Knotted Castle

I made friends with a tooth,
for he was alone,
had lost a friend,
needed an embrace
For there are deserts
as well as canyons in our
mouths.

We are the Ossuary People, 

Inlaid with abalone
bone brigands with

snaffled desires

poached in vinegar
and lusting after tardy  

secular saints

full of joyous horror

Heart, flag and cross, 

God preserve us
endear us & enjoin us
In a waxen-blood franchise

Are people mad enough 

to call themselves 
this or the other ?
Reiterating, reconfirming

driving the knives deeper 

I must believe myself for 

I am not lonely,

but a whole.

idyllic remains by a river, 

Gin soaked beauty 

shimmering like grey vanity
over early autumnal
domicile drivel In extended and
expansive bliss.

Candle light and rain,
looking for twilight in vain
shining across the
short-cut lawns 

dusky cadences 

long & glorious 

cast out like furnace coal 

by the dragging afternoon.

To live and die in Londis

One doesn't live in London,
one dies in London.

A Winter Queen of Bohemia in
our midst
Elsewhere lives too
dry Elizabeth Essex.
Dream of brimmed lotions,
quicksilver and
final, eternal rule.

The snail dance meets
the Stork's rising
to phoenix family
Oh yes, the praxis wheel
reccuring 'infinity',
shivering daggers of flame.


The more they have,
the more resentful they get.
Resentful bores
who, being ignoble,
in the end become
most soft-boned.

Atheism, pointless too,
because Nihil is also
a God
The Aesthetic preferable
to mere Ascetic. 

De Montfort

Gamblers, Marquesses

impious ridiculous drunkmen 
dawn duels attended 
by liveried heretics

Wanton cornucopias of privilege,
epicene, tragic crusaded singularities
passaged by bacteria

dessicated coconut confetti,
chalky wines of monks and Kings,
fine Colombusted snow-drivel,  the

sugarcane of Corinthian Gods.

In essence there are few

who reach attic tragedy 
as attainment

they are never philosophers.
Tragedy is impersonal nobility,

tragedy is a fiery dragon on 
a turning wheel.

THE ORGY IS OVER

Finally the orgy over

with macabre fiefdoms

to come;
A dark age rises,

civilisation breaks brittle as a biscuit,

crumb by crumb

Marching to militias

amid gloomy plastic meltdowns
the wires trailing nowhere

The sun has shone, the day

has come and gone

the evening was sweet and elegiac,

now the darkness soars

and the leaves fall

in resignation and despair,

wilting to damp and dissolute mud

Minor notes are struck,

the major has long faded.

Oh Fox, feline hound

saline foe, serpentine member 

Presently,

over a weary grey season 

the last dance of 

twinned redcoats

pert part prance

Unlike that adored 

rodent, the rabbit

You've earned your guise in the 

weft and wattle of this land

Would you see off 

the hoof smiths

horn blowers

horse chargers

Or is the hunter

as much in your heart as

you in his ?

Red flame-breasted brothers
the hounds, horns, thunder of claws

Co-authors

in each others'

imperceptible dream

Last free master of

mythical wiles,

and pitiless fate.

Will your embrace be ended,

your chronicle discontinued ?

Unknown muse 

of this land,
Scrutinized by
frivolous and benign bosoms,
extraneous mothers
Altogether a far-away steel gaze
pitifully projected upon fate

For it's a strange dance
on your pasture 

Beguiled, we remain with
your unwritten saga
Blinded by your bounty of wit 

Bound by your passion 
of war