Thursday the 23rd of June.

‘Breathe’

Such a simple thing

Trying to stop is not easy

Unless you are determined

Or have an awful affliction

Not many are allergic to oxygen

Perhaps they are to the twenty-first century

Many people seem to be

It must be a communicable pathogen

Not just word of mouth

Social networks can be extremely anti-social

Conspiracy theorists

Can have a field day

Confirmation bias

Would assume religious proportions

Drowning is a really hard way to die

The reflex to breathe induces panic

Nobody chooses

To be breathless

There is a feeling of inevitability

About decline gathering pace

Outcomes reconfiguring

In momentum

When ‘breathe’ becomes

More a sentence than a word

How foolish is a world

Without a fresh air-lock

That is something more

Than an echo-chamber

For the privileged few

To rage about the toxicity

Of modern life

When so many cling to it

Barely breathing

Even when it is what they want

Perhaps only love

Should take your breath away

There would be a queue

For its administration as a lifeline

Vaccine.

I never know where to start

Beginnings are different

Depending on mood

Ambience is more than atmosphere

Circumstance is cold comfort

Hanging onto coat sleeves

Developing character

From exposure

To unpredictability

Sheltering in the background

Depending on conditions

Waving a white flag

Of surrender before the air

Is sucked out of a room

Context is everything

Tossed over a clothesline

Flapped in the wind

Smoked like a kipper

Stood out in the rain

Pounded by hailstones

Finding it glorious

Been laid low

By fever

Which was more than man flu

Developed a conscience

More meaningful

Than a third eye

And rarely caught the drift

If I had a brain

I might be dangerous

An aura of suspicion

Slowly kills the tenor

Of any complex notation

However you communicate

Sadness

Words tell less than half a story

How do lonely people

Self generate

From the ground, up

When nothing grows unconditionally

Tend to your own needs

Before bedtime

Has the ring of a Christmas card motto

Slates are never written on

Or wiped clean

Whiteboards are tokenism

Life is a comedy

Without a punchline

It would be too easy to blame

Everything on error

It is less divine than god’s will he

Or won’t he

Smite down the tele-evangelists

Taking money from the needy

To build a bunker

Whilst praying the gospel

Of the apocalypse

But the devil always did

Have the best tunes

And he blows a mean horn

Have sympathy

Once he starts

He has never been shown

How to stop

We push the boat out

Lavish our love

Dance into the mystic

Build a future

Reach for the stars

Sail the oceans

In search of tomorrow

When tides change

Full sail into morning

Be resilient in hard times

Wave a jolly roger

Feel piratical

When tyranny

Hijacks the pleasure cruise

We are all refugees

At some point

Their will be a calming

Mill ponds attract

Tea drinkers with dry bread

Hello ducks

Birds of a feather

Mate for life

We are the blood

Who carry the fight

Salt the earth

We have grown from,

It is more than fate

That brought us together

Build a fire boys

Cover the remains

In kindling

Bank the flowers high

Lay down your swords

Unfurl the sail

Ready the burning spear

And push out the boat

There is a moment

When playfulness dies,

The circling of a Magpie

The whistle as it swoops

Ragging bobbed heads

Wrapped up in daydreams

Old crows vying for the best spots

Demand to be heard

Expect to be feared

Parrots form battle lines

The sun peeps out from behind

Restless clouds

Uncertain of its role

As it blinks

The sky tilts into shadow

Rain bleaches through

Inadequate clothing

Shower-proof fashion wear

Is no protection

In monsoon weather

Hoodies are good

At water storage

Leave them hanging

They are three days wet

Nothing remains sharply drawn

Colours drain away

As up is down

Sea sinks and sky rises unto heaven

Nothing is as it was

Rainbows arc into the gloaming

With an explosion of fear

At the irony of naturalism

The air sizzles with static

There is no mood music

Earthwatch is an original score

Nothing happens to generate

A beginning

But there is a moment

Of absurd recognition

Reluctant acceptance

When playfulness turns,

From temperate disposition

Into menace.

Blue sky is deceptive

Sunlight creeping

Out through the cracks

In the weather

The wind restless

Murmurs in disapproval

Listless lizards twist away

Rustling hard into corners

Bloated Blue-tongues

Should be sleeping

There is no escaping the chill

Of winter even

When my heart says summer

Sun dried leaves

An artless calling card

To be flipped impudently

As the mood takes it

Rolling over the ragged stone

Hairballs from a shaggy dog

Telling stories of loneliness

Baying for attention

In the darkness

Of the flat next door

Animals need company

A sad refrain

Stuck in the groove

On endless repeat

Migrating Spiders

Whipped on a breeze

Brisker than yesterday

Feather their canopies

Like paratroopers

Angling to be carried

In a different direction

With a softer landing

Even concrete has cracks

Through which the earth

Can seep

Weeds are very hardy

Every gardener’s nightmare

Wildflowers are beautiful

In a fallow field

At the bottom of a valley

When the wind blows over

The hilltops

Kissing the grassy floor

Barely grazing the surface

Hoar frost nips green leaves

On cold mornings

In England

Kent mist hangs low

Reflecting a watery sun

Dipped in the shallows

Of a clear blue sky

June in Australia

So much in common with November

In the home counties,

When the wind blows

There is no escape from

Cold shivers that could be

Mistaken for a tingle

Of anticipation

When the timing is right.

