we pass on.

Above, tight rows of pigeon spikes, gray on gray concrete under gray skies.

Like barbed wire on The Front. Paschendale for birds, yet they have more sense – no feathered corpses here to mourn.

Wide-eyed smiling child in pram.  Innocent of rain, or concrete, or future.  A clean pink page yet unwritten.

Early morning perfume of stale tobacco and Big Mac.

The 63 arrives.

Air-brakes sigh a thousand sighs and we shuffle forward.

Past posters for Samaritans, Park And Ride and... The Royal Opera.

Roundabout

Round and round we go

Those who know

Or those who just flow

We’re all struggling rats trying to get round this infernal maze

Yet it’s the same maze – we all have the same DNA, and we nearly all follow similar paths, similar problems, similar doubts.

And we all face the same end.  Scientist, evangelist, Farage or Tony Benn – we’ll all be gone.  Whatever empire, dynasty, body of work or child we leave behind, we won’t know about it.  Sorry, spiritualists.

So here we are, and then we go.

Albert Einstein

Or just Joe Blow.

A cosmic voyage from the heart of a star to the heart of Crawley, Hearts are won then hearts are lost, but we exit as we came in – alone.  Well , apart from the trillions of bacteria hitching a ride.  The poor will not inherit the Earth – that’ll be bacteria.  Come asteroid or plague, we will be gone, but those wee lads will soldier on.

And the cycle re-boots.

On and on, and round and round.

A perfect circle.

And the lost are found.