ROSE TINTED RADIO

& still my resting mind

is pelted

pelted

by pop hits

from the 80s chart parade

& a fondness has grown

like the familiar winter gyp

of an old drinking wound

or a split burred toenail

that passes the insomnia by

& because they sound WHEN

dont they ladies & gentlemen ?

but no not necessarily GOOD 

TIMES BACK THEN

there on the cricket crease 

where we pooled our pennies

for the bottleshop & chippy
inside a long summer afternoon

& the warm dusk elation

& the nights secrets ours

smoking on the hill bench

smoking on the hill bench

the bell for last orders 

far & off & away

ROSES & COFFEE

i am in the terminator lull

with a face full of roses

& the idiom stink of coffee

SKY PILOTS HOPES

i stand to wave 

to the silver darts 

that scratch the sky
&
i hope they nattered

taxiing for take off

about which battered hat  

i might pick out

& slap with elan

on my dome today

&

i hope they wish

they were down here

with us relaxing too

bare toes in the long grass

cinnamon rolls 

&

strawberry scones

coffee & cannabis & tea

ABOUT WRITING

just cos i dont know 

  why i still do it
  is no reason to stop

just cos i dont know 

  right now does not mean 

  the reason is not SOUND

just cos i dont know
  isnt reason to lose trust

  in that me who did

  cos

he was onto something

  or 

he was ON something

  either way 

  strap in

  beacon lit