almost indefatigable and quietly militant naïveté …

the coffee shop opportunity




                           always a challenge
                           the coffee shop opportunity

                           cup almost empty
                           clear space on the table

                           and the reggae
                           always resuming anew from

                           the same root
                           that just reached a crescendo

                           nothing gained
                           nothing lost, time for the last sip






coffee shop wormhole: well,
emptiness wormhole: being in love – poewieview #26
table wormhole: Michael Redford: triptych
writing wormhole: bloogying


Hurst Green




                                              Hurst Green

                                the girl
                who walked from her Mini with lithe
                step stood by the concrete fence grown its own lichen
                from decades standing with
                                hot veins
                                on the top
                                of her feet

                while birds pheeped and echoed in the long-
                grown copse behind turned
                                her feet
                                sideways –
                                anxious –

                as she leant on the fence to make the phone
                call and chewed the inside of her mouth staring
                at the platform
                                for minutes






echo & muse wormhole: currency of generations
feet wormhole: Western Motel, 1957
girl wormhole: Shonagh – poewieview #17
time wormhole: the missing chord // the now-silent seagull
Uckfield-London line wormhole: train journey // like a branch


currency of generations




                                currency of generations

                                ‘fetch the tin of buttons’
                                a quest to the cupboard
                                by the stairwell just outside
                                the room we dressed in
                                and spent all morning
                                because it was warm
                                ‘the one with the fruits’
                                different sorts of fruit
                                pastel-coloured and
                                marshmallowy on a tin
                                ‘they’re petit-fours’
                                something to understand
                                later (the taste had been sugary
                                and pasty and although
                                it looked like fruit it stuck
                                in my throat) now has
                                buttons which are cool
                                and swirly when I run
                                my finger through them
                                and marbled-enough
                                to see history and boiled-
                                sweet transparent-enough
                                to see worlds themed in
                                colour and echo from the clothes
                                of real people from family aunts
                                and uncles in the past who
                                I never knew or can’t remember
                                the lineage from which I came
                                contained under tin-bent lid






childhood & Eglinton Hill & morning wormhole: between thoughts
echo & stairs wormhole: no one – poewieview #24
family & lifetimes & sound & speech wormhole: being in love – poewieview #26
history wormhole: B le tch l ey P ark
identity wormhole: too late:
living room wormhole: fine
Mum wormhole: finding my own true nature – Plumstead, Woolwich, 190915
muse wormhole: and that’s where I are


the missing chord // the now-silent seagull




                                                   the missing chord

                           spotted high and gliding from somewhere out the picture
                           down in the delivery lane between the seafront hotels –

                                          the heights of decades passed
                                          with stacks and chimney pots
                                          held motionless over long-
                                          vanished keyboard above the
                                          crescendo of utility rooms and
                                          fire-escape at all angles –

                           sinking down to the yard wall, the switch of buddleia that’ll do nicely
                           reached back up to glide home somewhere in the heavens

                                                   the now-silent seagull






buddhleia wormhole: like butterflies on / buddleia
chimney & hotel wormhole: B le tch l ey P ark
Eastbourne wormhole: and that’s where I are
seagull wormhole: now, have I forgotten anything
silence wormhole: fine
sky wormhole: 1967
time wormhole: bloogying







                      just publish them all
                      even the crap ones

                      let them sit there multifarious
                      for months and years

                      all nicely arranged
                      along the bookcase

                      just say what I say
                      without censor without compromise

                      (let me
                       worry about the morality when I sit down)

                      let the paucity of hits be
                      the line of medals that they seem

                      I earned them all with word
                      above and beyond the call of necessity





publishing wormhole: the writing’s on the wall
recognition wormhole: let the dreams / become the ghosts they / always were
sitting wormhole: Jericho
talking to myself & writing wormhole: diligence
time wormhole: work
words wormhole: the both passive and transitive / non-presumptive pre-conceptualist attenuation of being







