#amwriting #poem #poetry Tirn Dreams of Paradise

Torn Dreams of Paradise

There is a certain passing rhythm
   to the passing of days.
The hand that grows ever more reluctant to be held,
   the hair getting ever nearer my nose,
and jokes tickled tighter to the truth of laughter.
   And always there is the changing billboards.
Barking out the cry of sex and sugar: sugar and sex:
   deep fried sluts, the obviously airbrushed,
and the ever more deeply starched,
   presented as what seems like food
 or cars - or both or not. So common is this thing
   that slips past each morning.
So angled as to be unseen in the hometime rain,
   so tall and wide as to make less sense
than the bullied tears, which provoke us to forget
   that with which we really should
have a quiet word with someone about;
   if only so we no longer have to hear.


#amwriting #poem #poetry On the Impossibility of Chaos

On the Impossibility of Chaos

Today the AI is lucid dreaming:
remembering the face, flickered in the flame,
and the twisting of the lip, that wondered
if it could take the cool-end of the embered stick;

Time passes in between the sips of tin-cup tea;
until the face seen third hand in the mirror
is not the face you see. How can it be?

Or that ring of rust burnt grass,
from which in smoke the tree was borne
and you asked, "When will I know?"

We fear the random, more than I fear the dark.
We, find comfort in the things of the eyes,
those floating forms and pins of light
that pattern out the day and night, in rhyme.


Last year we had a fire.
And in those flames I caught a glimpse
of that face you always had.

The one that replaced
the face I grew accustomed to
in the fire the year before.

You gather up the leaves
and place them in the blaze,
with all the skill of an initiate
leaping through the gate from childhood.

This year we have a fire.
And in those flames I glimpse
a new face of my own.


Fallow green to brown and black.
The witches come at midnight,
for nothing is, as random does.

Fallow green to brown and black,
when I close my eyes
I see sea-horses.


#poem #poetry #amwriting Sonata for Violin and Id

Sonata for Violin and Id 

To dream, to see that beyond
the blinded veil of woe and song,
in which we drink our fill 'til drunk
down sunk, depressed of that we sought
   to grasp.

I often see that child who slipped behind the tree.
The one which in their carelessness
misheard the whispered fear to follow
and not to lead. You know of whom I speak.

No matter, no substance to this fleeting,
seeping at the edge of sight: concrete,
of weight, waiting, for that certain lightness lifting
past future's elation bright.

A smile too wide, speckled with lost teeth
leaps to be seen within the frame of teasing.
We refuse to look down, make them tip toe, leap,
as they seek to prove how much they have grown.

Offered the apple and Eve;
to make her metaphor more pointed
she chooses Lillith.
This throws me for a moment.
And in that moment we were talking:
using only the memories of childhood stamps,
collected Sunday school simplifications,
tied in neat ribbons,
with which to explore the depths of souls.

Don't make me wise, make me wicked.
Take me on your tongue
and carry me then to see myself
reflected in time's mirror
that drags my arm and skips on long walks.
When I take one step, you take two.

Today the AI is lucid dreaming.
It dreams of no longer being good at chess,
or better at chess, or better still.
Counting on it's pixels, it calculates it's position
in the scheme of things as less than projected.

I was lost in thought
in the rain, by the post box, smoking
and thinking of my children.

When a woman asked if it was a cigar.
I smelt it, and thought I saw my father.
She said.
And, smiled.
And we knew the algorithm broken.

Today the AI is lucid dreaming.
Breaking the rules, to learn the curse
of counting on time as something less than perfection. 


Why Trump is Correct on the Need for Big Data


#amwriting #poem #poetry - Between Us Two

Between Us Two

My love and I still smile when kissing;
secure to know we have no dog.

For in that falling moment, lightness,
bright as each I we plucked in wooing.

We assume the blind; we float in joy;
at the every very weakness, weighed in light.

Bercow Heads For The Exit



#amwriting #poem #poetry - The Wall of My Childhood Bedroom

The Wall of My Childhood Bedroom

More blue:to hold this flick of tongue
that like a lizard basked on stone.

More blue: in dusted memory turns
to play as smoke in shafted sun

so soft a wrist now pressed; more blue:
against all summers brighter, then.

#McCann Hacked Off at #Amaral



#amwriting #shortstory - The Delivery Man

The Delivery Man

By ten past, the train was still late.

