There’s A “B” Side?

My heart beats
twelve bars at a time
but skips and jumps
when I think of you
like an old forty five
scratched a little
in the grooves
from being played
over and over again.

Furry God Mutter

I thought I saw a fairy
who was hardly there
she danced a fancy dangle
with half an inch to spare
and said she’d come to warn me
about some dirty girls
but when she opened up her lips
her tongue just wouldn’t curl
in lieu she mimed a whimsy
by tapping out her pipes
spilling beans all here and there
it really was a sight
to see the little woodland nymph
her wings all shimmer green
shouting out her silent screams
to keep me nice and clean.

Love Letters?

Words like fingertips
stroking passions,
ink stained long hand
caressing the vellum
of your soul.

You finally read
yourself
in every line I write.

Graffiti

I long to write our names
in chalk on the pavement
outside a chip shop
future streaks
multicoloured
smudges of
an urban rainbow
blended by a thunderstorm.

or carve them together
locked forever
in a makeshift
heart of barkness
tree scratched
with a key
for a little metal box
which I lost
no sooner
than I found it.

(why a chip shop? I don’t know, but it screams romance to me)

Sepia

those who used to be
mirror and pantomime
we that still are
bearing mute witness
to each new day
captured shadows
silent time travellers
framed in steel and wood
given all they see
through the looking glass
I question the veracity
of their smiles.

All Because

Let me be your Milk Tray man
I’ve the clothes to play the part
and a half pound of soft centres
to win your hungry heart
I’d break into your bedroom
my parachute left outside
drop off my chocs
and leave my card
then dive into the tides

TV Times

Something about a third
and sparking synapses skip
to a scratched old memory track
crackling it begins
the theme to something
in London yet not,
perhaps the south of France?
“Twang, twang, ta, twang, twang!”
and then it sticks
of a soul of a soul of a soul of a soul
Revolution No. 33.333 recurring
of a soul of a soul of a soul of a soul
it is easy to buy.

Bye bye.

to be honest though,
I’d hoped for Van der Valk

Chanson (A Song For Jacques Brel)

How many leaves have I seen fall
like pages from a calendar torn away
discarded browning yesterdays
that were once green tomorrows
how many passing glances
forgotten in my mortal dances
with strangers, friends and lovers
have I left unreturned
with a moment’s regret burning
like a cigarette upon my soul?

Half A Middle Eight

This one’s a little shorter than the last one
and nowhere near as wordy as the next
Consider it just sat here as a stop gap
until my faculties are at their best.

Untitled

Let us hide
in the forest
so deep
so full
that even
speckled
freckled
drops
of sunlight
fail to find
their way
between
the green
and onto our faces.

No sound
but rustled
primaeval
leaves
above us
and below
a verdure palace
a ballroom
in which
two hearts
may waltz
together
to the subtle
orchestration
of our breath.