a very loose ghazal, imperfect and improperShoreditch pixies have died or gone awaySee their wings trapped under painted sprays.I just hope they find somewhere new to play.Our homes got tighter than whalebone corset stays.Shoreditch pixies in black and blue and greywith your opal eyes and brows all rearranged.Can you dance still, amidst the crimson frayof flatulent, didactic dames so prearranged?Will you mock them? Incite a gay parade?That would just delight them. Demand another stage.Our homes belch, moan, simper and cravesomething more snappish than this posh grave.My hidden corpuscles call you home todayour blood mixed could splash this place quite fey.
and other recent musings by Winston“Call the police officers to come and take away La Luna and bring my day back!”- upon being forced to leave the Tate Modern and after any good day+ + +Our flat does not have a fireplace or a mantle.The media insistsSanta comes down the chimneyand out of the fireplace. I suggested he’d just hop downfrom the roof and in the porch door.This was not acceptable. After a night of sleep,in which all mysteries are revealedWinston announces thatSanta will be comingout of the oven.This is the logic of 3 year olds.Castle people used fireplaces to cook food. Santa prefers to enter buildingsthrough places which are used to cook food and are hot.+ + +“Some people can taste the sky. I can not. - upon careful study of the heavy layer of fog.
(after a photograph by Tom Wichelow)that this is ......... truegrowth ......... ......is thiswide blue pair ....staringout from ......... ... head ........torrential....vermillion......... ......... ......... knowledgehere is where the changes flow ......... ......... ......... bloodrewards. ......... ...cleanses.changes. ......... ....body ......... ......... ..........freesnecessary soul ......... .....expansion. rumbling ......... thoughtphiltrum ......... .tinglingcrimson ......... tintinnabulationthat groovy ..growth question. life full. filled.NOTE: Tom Wichelow is the photographer/artist with whom I've been paired for my next session at the Tower Of London. We've been experimenting with text and image. He's been sending me photos and I've been writing poems. Now, I'm sending poems and hoping that he'll be sending photos. I'll ask if I can upload this lovely picture of a boy having a nosebleed.
after a photo by Tom Wichelow Take me in. Let me go. This is the happiest song I know. For she is testiest when we see How absolutely free we be.perhaps that rock was crepe paper sand worn like that shocking touch ....... the first time young hands help a hard wrinkled woman toilet; pock marked transient cringing witness ...... puppet / tool to crush bow back teenaged adulteress in black; soft like the fear of cradling a newborn wobbling head; ridged barnacle valleys vibrating intoning some mysterious ditty or sun hot black weight tugginghis open palmclosed. the arm thrust. the ocean’s song.a dancing stone.let go.
a very loose ghazal, imperfect and improperShoreditch pixies have died or gone awaySee their wings trapped under painted sprays.I just hope they find somewhere new to play.Our homes got tighter than whalebone corset stays.Shoreditch pixies in black and blue and greywith your opal eyes and brows all rearranged.Can you dance still, amidst the crimson frayof flatulent, didactic dames so prearranged?Will you mock them? Incite a gay parade?That would just delight them. Demand another stage.Our homes belch, moan, simper and cravesomething more snappish than this posh grave.My hidden corpuscles call you home todayour blood mixed could splash this place quite fey.
and other recent musings by Winston“Call the police officers to come and take away La Luna and bring my day back!”- upon being forced to leave the Tate Modern and after any good day+ + +Our flat does not have a fireplace or a mantle.The media insistsSanta comes down the chimneyand out of the fireplace. I suggested he’d just hop downfrom the roof and in the porch door.This was not acceptable. After a night of sleep,in which all mysteries are revealedWinston announces thatSanta will be comingout of the oven.This is the logic of 3 year olds.Castle people used fireplaces to cook food. Santa prefers to enter buildingsthrough places which are used to cook food and are hot.+ + +“Some people can taste the sky. I can not. - upon careful study of the heavy layer of fog.
(after a photograph by Tom Wichelow)that this is 
......... truegrowth ......... ......is thiswide blue pair ....staringout from ......... ... head ........torrential....vermillion......... ......... ......... knowledgehere is where the changes flow ......... ......... ......... bloodrewards. ......... ...cleanses.changes. ......... ....body ......... ......... ..........freesnecessary soul ......... .....expansion. rumbling ......... thoughtphiltrum ......... .tinglingcrimson ......... tintinnabulationthat groovy ..growth question. life full. filled.NOTE: Tom Wichelow is the photographer/artist with whom I've been paired for my next session at the Tower Of London. We've been experimenting with text and image. He's been sending me photos and I've been writing poems. Now, I'm sending poems and hoping that he'll be sending photos. I'll ask if I can upload this lovely picture of a boy having a nosebleed.
after a photo by Tom Wichelow Take me in. Let me go. This is the happiest song I know. For she is testiest when we see How absolutely free we be.perhaps that rock was crepe paper sand worn like that shocking touch ....... the first time young hands help a hard wrinkled woman toilet; pock marked transient cringing witness ...... puppet / tool to crush bow back teenaged adulteress in black; soft like the fear of cradling a newborn wobbling head; ridged barnacle valleys vibrating intoning some mysterious ditty or sun hot black weight tugginghis open palmclosed. the arm thrust. the ocean’s song.a dancing stone.let go.