We had blind faith

Northland boys

Travelling south with little money

Begging lifts from strangers

Before we understood

How dangerous

Innocence could be

We didn’t see the change coming

Slept all night in an alley

Off Wardour Street

Bunked down with winos

Traded food with rats

Shied away from junkies

Shooting themselves full of juice

Between tricks

Shivered in a corner

Cold arsed on hard concrete

Until the sun rose over Eros

Piccadilly at dawn

Before the changing of the guard

As the day shift drank coffee

Old beans before latte

We ate a bacon sandwich

In an all night cafe

With travelling bands

And street walkers

Wondering why

We hadn’t gone in before

Old hands slept standing up

A teen wave

Tumbled onto the streets

Freaking the city slickers

Too shocked to speak

Walked to Hyde Park

In a fug of adrenaline

Testosterone and gold leb

The grass was green

It wasn’t Tasker’s farm

But the vibe wasn’t created

For the cameras either

We cooked in the sun

I burned through

The holes in the tie dye

We missed Jack Bruce

He was all jazzed up

Writing songs for a tailor

We were left with

The black sheep

Of the family

But Clapton was god

We had Blind Faith

In the future

English humblebums

Teenage heroes

Just for one day.

There are times

When thinking is a pastime

They are less frequent

As the world gets older

There is a drudge about life

Even in the countryside

Where the mind has more freedom

To wander

Discovering rural idylls

Uncovering blissful language

Hidden beneath mounds

Of verbal garbage

Frolicing in a meadow of rustic charm

Wondering what to do with

A word such as bucolic

Bukowski would have spat it out

He was a bitter pill

Why waste a metaphor

On the man next door

Who wants to be a writer

When there is never enough

Cynicism to dispel a belief

That deep down

The hatred we feel is self-directed

Pour me a drink boys

A Macallan sherry oak

Will do me fine

How easy to rhyme with wine

What good would it do

When there are more pills

To swallow

Bitterness sullies the intensity

Of a life lived,

Waiting for the penny to drop

Before the truth dawns

Is less a pastime

More an escape

From critical thinking,

Pull out the discontent

Lean on the grudge

Adorn your prose with acrimony

It will not change the mood

But desolation

Should not be

The only agony

Of grieving a life less lived

When acerbity can be a clever disguise

For the mundanity

Of resentment.

I stopped to talk

Normally I would just nod

And keep walking

But the old man was spread-eagled

Under the tree

For all the world he looked dead

He smelled dead

But he always did smell like that

I hunkered down beside him

Up-wind

Cleared my throat

Of kerbside pollution

Wondering when emission tests

Would become law in Australia

‘How are you old man?’

‘Oh I’m pretty good right enough.’

He replied raising an eyebrow

Which was pretty much the same colour

As his skin

He might have been a redhead

Underneath the camouflage

When his eyes opened

They were wild with fever

Blue-eyed Bob

Never one for shelter

Even from a storm

‘Do you ever listen to the possums

Telling it how it is?’

He asked

‘Why do people consider themselves

Superior to animals?

But shit man listening to them dudes

Chatter through the night

Can give a fella the heebeegeebees’

In the space between one thought

And another.

‘I heard more sense last night

Than I heard people talk in a month

They were sorted man

Divided their territory

Stocked up

Cared for their families

Sang love songs

A take over

With a bunch of crows

Ragging jazz riffs

Ready to lead a revolution’

‘Are you sure about this?

It seems like you were having

A nightmare.’

‘Nope it was no nightmare

I was slap in the middle of some

Real animal politics

And the scary thing was

There was no sleaze

No boys club

None of those dudes disrespected

The other guy

Everyone of them knew what to do,

What they were good at

Crows cawed

Whilst busting into bin bags

Possums crawled over the wires

Played happy families on rooftops

Slept the day away

Whilst Magpies mounted guard

And they all planned

To keep to their roles

For the good of the colony.’

‘Seems as if they had it sorted

‘Damn right they did man

Damn right.

No cultural misappropriation

Gender discrimination

Old boys network

Deforestation

Or mineral rights

Just freedom of expression

My man

Now you gonna stand me

For a cup of coffee

Or do you think I tell these stories

For free?’

‘I don’t carry cash.’

‘Gosh man you’re so full of shit.’

Nobody knows

Once the door is closed

English castles

Dingy dungeons recalled

Long gone now

The scullery and meat safe

A washstand

With water pipes

That froze in winter

For lack of lagging

And adequate heating

Wandering the lowlands

In search of one another

Playing soldiers

Using sticks

As weapons

Country children

Acting out the stories

They were handed down

Wet socks always

Wedged into the toe

Of wellington boots

Snow white fingers

Cold as ice

Aching in front of the fire

Grandma always had hot biscuits

Dreaming of America

Where kitchens had refrigerators

Nothing is forgotten

Until it is.

Once the door is closed

Angels can be monsters

There were no good times

Just heavy locks

On cellar doors

Loose lips sink ships

Never talk to strangers

Whistleblowers are

The messengers who get shot

Why do we believe tall stories

But rage against a truth

When it is inconvenient

We were told

No more war

But there were tall trees

Decked out in snow

That sparkled in sunlight

So bright it was close to blinding

Blackthorn was a bitter fruit

Best used in baking

Until we found

It was used in mother’s ruin

Nobody knows

Once the door is closed

Anything can happen

In the quiet of an afternoon

Playing games

With bygones

There is little future

In digression

The present slips away

Before it is even here

Only the past remains

To haunt you

Once you close the door

The world is but

A make believe

When all your truths

Were yesterday

And there is nothing left to do

But wait until tomorrow.