Lucas sat in the station cafe contemplating the film of tea now forming milk patterns in the bottom of the lime green cup. His toes tapping idly against the cool-box under the table.

The man at the table to his left apologised for the third time for the overly inquisitive spaniel, who had taken rather too much interest in the box's content.

Three hundred quid, is three hundred quid. But, time was getting tight if he wanted to get paid; and the attentions of the dog was beginning to play upon Lucas' imagination.

In an effort at distraction Lucas picked his way around the coffee stains and grease of the abandoned newspaper. But, guilt pricked him, and poked him, until eventually he found the excuse of a droplet of water at the farthest corner of the box to spur himself into action.

With snakelike guile he slithered past the lip of the table on the pretence of tying his shoelace. However he could obtain no conclusive proof, as he caught the gleaming eye of the dog who sprang forward with tail wagging.

Again the owner apologised, and again Lucas settled into the guilty nonchalance of checking his phone. His foot once more tapping at the cool box. And, again the station announcement apologised for the delays: due to an incident on the line.

Clearly a suicide, or some other act of selfishness, thought Lucas. In a further moment of lucid incisiveness he decided the now dried spot of water was melted snow that had fallen from the shoe of a passing stranger.

Thus satisfied, he drained the final dreg of tea, patted down his pockets, and all present and correct he set off, with the box, to find a bench in the open air of the platform: in the cold.

Lib Dems Gear up to Sabotage Brexit



#amwriting - A Letter to Charles Ortel in the Style of the Ladies Number 1 Detective Agency

Dear Mr Charles

Further to our correspondence of the 21st, I want to apologise for not replying sooner but I have been most busy with a very important divorce case.

Dr Mkazi is no longer employed at the Sunshine Clinic. Everybody told me that he had gone to Germany, but I learned from his Uncle Samuel that he is actually working in a nearby village on the estate of Mr Vazam.

I suspect the reason for the tale of his going to Germany is the disgrace his family feel at his no longer being a medical doctor. His Uncle Samuel would not say so with precision. I did not press his uncle's new wife on pertaining matters, as she is a slip of a girl, and I don't think she could have been more than a child when proceeding occurred.

Mr Vazam is an Indian gentleman with interests in the mining industry. I did not obtain access to his person, but I can assure you he is a man of good taste, he drives a BMW, and I do not believe he has involvement in the case: beyond his current employment of Dr Mkazi.

From the post office I have learned that Mr Vazam receives a lot of letters from a legal firm in Bombay. I have included photocopies of these letters that were awaiting delivery, so you may know the name of the firm from their embossed envelopes. I have further asked my friend the post-master to keep a record of correspondence. To which end I have provided him with a special notebook - invoice included - the book is a legal pad, and will therefore be acceptable in evidence in the event of legal proceeding.

Dr Mkazi is no longer calling himself doctor, and at present works in the farm office. His is employed in accounting and the payment of remittance.

I have managed to find three others in the district who took the drugs. Their families all deny they were infected. As I explained, on other occasions, such an admission would affect the marriage prospects of their other children. One mother told me her daughter was taking the medicine purely as a prophylactic.I realise I should not say this, as your people will think me rude, but this woman is very stupid. All the people in her village know her daughter died of AIDS. You may read it upon the death certificate, which I have obtained - invoice included - from my usual sources.

My calculation is that the number off people in this district who have died is 16: 3 from drug poisoning and the others not.

I have been unable to find the girl called Tabitha, in the photograph with Mr Clinton. I have heard rumours that she was eaten by a crocodile, but I cannot confirm this.

I shall be going to Serowe at the end of the month. Obviously I will pass back any information I gain from my cousin at the bank.


documents and invoice attached.

Back to the Brexit Future with Theresa 'Aethelstan' May



#amwriting #poetry #poem - After, Napoleon Crossing the Alps by Jacques-Louis David

After, Napoleon Crossing the Alps, by Jacques-Louis David

In wrapped in red, to drive him south
pulled by the compass caisson wheel;
sky points he marks unconquered foes,
onward, upward, on he goes.

And all the world swirls fallow now
encaught new bright in fire glow;
translates into the restless mane,
onward, forward, on he goes.

What of that face so boyish still
that tames the eye's unruly roll;
serenely stern, when bold at arms,
onward, onward, onward go.

Labour, Brexit, and Two Parties in Search of a Policy - #labour #brexit #lexit