Sky fall

The affluent 

Walk in groves of media effluent 

They have space and air and time.

They have certainity and continuity and gyms.

the story of their lives has meaning, 

purpose in neat leather albums

and quality is woven in thier skin.

Thier kitchens are blessed,

Insense stained and organised.

Hand made

Organic

Everything happens for a reason

They have a right

They say

They pray

To Anglican plastic 

The vicar answers 

(like james mason)

Gloriana smug,

“Their Misfortune shows your favour”

And we sit outside their gates

Looking in, the wages of sin.

Perfume as they pass

Down wind in Niki

shot in the dark karma

Emporio Armani

They scavenging on faith

And eating guru spit, for grace

learned didactic minds

Educated beyond their intelligence, to liberal values

Rhetorical gin and tonic

On cucumber lawns

Of plebeian blue

Why me? they muse in their sacred tantric art of delight

But we are away behind

the privilege bush.

Earning our punishment 

Exiled from Eden 

Inexcapably inculcated.

Singing ‘not this, not that’

Exasperated by the passive destruction of the sky

Art CYMK

Paint me many colours 

Of the black-light spectrum

Where the world floats on cyan oils of deception.

Where gossamer awareness

 Is  a breath in confusion

Sucked in by the depth of this senseless illusion. 

A delicate surface of seeming perfumed

believing 

Nothing is now, 

and now 

Revealing 

the yellow shadows of being

Down in the vermillion core

Where sensation explodes

Like a bullet through thought

In the glass melon’s heart,

magenta of my mirror-mind 

drowns in the stream

The key dreams of the world 

And shatters in crimson shine

The carnage of time

Here I am

I m here, back again

In high blue skies

I m here leaning on rails

Looking out  to sea 

Across Tiger Bay.

Gulls in morning mist 

Ghost over Penarth, 

Spirits on the water. 

I squint to the sun 

Heaving itself

Up the liquid horizon 

I am here

In cold air

I m here in warm skin

I m here 

Simply being alive

You knows

I m back again in Cardiff 

A little broken

But

Am fully here 

in Cardiff. 

I am ok

God people

Gods own people

Walk in gowns of gold

They have space and air and time.

They have certainity and continuity and gyms.

the story of their lives has meaning, 

purpose

and quality is woven in thier skin

Thier kitchens are blessed

Insense stained and organised.

Everthing happens for a reason

They say

They pray

To god

And he answers 

(like james mason)

These are Gods own.

The titles role

Deus ex machina!

“your Misfortune shows my favour”

And we sit outside the gates

Looking in, the wages of sin.

Perfume as they pass

Down wind

shot in the dark karma

Scavenging on faith

And eating guru spit for grace

God’s people didactic minds of fire. I am Educated beyond my artificial intelligence. 

Rhetorical gin and tonic

On cucumber lawns.

Why me? they muse in their sacred art.

But im away behind

the burning bush.

Earning my punishment 

Exiled from Eden 

Inexcapably inculcated.

Singing ‘not this, not that’

Exasperated by vivisection 

Ruskin Mill Trust. from iPhone