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Blind Fox







The wrap of such a ghastly entail divides our senses
Every day the heat rises and courses through my aisle
The crystals and swords paint their glinting spheres in glee
Throwing their wild remoulds and jesting for a spree

But to delve into this frozen delight cursed with longing
To grasp the bolted chain of dust so unbeknown
Darkens the rose upon the misty moor it has grown
Where the spirits waken behind the mirrors that show

Windy roads and foreign eyes that once dressed this smile
Ghostly trials and ripping tides that fell like the evening sun
Rear their crimson faces like the dead reborn
Cowering these brown eyes once free from craving scorn

So the blind fox feeds upon these trifling curds of old
Pressing his green plat paws on the brow locked in cold
The medicine seeps on wounds once dry and closed
For the pages have rose to reopen their gleaming show

See this hungry life player sleep upon his rusty pose
Till the dormant fires rise and engrave the arm to stab
Each burnt out fuse lost amid the oceans of the had
Opening the crusts of dire plains and heavens once glad
Until the past shall cast the fox from its grove of drag




I Go Where the Flowers Grow






You know me friend, I go where the flowers grow
Where the light shines and prosper doesn’t hide
Where the colour is vast against the warmth of my glow
Where new tasks await; new highs and lows to contemplate

I leave behind old flames and withered pasts
Friends, places and emotions not up to my task
I leave behind memories happy and sad
To dwell amongst the present is not to be had

Towards the sun, the sky, and the desired gleam
Away from darkness, the freeze, and established dreams
Towards new hope, new horizon, new prayer
Away from the onset of dry, dusty dim wares

So friend I leave you with little, save this final thought
Don’t hold me in angst, for I will soon return, well taught
With the circles of change firmly in place
Old flowers will bloom, and I’ll remember your face




Poem 2




Heads on rails
Moving like sails
Where my mind entails
In the fruit store of necessity
Dancing like soiled shadows
Steering with wheels that harrow
With legs in the hail
Moving like snails
Only the blind can cure the frail

Oh and sing for songs of lost reveal
With twisting strain
In the grappling rain
Where I seek to abstain
Life in its fiery pain
Oh save the final breath
Your teeth scarred with stain
And laugh with looming death
With blue eyes that spin webs

So swivel your head
Till you view love’s lead
In each stone washed thread
Where the spirits keep
Each merciful faith
Inside the stars that weep
Every tear of solemn grace
And all poets unsure to speak



Spoken/Slurred







Oh why upon this flowery pedestal do the wayfarers shout
The books of love and fields of clouds shatter high above
The black coated scribe barks and beckons through a wintry hive
Coiling each quill and dark mark with beauty, precision and pride

Not a full age further do we spit upon the endless coloured sleeve
Swilling and sparking each hope with tongues of mud and bone
Sons of gods that nod and jest upon golden pages as if stone
I watch and wave and glance through haze, damning these words I own

Crudeness and liquor spawn vital beats, dressing the lonely pawn
Till the hours have dropped from the antique clock
Disheartened leaves cloak the dust of dead smiles and eyes
While the wayfarers breathe their heavy sleaze, coarse, cold and dry

And upon the mythic stone carved upon the wily old phase
We see feathers gust through ears that scar the golden tome
Slurring the whirl of words that creep asleep yet so well tuned
While the pained response cowers and shrinks under the burning moon

Holy charts that once hung well in halls painted without cream
Now tatter with the sticks of revoke sharpened blue and imbued
Till the morning comes and sweeps the brush of slumbered minds
For the wayfarer’s mouth builds its violent cry, pitiful and sublime