                                                              deepest vermillion
                                              streaked with lemon purple
                                between the dull olive silhouette of rooftops
                wires and cornices





1967 wormhole: organ / sunlight in all our eyes – poewieview #11
abandonment wormhole: 1968
beauty wormhole: need
buildings wormhole: Le Pont Royal, 1909
lemon & sky wormhole: being in love – poewieview #26
olive wormhole: thick thick fog
purple wormhole: up on the hill
rooftops wormhole: tag cloud poem IX – haiku is awkward / the more that is left in / like uncombed hair
silhouette wormhole: Jon
years wormhole: 1965


between thoughts




                            up floated the printed words
                                            lengthening shadows on the page
                                                          light rain fell

                            small mauve sparks
                                            sprayed from the crack
                                                          in the bedroom window

                            charging my smiling brother
                                            in his yellow and blue pyjamas
                                                          laughing in the morning sun

                                            between thoughts





bedroom wormhole: where the goblins leered – poewieview #14
blue & sun wormhole: too late:
childhood wormhole: 1968
Eglinton Hill & glass wormhole: the start of adolescence
mauve wormhole: being in love – poewieview #26
morning wormhole: work
rain & windows wormhoe: fine
reading wormhole: b / r / e / a / t / h / i / n / g
shadow wormhole: impressionism
smile wormhole: B le tch l ey P ark
thought wormhole: dry rot
yellow wormhole: stacked


being in love – poewieview #26




                                the wide wide landscape and the family tree
                                are just the same when found through mist;

                                blues rising from the homestead chimney
                                in the grey and green glade of, everwhere;

                                then everything stepped up over the far
                                mountains mauve of orange horizon

                                filled the sky to cross the desert in a
                                single bound; whispered sweet nothing

                                into my ear with heightened register as
                                the clouds pointed unutterably across

                                the lemon-steel sky, far too wide and grey
                                and blue to close my mouth, over;

                                I’ll have to levitate, ascend above the roots
                                of no return – tug-snapping, pull-holding snap –

                                you could see, there then, that this was not
                                about love this was all about being in love


just close your eyes: Lightning Frightening, 1971; Moonage Daydream, 1971




1971 & Bowie wormhole: words tumble like / boulders – poewieview #25
clouds wormhole: nothing to say
emptiness & lifetimes & sky & speech wormhole: too late:
family wormhole: finding my own true nature – Plumstead, Woolwich, 190915
green & grey & horizon & life wormhole: furl-reach
lemon wormhole: ‘went up to London and what did I see; …’ – poewieview #7
love wormhole: true nature
mauve wormhole: mauve
mist wormhole: fine droplets / across the glass
orange wormhole: like ink – poewieview #23
sound wormhole: fine
travelling wormhole: the sounds of 1969 // [would have] seemed that way – poewieview #13
voices wormhole: 1965


too late:




                      you were not morbid
                      you were not paranoid

                      you were just awkward
                      with built-in mis-match

                      of all of our lives and
                      no hope for emergence;

                      you breathed always
                      through your eyes – so much

                      more to see – but they
                      said the nose, the mouth,

                      was more usual and
                      essential to living –

                      too late: you saw the
                      sun-bleached blue of a

                      holiday before the deep-
                      high sky of emptiness

                      and panicked





blue & sky wormhole: furl-reach
breathing wormhole: while walking
death wormhole: no one – poewieview #24
emptiness & identity & living & seeing wormhole: Jericho
eyes wormhole: B le tch l ey P ark
holiday wormhole: 1968
lifetimes & sun wormhole: work
mouth wormhole: early evening
speech wormhole: dry rot
Sylvia Plath wormhole: and then just stop






                      slate-blue grey sky
                      behind new-green branch






blue & grey wormhole: nothing to say
branches wormhole: the ancient tree
green & horizon wormhole: Michael Redford: triptych
life wormhole: diligence
sky & wind wormhole: words tumble like / boulders – poewieview #25


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